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 SAINTE-BEUVE'S PORTRAITS 
 OF MEN 
 
MORRISON AND GIBB. PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. 
 
PORTRAITS OF MEN 
 
 BY C. A. SAINTE-BEUVE 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 FORSYTH EDEVEAIN 
 
 LONDON 
 
 DAVID STOTT, 370 Oxford Street, W. 
 
 1891 
 
TO 
 
 MY FATHER 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Goethe and Bettina^ 1850, i 
 
 Alfred he Musset, 1857, 23 
 
 Letters of Lord Chesterfield to his Son, 1850, 36 
 
 De Balzac, 1850, 58 
 
 The Memoirs of Saint-Simon, 1851, • • • 77 
 
 Camille Desmoulins, 1850, ..... 99 
 
 Diderot, 1851, 125 
 
 La Bruyere, 1836, 148 
 
 L'AbbJ? ue Ciioisy, 1851 172 
 
 Fonteneli.e, 1851, . . .... 200 
 
GOETHE AND BETTINA* 
 
 1850. 
 
 It may be remembered we have already seen Jean- 
 Jacques Kousseau in correspondence with one of 
 liis admirers, whose partiality towards him ultimately 
 developed into a warmer sentiment. After reading 
 La Nouvelle Heloise, Madame de la Tour - Franque- 
 ville became extremely enthusiastic, believing herself 
 to be a Julie d'Etange, and thereupon indited some- 
 what ardent love-letters to the great author, who, in 
 his misanthropical way, treated her far from well. It 
 is curious to note, in a similar case, how differently 
 Goethe, the great poet of Germany, behaved to one of 
 his admirers, who declared her love with such wild 
 bursts of enthusiasm. But not more in this case than 
 in the other must we expect to find a true, natural, and 
 mutual affection — the love of two beings who exchange 
 and mingle their most cherished feelings. The ador- 
 ation in question is not real love — it is merely a kind 
 of worship, which requires the god and the priestess. 
 Only, Eousseau was an invalid — a fretful god, suffering 
 from hypochondria, who had fewer good than bad days ; 
 Goethe, on the other hand, was a superior god, calm 
 
 • Correspondence between Goethe and Bettina. Translated 
 from the German by St, Sebastien Albin. 
 
 A 
 
• • 7» : ••• 
 
 5' .•': •.•' *: QQMt^]^,4ND BETTINA. 
 
 and equable, in good health and benevolent— in fact, 
 the Olympian Jupiter, who looks on smiling. 
 
 In the spring of 1807 there lived at Frankfort a 
 charming young girl of nineteen years of age, though 
 of such small stature that she only appeared to be twelve 
 or thirteen. Bettina Brentano, the child of an Italian 
 father, who had settled and married at Frankfort, came 
 of a family noted for its originality, each member 
 having some singular or fantastic characteristic. It 
 was said in the town that " madness only began in the 
 Brentano family where it ended in other people." 
 Little Bettina considered this saying as a compliment. 
 " What others call eccentricity is quite comprehensible 
 to me," she would remark, " and is part of some esoteric 
 quality that I cannot define." She had in her much of 
 the devil and the imp — in fact, all that is the reverse 
 of the bourgeois and conventional mind, against which 
 she waged eternal war. A true Italian as regards her 
 highly -coloured, picturesque, and vivid imagination, 
 she was quite German in her dreamy enthusiasm, 
 which at times verged on hallucination. She would 
 sometimes exclaim, " There is a demon in me, opposed 
 to all practical reality." Poetry was her natural world. 
 She felt art and nature as they are only felt in Italy, 
 but her essentially Italian conceptions, after having 
 assumed all the colours of the rainbow, usually ended 
 in mere vagaries. In short, in spite of the rare qualities 
 with which little Bettina was endowed, she lacked 
 what might be called sound common-sense— a quality 
 hardly in keeping with all her other gifts. It seemed 
 as if Bettina's family, in leaving Italy for Germany, 
 had, instead of passing through France, come by the 
 way of Tyrol, with some band of gay Bohemians. 
 The faults to which I have just alluded grow some- 
 times graver the older one becomes, but at nineteen 
 
GOETHE AND BETTINA. 3 
 
 they merely lend an additional charm and piquancy. 
 It is almost necessary to apologise in speaking so freely 
 in relation to Bettina ; for Signorina Brentano having 
 become Frau d'Arnim, and subsequently widow of 
 Achim d'Arnim, one of the most distinguished poets of 
 Germany, is now living in Berlin, surrounded by some 
 of the most remarkable men of the day. She receives 
 a homage and consideration not merely due to the 
 noble qualities of her mind, but to the excellency of 
 her character. Tliis woman, who was once such a frolic- 
 some imp, is now known as one of the most unselfish 
 and true-hearted of her sex. 
 
 However, it was she herself, who, in 1835, two years 
 after Goethe's death, published the correspondence that 
 enables us to glean an accurate knowledge of her 
 character, allowing us — in fact, compelling us — to speak 
 60 unconstrainedly in relation to her. This book, 
 tmnslated into French by a woman of merit, who has 
 concealed her identity under the nora de 'plume of ;S^. 
 Sehastien Albiriy is a most curious work, enabling us to 
 realize the difference that distinguishes the German 
 genius from our own. The preface, as written by the 
 authoress, is thus worded : " This book is intended 
 for good, not bad people." This is similar to saying, 
 " Honi soit qui mal y pense." It was quite suddenly that 
 Bettina fell in love with the great poet Goethe, but 
 her romantic feeling was of a purely ideal nature, for 
 as yet she had never seen him.^ While musing alone 
 one summer morn in the redolent and silent garden, 
 Goethe's image presented itself to her mind. She only 
 knew him through his reno\vn and his works — in fact, 
 through the very evil she heard spoken in relation to 
 his cold and indifferent character. But the idea 
 instantly captivated her imagination ; she had dis- 
 covered an object for her worship. Goethe was then 
 
4 GOETHE AND BETTINA, 
 
 fifty-eiglit years of age. In his youtli he had conceived 
 a slight affection for Bettina's mother. For many years 
 he had lived at AVeimar, at the small court of Charles- 
 Augustus, in favour, or rather intimate friendship, with 
 the prince. There he calmly pursued his vast studies, 
 for ever creating with prolific ease ; he was then at the, 
 height of contentment, genius, and glory. 
 
 Goethe's mother lived at Frankfort. She and Bettina 
 became great friends, and the young girl began to love, 
 study, and understand the son in the person of this 
 remarkable mother, so worthy of him to whom she had 
 given birth. Goethe's aged parent — " Goethe's Lady 
 Counsellor," as she was called — with her noble (I was 
 about to say august) character, and her mind so replete 
 with great sayings and memorable conversations, liked 
 nothing better than to converse about her son. In 
 speaking of him lier eyes would dilate like those of a 
 childj and beam with contentment. Bettina became 
 the old lady's favourite, and, on entering her room, 
 would take a stool at her feet, rush at random into 
 conversation, disturb the order of everything around 
 her, and, being certain of forgiveness, would allow 
 herself every freedom. The worthy Frau Goethe being 
 gifted with great discernment and common-sense, per- 
 ceived from the very first that Bettina's love for her 
 son would lead to no serious consequences, and that 
 this flame would injure no one. She would laugh at 
 the child's fancy, and in so doing would profit by it. 
 Not a day passed without this happy mother thinking 
 of her son ; " and these thoughts," she would say, " are 
 gold to me." If not to Bettina, to whom could she 
 express them, before whom could she count her gold 
 — this treasure not intended for the ears of the profane ? 
 So, when the frolicsome young creature was absent, 
 running along the banks of the Rhine, and playing 
 
GOETHE AND BETTINA. 5 
 
 the truant in every old tower and rock, slie would be 
 greatly missed by her dear "Lady Counsellor." The 
 old lady would write to her in the following manner : — 
 
 " Hasten homewards. I do not feel so well this year 
 as last. At times I long, with a certain foreboding, for 
 your presence, and for hours together I sit thinking of 
 Wolfgang" (Goethe's Christian name), "of the days 
 when he was a child playing at my feet, or relating fairy 
 tales to his little brother James. It is absolutely neces- 
 sary I should have some one to whom I can converse in 
 relation to all this, and nobody listens to me as well as 
 yourself, I truly wish you were here." 
 
 On returning to the mother of the man she adored, 
 Bettina would hold long conversations with the vener- 
 able lady about Goethe's childhood, his early promise, 
 the circumstances attendant on his birth ; about the 
 pear-tree his grandfather planted to celebrate its anni- 
 versary, and which afterwards flourished so well ; about 
 the green arm-chair where his mother would sit, relating 
 to him tales that made him marvel. Then they would 
 speak about the first signs of his awakening genius. 
 Never was the childhood of a god studied and watched 
 in its minutest details with more pious curiosity. One 
 day, while he was crossing the road with several other 
 children, his mother and a friend, who were at the 
 window, remarked that he walked with " great majesty," 
 and afterwards told him his upright bearing dis- 
 tinguished him from the other boys of his age. " That 
 is how I wish to begin," he replied ; " later on I shall 
 distinguish myself in many different ways. And this 
 has been realized," his mother would add, on relating 
 the incident. 
 
 Bettina knew everything about Goethe's early life 
 better than he did himself, and later on he had recourse 
 to her knowledge when wishing to write his memoirs. 
 
6 GOETHE AND BETTINA, 
 
 She was riglit in saying, " As to me, what is my life 
 but a profound mirror of your own ? '"' 
 
 In his boyhood Goethe was considered one of the 
 finest fellows of his age. He was fond of skating, and 
 one fine afternoon he persuaded his mother to come and 
 watch him sporting on the ice. Goethe's mother, liking 
 sumptuous apparel, arrayed herself in " a pelisse, trimmed 
 with crimson velvet, that had a long train and gold 
 clasps," and she drove off in a carriage with friends. 
 
 "On arriving at the river Mein, we found my son 
 energetically skating. He flew like an arrow through 
 the throng of skaters ; his cheeks were rosy from the 
 fresh air, and his auburn locks were denuded of their 
 powder. On perceiving my crimson pelisse, he im- 
 mediately came up to the carriage, and looked at me 
 with a gracious smile. ' Well, what do you require % ' I 
 said to him. ' Mother, you are not cold in the carriage, 
 so give me your velvet mantle.'' ' But you do not wisli 
 to array yourself in my cloak, do you % ' ' Yes, certainly.' 
 There w^as I, taking off my warm pelisse, which he 
 donned, and, throwing the train over his arm, he sprang 
 on the ice like a very son of the gods. ' Ah, Bettina ! if 
 you had only seen him ! Nothing could have been 
 finer. I clapped my hands with joy. All my life I 
 shall see him as he was then, proceeding from one 
 archway and entering through the other, the wind the 
 while raising the train of the pelisse, that had fallen 
 from his arm." 
 
 And she added that Bettina's mother was on tlie 
 bank, and it was her whom her son wished to please 
 that day. Have you not perceived in this simple tale 
 told by the mother, all the pride of a Latona : " He is a 
 son of the gods " ? These were the words of a Koman 
 senator's wife, of a Koman empress, or Cornelia, rather 
 than the utterance of the spouse of a Frankfort citizen ! 
 
GOETHE AND BETTINA. 7 
 
 The feeling that then inspired this mother, in regard to 
 her son, ultimately permeated the heart of the German 
 nation. Goethe is "the German father-land." In 
 reading Bettina's letters, we find ourselves, like her, 
 studying Goethe through his mother, and in so doing 
 we discover his simple and more natural grandeur. 
 Before the influence of court etiquette had distorted 
 some of his Letter qualities, we see in him the true 
 sincerity of his race. We wish his genius had been 
 rather more influenced by this saying of his mother, 
 " There is nothing grander than when the man is to be 
 felt in the man." It is said that Goethe had but little 
 affection for his mother, that he was indifterent towards 
 her, not visiting her for years, though he was only a 
 distance of about forty miles from where she lived. 
 And on this point he has been accused of coldness and 
 egotism. But here, I think, there has been exaggeration. 
 Before denying any quality to Goethe it is necessary to 
 think twice, for at first sight we imagine him to be 
 cold, but this very coldness often conceals some under- 
 lying quality. A mother does not continue to love and 
 revere her son when he has been guilty of a really 
 serious wrong towards her. Goethe's mother did not 
 see anything wrongful in her son's conduct, and it does 
 not beseem us to be severer than she. This son loved 
 his mother in his peculiar way, and though his conduct 
 could not perhaps be exactly regarded as the model of 
 filial behaviour, it cannot be said he was in any wise 
 ungrateful. " Keep my mother's heart warm," he would 
 say, in writing to Bettina. ... "I should like to be 
 able to reward you for the care you take of my mother. 
 A chilling draught seemed to emanate from her surround- 
 ings. Now that I know you are near her I feel comforted 
 — I feel warm." The idea of a draught makes us smile. 
 Fontenelle could not have expressed himself better. I 
 
8 GOETHE AND BETTINA, 
 
 have sometimes thought Goethe might "be defined as 
 a Fontenelle invested with poetry. At the time of his 
 mother's death, Bettina wrote to him, alluding to the 
 cold disposition that was supposed to characterize him— 
 a disposition inimical to all grief : " It is said you turn 
 away from all that is sad and irreparable— do not turn, 
 away from the image of your dying mother ; remember 
 how loving and wise she was up to the last moment, 
 and how the poetic element predominated in her." By 
 this last touch, Bettina evinced her knowledge of how 
 to affect the great poet. Goethe responded in words 
 replete with gratitude for the care she had shown his 
 mother in her old age. But from that day their 
 relationship suffered by the loss of the being who had 
 forged the link between them. However, as I have 
 already mentioned, Bettina was in love with Goethe. 
 We might ask what were the signs of this feeling. It 
 was not an ordinary affection, it was not even a pas- 
 sionate love, which, like that of Dido, Juliet, or Virginia, 
 burns and consumes until the desire is satisfied. It was 
 an ideal sentiment, better than a love purely from the 
 imagination, and yet dissimilar to one entirely from the 
 heart. I scarcely know how to explain the feeling, and 
 even Bettina herself could hardly define what she felt. 
 The fact is that, gifted with a vivid imagination, exquis- 
 ite poetical feeling, and a passionate love of nature, she 
 personified all her tastes and youthful inspirations in 
 Goethe's image, loving him with rapture as the incar- 
 nation of all her dreams. Her love did not sadden her, 
 but, on the contrary, rendered her happier. " I know a 
 secret," she would say ; " the greatest happiness is when 
 two beings are united, and the divine genius is with them." 
 It generally sufficed her to be thus united in spirit. 
 Goethe, whose insight into life and human nature was 
 as profound as his knowledge of the ideal, had from 
 
GOETHE AND BETTINA. 9 
 
 the first understood the quality of this love, and did 
 not shun it, though at the same time he avoided too 
 close a contact. The privilege of the gods is, as we all 
 know, the possession of eternal youth : even at fifty- 
 eight years of age, Goethe would not have been able to 
 endure every day with impunity the innocent famili- 
 arities and enticements of Bettina. But the girl lived 
 far away. She wrote him letters, full of life, brilliant 
 with sensibility, colouring, sound, and manifold fancies. 
 These epistles interested him, and seemed to rejuvenate 
 his mind. A new being, full of grace, was revealing 
 herself to the observation of his poetical and withal 
 scientific mind. She opened for his inspection an un- 
 looked -for hook, full of delightful images and charming 
 depictions. It seemed to him as much worth his while 
 reading this book as any other, especially as his own 
 name was to be found on every page, encircled with a 
 halo of glory. He called Bettina's letters " the gospel 
 of nature." " Continue," he would say, " preaching your 
 gospel of nature." He felt he was the god-made man 
 of that evangel. She recalled to his mind (and his 
 artistic talent needed it) the impressions and the 
 .freshness of the past, all of which he had lost in his 
 somewhat artificial life. "All you tell me brings me 
 back remembrances of youth — it produces the effect 
 of events gone by that all of a sudden we distinctly 
 remember, though for a long time we may have for- 
 gotten them." Goethe never lavished his attention on 
 Bettina, though he never once repulsed her. He would 
 reply to her letters in a sufficiently encouraging way 
 for her to continue writing. There was a strange 
 scene the very first time Bettina met Goethe, and from 
 the way she describes the meeting we perceive she does 
 not write for the benefit of the cynical scoff'er. Towards 
 the end of April, in 1807, she accompanied her sister 
 
lo GOETHE AND BET TINA. 
 
 and brother-in-law to Berlin, and tliey promised to 
 return by tlie way of Weimar. They were obliged to 
 pass through the regiments that were then occupying 
 the land. On this journey Bettina was arrayed in 
 male attire, and sat on the box of the coach in order to 
 see farther, while at every halting-place she assisted in 
 harnessing and unharnessing the horses. In the morn- 
 ing she would shoot off a pistol in the forests, and 
 clamber up the trees like a squirrel, for she was 
 peculiarly agile (Goethe called her the Little Mouse). 
 One day, when in an uncommonly frolicsome mood 
 she had ascended into one of the Gothic sculptures of 
 the Cologne Cathedral, she commenced a letter in the 
 following way to Goethe's mother : — 
 
 " Lady Counsellor, how alarmed you would be to see 
 me now, seated in a Gothic rose." 
 
 Somewhere else she says : •' I prefer dancing to 
 walking, and I prefer flying to dancing." 
 
 Bettina arrived at Weimar after passing several 
 sleepless nights on the box of the coach. She immedi- 
 ately called on Wieland, who knew her family, and 
 obtained from him a letter, introducing her to Goethe. 
 On arriving at the house of the great poet, she waited 
 a few minutes before seeing him. Suddenly the door 
 opened, and Goethe appeared. 
 
 "He surveyed me solemnly and fixedly. I believe 
 I stretched out my hands towards him — I felt my 
 strength failing me ! Goethe folded me to his heart, 
 murmuring the while : * Poor child ! have I frightened 
 you ? ' These were the first words he uttered, and they 
 entered my soul. He led me into his room, and made 
 me sit on the sofa before him. We were then both 
 speechless. He at last broke the silence. 'You will 
 have read in the paper,' he said, ' that a few days ago 
 we sustained a great loss through the death of the 
 
GOETHE AND BETTINA. ii 
 
 Duchess Amelia' (the Dowager - Duchess of Saxe- 
 Weimar). * Oh ! ' I answered, ' I never read the papers.' 
 ' Indeed ! I imagined that everything in relation to 
 Weimar interested you?' *No, nothing interests me 
 excepting yourself ; moreover, I am much too impatient 
 to read a newspaper.' 'You are a charming child.' 
 Then came a long pause. I was still exiled on that 
 fotal sofa, shy and trembling. You know it is impos- 
 sible for me to remain sitting like a well-bred person. 
 Alas ! mother " (it was Goethe's mother to whom she Avas 
 writing), "my conduct was utterly disgraceful. I at 
 last exclaimed, ' I cannot remain on this couch ! ' and 
 I arose suddenly. 'Well, do as you please,' he replied. 
 I threw my arms round his neck, and he drew me on 
 his knee, pressing me to his heart." 
 
 In reading this scene, we must remember it took 
 place in Germany, not in France ! She remained long 
 enough on his shoulder to fall asleep, for she had been 
 travelling for several nights, and was exhausted with 
 fatigue. Only on awakening did she begin conversing 
 a little. Goethe plucked a leaf off the vine that 
 clustered round his window, and said, " This leaf and 
 your cheek have the same freshness and the same 
 bloom." My readers may be inclined to believe this scene 
 was quite childish ; but Goethe soon divulged to her 
 his most serious and intimate thoughts. He became 
 nearly emotional in speaking of Schiller, saying he 
 had died two springs ago ; and on Bettina interrupt- 
 ing him to remark she did not care for Schiller, 
 he explained to her all the beauties of this poetical 
 nature — so dissimilar to his own, but one of infinite 
 grandeur — a nature he himself had the generosity of 
 fully appreciating. 
 
 The evening of the next day Bettina saw Goethe 
 again at Wieland's, and on her appearing to be jealous 
 
12 GOETHE AND BETTINA. 
 
 regarding a buncTi of violets he held, which she sup- 
 posed had been given him by a woman, he threw her 
 the flowers, remarking, " Are you not content if I give 
 them to you?" These first scenes at Weimar were 
 child-like and mystic, though from the very first 
 marked by great intensity — it would not have been, 
 wise to enact them every day. At their second meet- 
 ing, that took place at Wartbourg, after an interval of 
 a few months, Bettina could hardly speak, so deep was 
 her emotion. Goethe placed his hand on her lips, and 
 said, "Speak with your eyes — I understand every- 
 thing ; " and when he saw that the eyes of the charming 
 child, the darh, courageous child, were full of tears, he 
 closed them, adding wisely, "Let us be calm — it be- 
 seems us both to be so ! " But in recalling these scenes, 
 are you not tempted to exclaim, " What would Voltaire 
 have said 1 " 
 
 Let us abandon all French ideas in order to take a 
 right estimate of Goethe. Nobody has spoken more 
 highly of Voltaire than Goethe himself, nor has 
 any one understood him better as the perfect type of 
 French genius. Let us then endeavour, in our turn, to 
 render Goethe his due in taking him as the complete 
 type of German genius. Goethe and Cuvier are the 
 two greatest men of this century. Goethe's strength 
 lay in the breadth and universality of his mind. He 
 was both a naturalist and a poet, dissecting as well as 
 idealizing all he studied, analyzing human nature from 
 the scientific point of view, though not unmindful of 
 the poetry that is concealed in everything. There was 
 not a man, not a single branch of study, he did not 
 inquire into with the greatest curiosity and pre- 
 cision, anxious to discover every detail in relation 
 to both. In fact, he appeared to exemplify a nearly 
 exclusive passion for everything he studied ; but 
 
COETHE AND BETTINA, 13 
 
 when he had found out all he wished, he would 
 take up something new. In his splendid house, 
 over the entrance of which was inscribed the word 
 SioXve^ he even lavished his hospitality on strangers 
 and foreigners, welcoming them without distinction, 
 conversing with, them in their own language, utilizing 
 them all as subjects of analysis ; for his sole aim was to 
 develop his taste. He was perfectly serene, and devoid 
 of all bitterness or envy. When any one or anything 
 displeased him, or seemed unworthy of a longer in- 
 spection, he would turn away and throw his glance 
 elsewhere. He had but to choose in this vast universe ! 
 He was not indifferent, neither was he adhesive. He 
 was of an insistently inquiring mind, without ever being 
 thoroughly captivated by any person or any object. 
 His beneficence was like that of a truly Olympian god. 
 This word does not provoke a smile on the other side 
 of the Rhine. At the apparition of a new poet, or an 
 original genius — a Byron, or a Manzoni — Goethe would 
 instantly study him with keen interest, without allow- 
 ing his judgment to be marred by any personal feeling 
 — for he possessed the love of genius. When The 
 Count of Carmagnola^ by Manzoni, came to his notice, 
 he, though knowing nothing about the author, com- 
 menced a thorough, study of the work, discovering 
 manifold intentions, manifold beauties, in the piece. 
 One day, in his periodical essay (" On Art and 
 Antiquity"), where he would pour out the superabund- 
 ance of his thoughts, he introduced Manzoni to the notice 
 of Europe. When he was attacked by an English review, 
 Goethe defended him, adducing a number of reasons 
 which certainly had never occurred to Manzoni. Then, 
 on meeting M. Cousin, who was one of Manzoni's 
 friends, he questioned him with an insatiable curiosity 
 regarding the author's smallest physical and mental 
 
14 GOETHE AND BETTINA. 
 
 peculiarities, until lie could thoroughly well picture to 
 himself this being — this new production of nature, who 
 went by the name of Manzoni, dissecting him as he 
 would, in his capacity of botanist, have examined a 
 plant. He acted thus in relation to everything. He 
 was full of advice and solicitude towards Schiller. He 
 perceived how the young poet, so ardently enthusiastic, 
 was carried away by the power of his own genius. 
 There were great differences of opinion between them. 
 However, Goethe was not any the less disposed to 
 use his influence when Schiller washed to be named 
 Professor of History at Jena. Then a happy incident 
 bringing them together, a union took place, and Goethe 
 became the mentor of the genius who was still in search 
 of the right way. 
 
 Their correspondence, that has been since published, 
 shows us Goethe in the role of adviser, exercising a 
 healthy influence on Schiller, without any conscious 
 display of superiority, guiding him like a father or 
 brother. He called Schiller a magnificent being. 
 Goethe understood everything in the universe — every- 
 thing excepting, perhaps, two things — the Christian and 
 the hero. As regards this, he was lacking in some 
 quality of the heart. He considered Leonidas and 
 Pascal as two unnatural productions of nature. Goethe 
 liked neither grief nor sacrifice. Seeing any one ill or 
 sad, he remembered how he had written Werther, to 
 rid himself of an importunate idea of suicide. " Do as 
 I have done," he would say ; " give birth to this child 
 that torments you, and it will no longer injure your 
 fentrails." His mother also knew of this remedy. She 
 wrote once in the following way to Bettina, who, by 
 reason of the suicide of a young friend, the Canoness 
 Gunderode, had become quite melancholy : — 
 • " My son has said we must exhaust by worJc all that 
 
GOETHE AND BETTINA. 15 
 
 oppresses us. When he had any sorrow he would make 
 a poem of his grief; I have repeatedly told yon to 
 write the history of Gunderode and send it to Weimar ; 
 my son wonld be pleased, and he would keep it ; more- 
 over, it wonld then no longer oppress your heart." 
 
 Such was (as far as a rapid sketch can portray) 
 the man whom Bettina loved, hut in a manner that 
 beseemed them both, that is to say, with a flame that 
 caressed without burning. After the day of their 
 interview, and on her return to Frankfort, Bettina 
 wrote to him on every subject, sent him all her thoughts, 
 at times in a tone of solemn adoration, at others in one 
 of gaiety and fun. Her effusions are often strange, and 
 verge on the ridiculous : — "When I am in the midst of 
 nature, whose intimate life your mind has made me 
 understand, I often confound your mind with this life ! 
 I throw myself on the green sward and kiss it." She 
 repeats, too, frequently : — " You are beautiful, you are 
 grand and admirable, better than all I have ever 
 known. . . . Like the sun, you vanquish the darkness 
 of the night." At such times she addresses him as if 
 speaking to Jehovah. But, apart from these exaggera- 
 tions, she utters some thoughts of exquisite freshness and 
 delicacy. The letter we might call " Under the linden- 
 tree," by reason of the hollow linden which is therein 
 described, is replete with life, the warbling of birds 
 and the buzzing of the bees in the sunlight. When 
 Bettina complains in this note of not being loved as 
 she loves, she is right in exclaiming, " Am I not the 
 bee who flies away to bring you the nectar from every 
 flower ? " But Goethe, like Eousseau — like every poet 
 — was only in love with the heroine of his fancy, the 
 ideal of his dreams. Eousseau would not have aban- 
 doned the Julie of his creation for any Madame 
 d'Houdctot ! Now and then there are touches of 
 
i6 GOETHE AND BETTINA, 
 
 common-sense and flashes of real passion in Bettina's 
 letters, and she complains of this inequality of exchange. 
 *' Do not sin against me," she writes to Goethe ; " do not 
 make to yourself any graven image to worship, while it 
 is in your power to create a wondrous and spiritual 
 bond between us." But this wholly metaphysical, this 
 ethereal love — is that the true bond % 
 
 Unlike Kousseau, Goethe was withal charming to the 
 one he kept at a distance ; in a moment he would 
 retrieve by a gracious and poetical word his apparent 
 or real coldness. This amiable and frolicsome girl 
 reminded him of the days when he was better, more 
 truly happy, when he had as yet not sacrificed to the 
 contemplation of outward things the primitive delicacy 
 of his soul. He realized that he was indebted to her 
 for a rejuvenescence of mind and a return to spiritual 
 life ! He often sent her back her own thoughts clothed 
 in rhyme and in the form of a sonnet. " Good-bye, my 
 charming child," he wrote to her. "Send me soon 
 another letter, that I may have something to translate." 
 She provided him with themes for poetry, and he 
 would put them into execution. May we venture to 
 remark, it seems to us, that though the natural blossom 
 became in consequence an artificial flower of greater 
 finish, it lost at the same time its tender grace and 
 native perfume. Moreover, Goethe appeared to recog- 
 nise this superiority of a rich and capricious nature, 
 that constantly displayed itself under an ever surprising, 
 an ever new form. "You are delightful, my young 
 dancer ; at every movement you throw us a wreath 
 unawares ! " She understood him so well, she so fully 
 appreciated him ! From Bettina's letters we can obtain 
 not only an ideal Goethe, but a living Goethe, still grand 
 and handsome in spite of the first touch of old age, and 
 Bmiling from beneath his placid brow " with his large 
 
GOETHE AND BETTINA, 17 
 
 dark eyes, that beam with kindness when he looks at 
 me." She felt in him the dignity arising from the 
 grandeur of the mind. 
 
 " When I saw you for the first time, what appeared to 
 me remarkable, and inspired me with both a profound 
 respect and decided love, was the fact of your whole 
 beinjT expressing King David's words in relation to man 
 — 'Everyone should be king of himself.'" Goethe's 
 dignity, that evinced itself in his talent as w^ell as his 
 person, harmonized with a certain elegance — not a 
 tender or simple, but a severe and reflective grace. " My 
 friend ! " passionately exclaims Bettina in one of her 
 letters, "I might be jealous of the Graces — they are 
 women, and continually surround you. Where you 
 are, is also St. Harmony." Bettina understood him in 
 every form of his talent, in the transient and tumultu- 
 ous phase of " Werther," and in the calmer and superior 
 one that ultimately triumphed. " Superb torrent, how 
 wildly you rushed through the regions of youth ! and 
 now, tranquil river, how peacefully you glide through 
 the meadows!" With what disdain, not unmingled 
 with jealousy, did she find fault with Madame de 
 Stael, who, expecting to discover in Goethe a second 
 "Werther," was disappointed in finding him so 
 different I 
 
 "Madame de Stael has been twice mistaken," said 
 Bettina ; " firstly in her expectations, and secondly in 
 her judgment." 
 
 However, this lively young girl, this restless imp, 
 who possessed some of the ethereal spirit of Queen Mab 
 or Titania, had also, like Wilhelm Meister's " Mignon," 
 Italian blood in her veins. In spite of her attempts to 
 be as German as possible, she was not altogether content 
 with this aesthetic adoration, that did not satisfy the 
 yearnings of nature. At times, hardly knowing what 
 
 B 
 
i8 GOETHE AND BETTINA, 
 
 she needed, she craved for more — she would have liked 
 to pass a whole spring with her friend. She wished 
 to give up her mind entirely to him, and to receive an 
 equal return. "Can we receive a present without 
 giving ourselves as a present?" she wisely remarked. 
 " That which is not given entirely and for ever cannot 
 be deemed a gift ! " Goethe offered her glimpses of his 
 inner life, but did not give himself entirely to her. 
 He would write her short notes, occasionally entrusting 
 their composition to his secretary. Then she would be 
 vexed, and sulk for some time. She demanded but 
 little, only wishing this little to come entirely from 
 himself. " You have me in my letters," she said, " but 
 have I you in yours % " After the death of Goethe's 
 mother, Bettina had greater reason to complain ; for 
 the good mother knew her son, and would explain to 
 the young girl how the poet's true feeling was concealed 
 in these few lightly written lines, that from any pen 
 but his would have suggested but little. " I know 
 Wolfgang" (Goethe) "so well," she would say ; "he has 
 written this, his heart overflowing with emotion." But 
 when Bettina could no longer have recourse to this far- 
 seeing interpreter, she would often be doubtful, though 
 there was never time for real grief to creep in among 
 those fantastic and brilliant flashes of intellect ; and 
 in reading Bettina's letters, we discover ourselves, like 
 Goethe, believing them to be but the fruits of a pleasant 
 illusion. "For who could reasonably believe in so 
 much love. It is better to accept it all as a dream.^^ 
 
 If Goethe was really in love, he had often cause to be 
 jealous of Bettina ; for she would be casually captivated 
 by many people and many things. I will not linger 
 to relate to my readers about the handsome French 
 hussars, and the young artists of Munich, to whom she 
 lectured on realistic Italian art, for Goethe's great rivals 
 
COETHE AND BETTINA, 19 
 
 in her youthful and enthusiastic soul were the Italian 
 hero Hofer, and the grand composer Beethoven. Hofer, 
 the hero of the insurrection of Tyrol, was Bettina's 
 first infidelity. In the spring of 1809, when the war 
 broke out everywhere afresh, and gigantic conflicts were 
 about to be waged, Bettina could not remain unmoved. 
 The sound of the bugle aroused her from her sleep. 
 She watched from Munich, where she was then living, 
 all the phases of the holy and patriotic revolt of the 
 Tyroleans, sacrificing themselves for the emperor who 
 abandoned them, and finally delivered them over to the 
 enemy. Her anxiety was unequalled. Instead of the 
 graceful fancies in which she revelled like a bee or 
 butterfly, Goethe was surprised at receiving letters 
 written in the following tone : — " Goethe, oh that I 
 could enter Tyrol, and arrive in time to die the death 
 of those heroes ! " The capture and death of Hofer, 
 who was allowed to be shot, drew words of grief and 
 eloquence from her pen. Goethe's replies to these 
 heroic utterances were curious, to say the least. 
 During that period, and the days of Wagram, he was 
 writing his novel on Elective Affinities^ so as to 
 divert his mind from the sorrows of the times. 
 Bettina's heart-felt cry drew from him the following 
 calm reflection : — " In placing your last epistle with the 
 others, I find it closes an interesting epoch (1807-10). 
 You have led me through a delightful labyrinth of 
 philosophical, historical, and musical opinions to the 
 Temple of Mars, and in everything you preserve your 
 healthy energy." There we perceive the moral anatom- 
 ist, who appreciates and reproduces, though he does 
 not share the impressions of his surroundings. He 
 commends Bettina for her energy, but he could have 
 dispensed with it. From his point of view, he could 
 only see in all these harrowing pictures the " capricious 
 
20 GOETHE AND BETTINA. 
 
 transformations of life^^ only catcli in these scenes 
 of bloodshed a little glimpse of poetry. "You are 
 right," he observed, in writing to Bettina, " in saying 
 that the blood of the heroes shed on the soil is recalled 
 to life in every flower." 
 
 No— decidedly, heroism was not one of Goethe's 
 distinguishing qualities. Goethe has been frequently 
 called an Olympian god, but he was certainly not one 
 of Homer's Olympian deities. When such battles were 
 waged at Ilion, Homer's gods descended from their high 
 estate. 
 
 Beethoven may be considered as Bettina's second 
 infidelity. From the very first day she met him at 
 Vienna, in the May of 1810, Bettina experienced all 
 she had felt for Goethe — she forgot the universe. The 
 great composer, deaf, misanthropical, and cynical to 
 every one, was, from the first, confidential and full 
 of gracious attentions to her. He immediately went to 
 the piano to play and sing the most divine melodies 
 for her benefit. Charmed with the interest she dis- 
 played, and her frank and simple approbation, he 
 insisted on accompanying her home, conversing as they 
 walked, on several artistic subjects. " His speech was 
 so vehement, and he stopped so frequently, that it 
 required great courage to remain listening ; but all he 
 uttered was so impetuous and unexpected, that I com- 
 pletely forgot we were in the street. My people were 
 surprised at perceiving he was with me. After dinner 
 he went to the piano, of his own accord, and played for 
 a long time in the most marvellous way — his genius 
 and pride fermenting together." 
 
 It is a rare gift, and certainly a proof of genius, to 
 be able in such a degree to gain the confidence of men 
 of genius. Beethoven knew of Bettina's connection 
 with Goethe. He would often speak of him to her, 
 
GOETHE AND BETTINA. 21 
 
 hoping thus to become acquainted with the great 
 author's thoughts on. art. Bettina has admirably 
 depicted these conversations with Beethoven. She has 
 painted in memorable words the simplicity of a genius 
 convinced of his own strength — the grave, energetic, and 
 passionate nature of a man who disdains his century, 
 and has faith in the future. This Beethoven gives us 
 the idea of a Milton. Here, it must be remembered, 
 we are with the greatest of men, and all honour is 
 due to Bettina for having been capable of acting the 
 part of interpreter between Goethe and Beethoven. 
 Goethe was touched by Beethoven's messages, and 
 answered with feeling and compliance. They were 
 like two kings — two inagi^ saluting one another from 
 afar through the medium of a little frolicsome page, 
 who was well able to deliver their messages. Even in 
 this, Goethe preserved his character of anatomist, who 
 seeks to discover the natural meaning of beings and 
 things. He was enchanted at seeing such a grand 
 individual as Beethoven added to his collection. " I 
 have had much pleasure," he observed, " in contemplat- 
 ing this image of an original genius." 
 
 Goethe and Beethoven met two years afterwards at 
 Toeplitz. At this meeting of two equal geniuses, similar 
 in 60 many ways, and who inwardly criticised each 
 other, Beethoven manifestly maintained the moral 
 superiority. We have two letters from the composer 
 to Bettina. Evidently he was touched by this young 
 person, who was such an able listener, answering him 
 with her fine expressive glances. After reading these 
 letters, we are inclined to exclaim, " Why did she not 
 love Beethoven instead of Goethe? He would have 
 rendered her gift for gift." Beethoven was certainly as 
 much in love with art as Goethe, and it would have 
 always remained his principal passion. But he suffered, 
 
22 GOETHE AND BETTINA. 
 
 and his proud genius sought a melancholy seclusion. 
 He exclaimed, with grief and sympathy, "Dear, very 
 dear Bettina, who understands art ? With whom can I 
 converse about this grand divinity ? " He could have 
 opened his heart to her ; for he added, " Dear child, for 
 a long time we have professed the same opinion on 
 every subject." 
 
 In 1811, Bettina married M. d'Arnim, and her 
 relations with Goethe, though they never entirely 
 ceased, suffered in consequence. With every exertion 
 of the imagination, it was impossible to continue the 
 dream as before. The connection became by degrees a 
 remembrance — an immutable worship; and Bettina 
 gradually buried all that which had been the incense of 
 her youth. 
 
 I should like to have given a clearer and completer 
 idea of a book that differs so much from our way of 
 feeling and thinking — of a woik so replete with grace, 
 imagination, fine perception, and folly, and in which 
 every stroke of common-sense assumes the form of a 
 whimsical conceit. 
 
 Goethe, who happened one day to be strolling with 
 Bettina in the park at Weimar, compared her to the 
 Greek woman at Mantinea, who gave lessons in love to 
 Socrates ; and he added, " You do not utter one single 
 word of sense, but "your absurdities teach more than all 
 the wisdom of the Greek woman." What could we add 
 to such an opinion? But the day after reading this 
 book, so as to enter fully into the truth of nature and 
 human passion, and expel from our minds all idle 
 fancies and imaginings, I should strongly advise the 
 perusal of the story of Dido in the Mrmid^ a few scenes 
 from Borneo and Juliet, the tale of Francesa de Mmini 
 by Dante, or simply Manon Lescaut, 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 
 
 1857. 
 
 As with an army so with a nation ; it is the bounden 
 
 duty of every generation to bury their dead, and to 
 
 confer the last honours on the departed. It were not 
 
 right that the charming poet, who has recently been 
 
 taken from our midst, should be laid under the sod 
 
 before receiving a few words of good-bye from an old 
 
 friend and witness of his first literary efforts. Alfred 
 
 de Musset's poetry was so well known, so dear to us 
 
 from the very first ; it touched our hearts so deeply in 
 
 its freshness and delicate bloom ; he so belonged to 
 
 our generation (though with a greater touch of youth) 
 
 — a generation then essentially poetical, and devoted to 
 
 feeling and its expression ! I see him as he looked 
 
 twenty-nine years ago, at the time of his debut in the 
 
 world of literature, entering first into Victor Hugo's 
 
 circle, then proceeding to that of Alfred de Vigny and 
 
 the brothers Deschamps. With what an easy grace he 
 
 made his first entrance ! What surprise and delight 
 
 he aroused in the hearts of his listeners at the recital 
 
 of his poems, L'Andalouse, Don Paez, and Juana. It 
 
 was Spring itself, a Spring of youth and poetry, that 
 
 blossomed forth before our ravished gaze. He was 
 
 scarcely eighteen years of age ; his brow betokened all 
 ^3 
 
24 ALFRED DE MUSSET, 
 
 the pride of manhood ; the bloom was on his cheek, for 
 the roses of childhood still lingered there. Full of the 
 pride of life, he advanced with haughty gait and head 
 erect, as if assured of his conquest. Nobody at first 
 sight could have suggested a better idea of youthful 
 genius. There seemed promise of a French Byron in 
 these brilliant verses of poetic fervour, the very success 
 of which has since made them commonplace, but which 
 were then so new in the poetry of France : — 
 
 "Love, plague of the world, and unutterable madness," etc. 
 
 "How lovely she is in the evening, under the beams of the 
 moon," etc. 
 
 *'0h! decrepid old age, and heads bald and bare," etc. 
 
 "Perchance the threshold of the ancient Palace Luigi," etc. 
 
 These lines, bearing a truly Shakespearian impress ; 
 these wild flights of fancy, 'mid flashes of audacious 
 wit ; these gleams of warmth and precocious passion, — 
 all suggested the genius of England's fiery bard. 
 
 The light and elegant verses that proceeded every 
 morning from his own lips, lingering soon afterwards 
 on those of many others, were in accordance with his 
 years. But passion he divined, and wished to outstrip. 
 He would ask the secret of it from his friends, richer in 
 experience, and still suffering from some wound, as we 
 can see in the lines addressed to Ulric Guttinguer — 
 
 "Ulric, no eye has ever measured the abyss of the seas,". . , 
 
 that end with this verse — 
 
 " T, so young, envying thy wounds and tby pain ! " 
 
 When coming face to face with pleasure at some ball 
 or festive gathering, De Musset was not captivated by. 
 the smiling surface ; in his inward deep reflection he 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 25 
 
 would seek the sadness and bitterness underlying it all ; 
 apparently abandoning himself to the joys of the 
 moment, he would murmur inwardly, so as to enhance 
 the very flavour of his enjoyment, that it was only a 
 fleeting second that could never be recalled. In every- 
 thing he sought a stronger and more acute sensation, in 
 harmony with the tone of his own mind. He found 
 that the roses of a day failed to succeed each other with 
 sufficient rapidity ; he would have liked to cull them 
 one and all, so as to better inhale their sweetness and 
 more fully express their essence. 
 
 At the time of his first success there was a new 
 school of literature already greatly in vogue, and 
 developing daily. It was in its bosom that De Musset 
 produced his first works, and it might have seemed that 
 he had been nourished on the principles of this school. 
 He made a point of demonstrating that it was not so, 
 or, at least, need not have been so ; that he wrote on 
 the lines of no previous author ; that, even in the new 
 ranks, he was entirely original. Here he undoubtedly 
 displayed too much impatience. What had he to fear % 
 The mere growth of his daring talent would in itself 
 have sufficed to evince his originality. But he was 
 not the man to await his fruit in due season. 
 
 The new school of poetry had been, up till then, of 
 a somewhat solemn, dreamy, sentimental, and withal 
 religious tone ; it prided itself on its accuracy, I may 
 even say strictness of form. De Musset threw over 
 this fastidious solemnity, exhibiting an excess of famili- 
 arity and raillery. He scorned both rhyme and rhy th m ; 
 his poetry was in perfect d^shahUle'y and he wrote 
 Mardoche, followed shortly after by Namouna. " Oh ! 
 the profane man, the libertine ! " exclaimed the 
 world ; and yet, every one knew them by heart. 
 Dozens of verses from Mardoche would be taken for 
 
26 ALFRED DE MUSSET. 
 
 recitation, though hardly any one knew the reason why, 
 unless it were that the poem was easy, and replete with 
 fancy, marked here and there, even in its insolence, 
 with a grain of unexpected good sense, and that the 
 verses were " friends to the memory." Even the most 
 sentimental dreamers would murmur to themselves, 
 with an air of triumph, the verse, " Happy a lover," etc. 
 As to the Don Juan in Namouna^ this new kind of 
 rou^^ who appeared to be the author's favourite child — 
 the ideal, alas ! of his vice and grief — he was so fascin- 
 ating, so boldly sketched ; he occasioned the creation of 
 such fine lines (two hundred of the most daring verses 
 ever seen in French poetry), that one coincided with 
 the poet himself in saying, " What do I say ! Such 
 as he is, the world loves him still." 
 
 In his drama, The Gup and the Lips, Alfred de 
 Musset expressed admirably in his creations of Frank 
 and Belcolore the struggle between a noble and proud 
 heart and the genius of the senses, to which that heart 
 has once yielded. In this piece we catch glimpses— in 
 fact, more than glimpses — of hideous truths, of monsters 
 dragged into the light of day from out this cavern of 
 the heart, as Bacon calls it ; but this work is invested 
 with a glamour, an incomparable power, and even 
 though the monster is not vanquished, we can hear the 
 golden arrows of Apollo falling and resounding on his 
 scales. 
 
   Alfred de Musset, similar to more than one of the 
 characters he has depicted, said that to be an artist 
 such as he wished, he must see and know all, and dive 
 into the very depths of everything. A most perilous 
 and fatal theory ! And by what a powerful and ex- 
 pressive image he rendered this idea in his comedy, 
 Lorenzaccio. Who, indeed, is this Lorenzo, whose youth 
 has been as pure as gold, whose heart and hands were 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET, 27 
 
 peaceful, who in the simple rising and setting of the 
 sun seemed to see every human hope blossoming around 
 him, who was goodness itself, and who brought his own 
 destruction by wishing to be great ? Lorenzo is not an 
 artist, he wishes to be a man of action, a great citizen ; 
 he has determined upon a heroic plan ; he has decided 
 to deliver Florence, his native town, from the vile and 
 debauched tyrant, Alexander de Medici, his own cousin. 
 In order to succeed in his enterprise, what does he 
 propose undertaking? To play the part of Brutus, 
 but of a Brutus adapted to the circumstances of the 
 case ; and in this end, to lend himself to all the 
 frivolities and vices dear to the tyrant whose orgies 
 dishonour Florence. He creeps into Alexander's confid- 
 ence, and becomes his accomplice and instrument, 
 abiding his time and watching for the right moment. 
 But, in the meanwhile, he has lived too dissipated a 
 life ; day by day he has plunged too deeply into the 
 mire of uncleanliness ; he has seen too much of the 
 dregs of humanity. He awakes from his dream. 
 Nevertheless, he perseveres, resolved to attain his object, 
 knowing, though, that it will be all in vain. He will 
 destroy the monster who fills the city with disgust, 
 but he knows full well that the day she is delivered 
 from his tyranny, Florence will take unto herself 
 another master, and that he, Lorenzo, will only incur 
 disgrace. Thus Lorenzo, by dint of simulating vice, 
 and putting on evil like a borrowed garment, is at last 
 impregnated with the evil he at first only assumes. 
 
 The tunic steeped in the blood of Nessus has pene- 
 trated his skin and bones. The dialogue between 
 Lorenzo and Philip Strozzi — a virtuous and honourable 
 citizen, who merely sees things in their right and 
 honest light — is one of startling truth. Lorenzo is con- 
 scious of having seen and experienced too much, of 
 
28 ALFRED DE MUSSET, 
 
 having ventured too far into the depths of life to ever 
 return. He realizes that he has introduced into his 
 heart that implacable intruder ennui, which forces him 
 without pleasure to do from habit and necessity what 
 he at first essayed through affectation and pretence. 
 The whole of this deplorable moral attitude is portrayed 
 in moving words : " Poor child ! you rend my heart," 
 says Philip ; and in answer to all the profound and 
 contradictory revelations of the young man, he can 
 only repeat : " All this astonishes me, and in what you 
 relate there are things that pain, others that please 
 me." 
 
 I am merely touching lightly on the subject. But 
 in thus re-glancing, now that Alfred de Musset is no 
 more, over a good number of his characters and pieces, 
 we discover in this child of genius the antithesis of 
 Goethe. The German writer severed himself from his 
 most intimate productions. He cut the link between 
 them and himself, casting his imaginary characters 
 from him, while invading fresh fields, wherein he could 
 capture new creations. For him poetry signified 
 deliverance. Unlike De Musset, Goethe, from the time 
 he wrote TFerther — that is, from his youth upwards 
 — to the end of his eighty years of life, was doing his 
 best to husband his mental and physical resources. For 
 Alfred de Musset poetry was all in all, it was himself ; 
 it was his own youthful soul, his own flesh and blood, 
 that he transmuted into verse. When he had thrown 
 to others the dazzling limbs of his poetic being — limbs 
 that at times appeared like unto those of Phaeton 
 or a youthful god (take, for instance, the splendid 
 invocations in Rolla)—he still retained his own heart, 
 })leeding, burning, and wearied. Why was he not more 
 ])atient ? Everything would have come in due course. 
 But he hastened to anticipate and devour the seasons. 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET, 29 
 
 After the mimicry of passion — passion that as a child 
 he so well divined — passion at last came of itself— real, 
 undeniable passion. We all know how, after it had for a 
 time enhanced the glamour of his genius, it laid waste 
 his whole existence. An allusion to this story of 
 passion may he permitted, considering how well it is 
 known. 
 
 The poets of our day, the children of this generation, 
 are not deserving of reticence on our part — considering 
 how little reticence they have exercised themselves. 
 Above all, in this particular episode, confessions have 
 proceeded from two sides, and we might remark with. 
 Bossuet, were we ourselves exceptions to the rule, 
 that there are individuals who spend their life in 
 filling the world with the "follies of their mis-spent 
 youth." 
 
 The world, or rather France, has in this case, it must 
 be allowed, submitted with all good grace ; she has 
 listened with keen interest to what appeared to her 
 at least eloquent and sincere. Alfred de Musset was 
 indebted to these hours of storm and anguish for the 
 creation, in his Immortal Nights^ of lines which have 
 vibrated through every heart, and that will for ever 
 stand the test of time. As long as France and French 
 poetry exist, the flames of De Musset will live, like 
 those of Sappho ! Let us not forget to add a 
 Souvenir to these celebrated Nights — a Souvenir closely 
 associated with these poems. The Souvenir describes 
 a return to the Forest of Fontainebleau, and is of a 
 beauty pure and touching ; and, what is rare in him, 
 this work is imbued with infinite tenderness. In his 
 rapid existence there was one moment of wondrous 
 promise during the interval of his hours of intense 
 excitement. It was at this period that De Musset's 
 poems acquired a new subtlety of thought, a touch of 
 
30 ALFRED DE MUSSET. 
 
 irony, a mocking lightness, withal exhaling the pristine 
 freshness which his weariness of the world had not yet 
 destroyed. Sucli an elegant and essentially French 
 treatment had not been seen since the days of Hamilton, 
 and Voltaire. This moment, though, was of short 
 duration, for De Musset drove everything at a rapid 
 pace ; but it was a precious moment, appearing to his 
 friends as precursory to a greater maturity of thought. 
 He then wrote proverbs of an exquisite delicacy, and 
 verses always beautiful, but light, and invested with 
 a superior ease — verses withal pregnant of wit and 
 reflection allied to an elegant carelessness. He would 
 burst into accents of profound melody, that recalled the 
 harmonious sounds of other times : — 
 
 *' Star of love, descend not from the skies ! " 
 
 All this seemed to promise a more temperate season, 
 and the lasting reign of a talent that was sought after 
 in the most critical circles, as well as by the most 
 fervent of youth. Whether it were a question of 
 singing the first triumphs of Eachel, or the Mhxit 
 of Pauline Garcia, or railing at the coarsely emphatic 
 effusions of patriotism from the free " German Khine," 
 or writing a witty tale, De Musset would rise to 
 the occasion, appropriately blending enthusiasm with 
 satire. He verified more and more the device of 
 the poet : " I am a light thing, flying to every 
 subject." 
 
 He was the fashion. His books, as I have already 
 remarked in another article, became acceptable as bridal 
 presents, and I have noticed young husbands giving 
 them to their wives to read from the very first month 
 of their marriage, so as to develop in them a poetical 
 taste. It was then, also, that men of wit and reputed 
 discernment, the dilettanti that are bo numerous in our 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 31 
 
 country,* presumed to say they preferred De Musset's 
 prose to his poetry, as if his prose were not essentially 
 that of a poet : only a poet could have written such fine 
 prose. There are people, who, if they could, would 
 sever a bee in two. However, De Musset gained 
 theatrical triumphs as well as the favour of society. It 
 had been discovered for some time that more than one of 
 the comedies composing The Performance in an Arm- 
 Chairy could, if understood and well rendered by 
 amateur actors and actresses, procure an hour of very 
 agreeable recreation. These little pieces were repre- 
 sented in the country-houses, where there was always 
 plenty of leisure time. To Madame Allan, the actress, 
 is due the honour of having discovered that De Musset's 
 stage- works were equally suitable for representation on 
 the public boards. It was wittily said of her, that she 
 brought his Caprice from Kussia in her muff.f 
 
 The success that was gained at the Comedie-Fran- 
 ^aise by this pretty poetical gem, proved that the 
 public still possessed a latent refinement in literary 
 taste, that merely required arousing. What, then, did 
 the poet wish to render him happy ? Why did he, who 
 was still so young, not wish to live and enjoy life 1 
 
 * An elegant writer, who passes for one of the first critics of 
 the day, but who has never been a good judge in relation to any 
 contemporary author (I mean M. Villemain, if we are compelled 
 to name) belonged to this particular class. 
 
 f The Revue des Deux-Mondes of May the 15th (page 475) 
 seems to contest the authenticity of this remark. But let it be 
 remembered that those who made it did not mean to imjdy that 
 the editor of the said Revue, who was for some years the able 
 manager of the Theatre-Fran^ais, did not think of producing 
 Alfred de Musset's pieces ; what was really implied was, that 
 Madame Allan, who had played Le Caprice at St. Petersburg, 
 played it so delightfully in Paris that every one began to appre- 
 ciate De Musset's dainty composition. 
 
32 ALFRED DE MUSSET, 
 
 "Why did lie not return tlie smiles that greeted his pre- 
 sence ? Why did his genius, now influenced by a greater 
 calm, not reawaken the old inspiration, which would 
 have been purified by his later finer shades of taste ? 
 
 De Musset was essentially a poet ; he wished to feel. 
 He belonged to a generation whose password, whose 
 first vow, inscribed in the depths of the heart, was 
 "Poetry, poetry itself, poetry before anything." 
 " During my youth," remarked one of the poets of this 
 period, "I desired and worshipped nothing beyond 
 passion," that is to say, the living part of poetry.* 
 
 De Musset disdained adopting what is called wisdom, 
 but which seemed to him merely the gradual decay of 
 life. It was impossible for him to transform himself. 
 Having attained and gone beyond the summit of the 
 mountain, it seemed to him that he had come to the 
 end of every desire ; life had become a burden to him. 
 He was not one of those to whom the pleasure of 
 
 * Somebody well known to me — an intimate friend of De 
 Musset, and who shared with him in this life of imagination 
 and unbridled desire — has even dared to inscribe a thought, 
 which I have stolen, unknown to him — a thought that describes 
 fully, indeed more than fully, the kind of irregularity and 
 vehemence of passion so dear to the generation called the chil- 
 dren of the century : — "At times I picture to myself an ideal 
 Elysium, where every one will join his favourite group, and find 
 again those whom he resembles. My group— as I have already 
 stated elsewhere — my secret group is that of the incontinent, 
 of those who are sad, like Abbadona, mysterious and dreamy 
 even in the very bosom of pleasure, and for ever pale and wan 
 in their voluptuous tenderness. De Musset, on the contrary, 
 has had for his ideal, ever since his earliest days, the delights of 
 nocturnal revels ; his group is that of the Duchess of Berry 
 (daughter of the Regent), and of little Aristion of the 
 Anthology, who danced so well, and who could drink the 
 contents of three goblets, one after the other, her brow decked 
 with wreaths." 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 33 
 
 criticism could supply the place of artistic production ; 
 of those who can find interest in literary work, and 
 who are capable of studying arduously, in order to 
 avoid passions that are still in search of prey, without 
 having any really serious object. He could but hate 
 life from the moment (using his own language) that it 
 was no longer sacred youth. He considered life not 
 worth living unless mingled with a slight delirium. 
 
 His verses are steeped in these sentiments. He must 
 often have experienced a feeling of anguish and defeat 
 in reflecting on the existence of a superior truth, of a 
 severer poetical beauty, of which he formed a perfect 
 conception, but that he had no longer the power of 
 attaining. 
 
 On a certain occasion, one of De Musset's most 
 devoted friends, and whose recent death must have 
 been a grievous omen to him — Alfred Tattet, whom I 
 happened to encounter on the Boulevards — showed me 
 a scrap of paper, containing some pencilled lines, that 
 he had found that very morning on the table at De 
 Musset's bedside. The poet was at that time staying 
 with him in his country-house, in the Valley of 
 Montmorency.f 
 
   To live and enjoy meant one and the same to liim. '* Joy ! 
 joy ! and, death after ! " that was his device. During De 
 Musset's second youth, when happening to mention that he was 
 reading Werther and La Nouvelle Helo'ise, and devouring all 
 the sublime vagaries of which he had so often made fun, he 
 added : "I shall perchance venture too far in that sense, as in 
 tlie other. But what matter? I shall still march onward." 
 In fact, hurry on until extinction. What a frightful moral and 
 physical hygiene ! 
 
 t My memory is very clear on this point. M. Edmund Texier 
 
 believes that they were written in another country-house of M. 
 
 Tattet, at La Madeleine, near Fontainebleau ; but it was really 
 
 at Bury, in the Valley of Montmorency, that they were written, 
 
 c 
 
34 ALFRED DE MUSSET. 
 
 Here are the verses stolen from him by his friend, 
 and since published, but they only possess their full 
 meaning when one knows they were written during a 
 night of utter exhaustion and bitter regret : — 
 
 " I have lost my strength and life, 
 My friends and my joyous mood ; 
 I have even lost the pride 
 That made me trust my genius. 
 
 When I discovered truth, 
 Meth ought she was a friend ; 
 When I understood and felt her, 
 She had already wearied me. 
 
 And yet she is immortal ; 
 , And those who have lived without her 
 Have ignored everything. 
 
 God speaks, and I must answer. 
 The only thing that remains to me 
 Is sometimes to have wept." 
 
 Let us remember his first songs of the Page or 
 Amorous Knight — 
 
 " To the hunt, the happy hunt ! " 
 
 — a matutinal sound of the horn, — and in placing it 
 at the side of his final sorrowing lines, we seem 
 to perceive the whole of De Musset's poetical career 
 illustrated in the two poems representing glory and 
 pardon. In the beginning, what a glorious train 
 of light ! Then, what gloom, what shadow ! The 
 poet who has been but the startling type of many 
 unknown souls of his day, — he who has but expressed 
 their attempts, their failures, their grandeur, their 
 miseries, — his name, I say, will never die. Let us, in 
 particular, engrave this name on our hearts. He has 
 bequeathed to us the task of getting old, — to us, who 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 35 
 
 could exclaim the other day, in all truth, on return- 
 ing from hi^ funeral : " For many years our youth 
 has been dead, but we have only just buried it 
 with him ! " Let us admire, continue to love and to 
 honour in its best and most beautiful expression, the 
 profound and light spirit that he has breathed forth in 
 his poems ; but withal it behoves us not to forget the 
 infirmity inherent in our being, and never to boast of 
 the gifts that human nature has received. 
 
LETTERS OF 
 LORD CHESTERFIELD TO HIS SON. 
 
 1850. 
 
 In every age there have been treatises written with a 
 view to forming the Honourable Man, the Well- 
 bred Man, the Courtier, and the Accomplished Gentle- 
 man. When reading, in a following age, these diverse 
 works on politeness and the conduct of life, we imme- 
 diately detect portions of them that are as equally out 
 of date as the fashions of our grandfathers ; the pattern 
 has evidently changed. If by chance the book has 
 been written by a man of sense, who has known and 
 understood mankind, we cannot fail to profit by the 
 study of the models given to preceding generations. 
 The letters Lord Chesterfield wrote to his son repre- 
 sented a perfect school of manners and knowledge of 
 the world. They are particularly interesting from the 
 fact that in writing them he never thought of suggest- 
 ing a model of behaviour, but only of privately forming 
 an excellent pupil. They are confidential letters, that 
 were suddenly brought to light, betraying all the secrets 
 and ingenuity of an anxious parent. If, in reading 
 them to-day, we are struck by the importance given to 
 mere details and different little points in dress, we are 
 not any the less impressed by the lasting portions of 
 
 36 
 
LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFLELD. 37 
 
 tlie book — those parts that are in keeping with the 
 thought and observation of all times. This solid 
 portion of the work is more considerable than we 
 should believe when only glancing at it casually. In 
 striving to educate his son as a polite member of 
 society, Lord Chesterfield pursued a different course 
 to Cicero ; for, instead of composing a treatise on " The 
 Duties," he wrote letters which, by reason of their 
 combination of good judgment and lightness of touch, 
 — of a certain frivolous tone intermingled with a 
 more serious grace — might take the mean between The 
 Memoirs of the Chevalier de Grammont and TelcTnachus. 
 
 Before expatiating on the subject, we must first know 
 something about Lord Chesterfield, one of the most 
 brilliant wits of his day, and one whose name has 
 been closely associated with France. Philip Dormer 
 Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, was born in London 
 on the 22nd of September 1694, the same year as 
 Voltaire. He was the descendant of an illustrious race 
 He was fully conscious of its worth, and he desired 
 to uphold the honour of his name. However, he 
 could not refrain from ridiculing the pride of birth, 
 and, in order to resist the glamour of pedigree, he 
 hung among the portraits of his ancestors, two faces 
 of an old man and woman ; under one was the in- 
 scription, " Adam de Stanhope," under the other, " Eve 
 de Stanhope." Thus, though sustaining the honour 
 of his birth, he repudiated all the chimeras of lineage. 
 Chesterfield's father did not undertake his education ; 
 he was consigned to the care of his grandmother, 
 Lady Halifax. Prom an early age he wished to 
 excel in all directions ; and this feeling of ambition, 
 that he endeavoured, in after years, to awaken in the 
 heart of his son, is, in evil as well as good, the principle 
 of every great achievement. Having no one in his 
 
38 LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFLELD. 
 
 early youth to advise and direct him, he more than 
 once made a wrong choice in selecting the object of his 
 emulation, and conceived a false idea of honour. He 
 confesses having indulged, at a period of inexperience, 
 in drink and other excesses. He had no natural inclin- 
 ation to habits of intemperance, but assumed them in 
 deference to his desire to be considered a man of pleasure. 
 His practice in relation to gambling was governed by 
 the same wish to distinguish himself. In the first 
 instance he gambled with a sense of indifference, but 
 later on he could not live without it, and in conse- 
 quence compromised his fortune for a long time. 
 " Take warning by my conduct," said he to his son ; 
 " choose your own pleasures, and do not let others 
 choose them for you." 
 
 This desire to excel and gain distinction was 
 frequently put to good account ; his early studies were 
 excellent. He was sent to Cambridge, and learnt all 
 that was taught there ; he pursued the study of civil 
 law and philosophy ; he followed the mathematical 
 lectures given by the blind scholar Saunderson. He 
 read Greek fluently, and wrote in French long accounts 
 of his progress to his old tutor,. a refugee clergyman, 
 called Jouneau. Lord Chesterfield had in his child- 
 hood learnt our language from a Normandy lady's-maid. 
 The last time Chesterfield visited Paris, in 1741, M. 
 de Fontenelle told him his accent was similar to that 
 of Normandy, and asked whether his first lessons in 
 French had been given him by any one from those parts. 
 
 After passing two years at Cambridge University, he 
 travelled over the Continent, according to the custom 
 of the young noblemen of his country. He visited 
 Holland, Italy, and France. From Paris he wrote to 
 this same M. Jouneau on the 7th December 1714 : — 
 
 " I shall not tell you what I think of the French, 
 
LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 39 
 
 because I am being often taken for a Frenchman, and 
 more than one of them has paid me the highest possible 
 compliment, by saying, * Monsieur j you are quite one of 
 ourselves.' I shall only tell you that I am impudent ; 
 that I talk a great deal very loudly, and with an air of 
 authority ; that I sing ; that I dance in my walk ; and, 
 finally, that I spend immense sums in powder, feathers, 
 white gloves, etc." 
 
 Here we see him in his mocking, satirical, and some- 
 what insolent humour, making his points for the first 
 time at our expense ; later on he will render full justice 
 to our good qualities. 
 
 In the Letters to liis son he has given a description 
 of himself as he locked the first day of his entree into 
 good society, when still covered with the rust of 
 university life. He was shy, awkward, and silent, and 
 could only summon sufficient courage to remark to a 
 beautiful lady near him, " Madam, do you not think 
 it extremely warm to-day?" But Lord Chesterfield 
 wrote thus to his son, so as not to discourage him, and 
 to show him to what an extent a young man can alter 
 to his advantage. He gives himself as an example, in 
 order to embolden his son and gain his confidence. I 
 should not think of considering this anecdote as absolute 
 truth. If Chesterfield was for a time awkward in 
 society, the period must have been of short duration. 
 
 Queen Anne had just died ; Chesterfield hailed with 
 delight the accession of the House of Hanover, of which 
 he became one of the avowed champions. At the open- 
 ing of his public career he secured a seat in the House 
 of Commons, and began his political life under favour- 
 able auspices. However, a circumstance, trivial to all 
 appearances, kept him, it is said, in check, and some- 
 what paralyzed his eloquence. A member of the 
 House, who was gifted with no special talent save that 
 
40 LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 of mimicry, imitated to perfection the speakers to whom 
 he responded. Chesterfield feared ridicule (it was one 
 of his weaknesses), and on certain occasions he preserved 
 a greater silence than he wished, for fear of incurrin^,^ 
 the mockery of his colleague. At the death of his 
 father he inherited the earldom, and entered the House 
 of Lords, where he found more scope for the display of 
 his graceful tact and polished eloquence. Nevertheless, 
 he evidently appreciated the floor of the House of 
 Commons more than that of the House of Lords, as an 
 arena wherein was exhibited greater political aptitude, 
 and greater debating power. "It is surprising," he 
 remarked afterwards, in relation to Pitt, at the time 
 that great orator consented to enter the Upper House 
 under the title of Lord Chatham, — "it is surprising 
 that a man in the plenitude of his power, at the very 
 moment when his ambition has obtained the most 
 complete triumph, should leave the House which pro- 
 cured him that power, and which alone could ensure 
 its maintenance, to retire into that Hospital for 
 Incurables, the House of Lords." 
 
 It is not for me to criticise the Earl's political career. 
 Nevertheless, if I may risk a general assertion, let me 
 mention that his ambition was never entirely satisfied, 
 and that the brilliancy of his public life concealed many 
 shattered plans and broken hopes. Twice, in the two 
 decisive moments of his political career, he failed. 
 When young, and in the first flush of ambition, he 
 staked everything in the cause of the presumptive heir 
 of the throne, who became later George II. He wds 
 one of those who, on the accession of this prince, antici- 
 pated his favour and a share of power. But this clever 
 man had not pursued the right course to catch the rays 
 of the rising sun. For a long time he had paid court 
 to the prince's mistress, believing she was destined to 
 
LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD, 41 
 
 great power, while he had neglected the legitimate wife, 
 the future queen, who alone possessed real influence. 
 Queen Caroline never forgave him. This was the first 
 blow to his political fortune. He was then thirty-three 
 years old, and full of ambitious hopes. He had been 
 too impatient, and pursued a wrong direction. Eobert 
 Walpole, to all appearances much less keen and dexter- 
 ous, had employed better measures, and had calculated 
 more wisely. 
 
 Thrown into the Opposition party, more especially 
 since 1732 — when he was compelled to resign his 
 functions at Court — Chesterfield worked for six years 
 with might and main, diligent in the destruction of 
 Walpole's ministry. "Walpole, however, did not fall 
 until 1742. But the Earl failed to immediately gain a 
 footing in the new Government. It was more with an 
 honorary than a real title, that two years afterwards, 
 in 1744, he entered office, first as Ambassador at the 
 Hague and Viceroy of Ireland, then as Secretary of State 
 and member of the Cabinet (1746-48). 
 
 In short. Lord Chesterfield, though always an im- 
 portant politician in his country, either as one of the 
 leaders of the Opposition, or as an able diplomatist, was 
 never an influential minister of State. 
 
 In politics he certainly possessed the intuition and 
 foresight that belong to a great breadth of mind, 
 but these qualities were more pronounced than the 
 patience, perseverance, and practical every-day firmness 
 so necessary to politicians in power. In truth, we can 
 say of him, as it is said of La Rochefoucauld, that 
 politics made an accomplished moralist of the incom- 
 plete man of action. 
 
 In 1744, at the age of only fifty years, his political 
 aspirations seemed partly to have exhausted themselves ; 
 his health obliged him to seek seclusion. We now 
 
42 LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 know the object of his secret ideal and his real 
 ambition. He had had, in 1733, before his marriage, 
 a natural son by a French lady, a certain Madame du 
 Bouchet, whom he had met in Holland. He fostered 
 a deep affection for this child. It was in all sincerity 
 that he wrote to him : " From the very first day of 
 your life the dearest object of mine has been to make 
 you as perfect as the weakness of human nature will 
 allow." All his wishes and affection were centred in 
 his son, and, either as Viceroy of Ireland or Secretary 
 of State in London, he would always find time to write 
 him lengthy detailed letters, to direct him in every 
 action of his life, to perfect him in serious accomplish- 
 ments as well as in good-breeding. 
 
 Lord Chesterfield, whose writings we are so fond of 
 reading, was a man of mind and experience, and, as a 
 result of his eventful career, we are initiated in all the 
 secret springs of political and public life. From his 
 youth upwards he was a friend of Pope and Boling- 
 broke ; he introduced Voltaire's and Montesquieu's 
 works into England, and he corresponded with 
 Fontenelle and Madame de Tencin. He was made a 
 member of the Academy of Inscriptions. He united 
 in him the wit of the two nations, and in more than 
 one clever essay, but more particularly in the Letters to 
 his son, shows himself to be an agreeable and con- 
 summate moralist — in fact, one of the masters of the 
 science of life. He is the Eochefoucauld of England. 
 
 Montesquieu, after the publication of his Esprit 
 des Lois, wrote to the Abbe Guasco, who was then in 
 England : — " Tell Lord Chesterfield that nothing flatters 
 me so much as his approbation, but that, as he is read- 
 ing me for the third time, he will be better able to 
 tell me what there is to correct and rectify in my book ; 
 nothing could instruct me better than his observations 
 
LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 43 
 
 and his criticisms." It is Lord Chesterfield, who, con- 
 versing on one occasion with Montesquieu in respect to 
 the readiness of the French nation for revolutions, and 
 their dislike to slow reform, gave utterance to the 
 saying which fnlly describes its history : " You French 
 know how to make barricades, but you never raise 
 barriers." Lord Chesterfield had a deep admiration 
 for Yoltaire ; he remarked in regard to The Century 
 of Louis XIV. : " Lord Bolingbroke had taught me 
 how to read history, Voltaire teaches me how it should 
 be written." Nevertheless, with that practical common- 
 sense that rarely forsakes clever men on the other side 
 of the Channel, he disapproved of Voltaire's indiscre- 
 tion. When already aged and in seclusion, Chesterfield 
 wrote thus to a French lady of his acquaintance : — 
 
 " Your good authors are my principal resource : 
 Voltaire especially charms me, with the exception of 
 his impiety, with which he cannot help seasoning all 
 that he writes, and which he would do better carefully 
 to suppress, for one ought not to disturb established 
 order. Let every one think as he will, or rather as he 
 can, but let him not communicate his ideas if they are 
 of a nature to trouble the peace of society." 
 
 In this letter, indited in 1768, he merely repeated 
 what he had said twenty-five years previously, in 
 writing to Crebillon's son, who was a singular corre- 
 spondent, and still more singular confidant, as regards 
 morality. Both their letters had relation to Voltaire, 
 the first having relation to his tragedy Mahomet^ and 
 the daring passages this work contained. 
 
 " What I do not pardon him for, and that which is 
 not deserving of pardon in him," wrote Chesterfield, 
 "is his desire to propagate a doctrine as pernicious to 
 domestic society as contrary to the common religion of 
 all countries. I strongly doubt whether it is permissible 
 
44 LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 for a man to write against the worship and belief of 
 his country, even if he be fully persuaded of its error, 
 on account of the trouble and disorder it might cause ; 
 but I am sure that it is in no wise allowable to attack 
 the foundations of true morality, and to break necessary 
 bonds which are already too weak to keep men in the 
 path of duty." 
 
 In these reflections, Chesterfield was not mistaken 
 in his opinion of Voltaire's great inconsistency. In 
 short, his inconsistency was as follows : Voltaire, who 
 looked upon men as fools or children, and who could 
 hardly ridicule them sufficiently, placed nevertheless 
 in their hands loaded fire-arms, without considering 
 what use they might make of these weapons. 
 
 Lord Chesterfield himself, I must admit, has been 
 accused by the Puritans of his country of having been 
 guilty of a breach of morality in the Letters to his son. 
 The severe Johnson — who, moreover, was not impartial 
 in his criticism of Chesterfield, believing he had cause 
 to complain of the Earl's conduct as regarded himself 
 —remarked at the time the Letters were published, 
 that " they taught the morals of a courtesan and the 
 manners of a dancing-master." 
 
 Such an assertion is simply an injustice ; and if 
 Chesterfield, in this particular case, dwells so fully on 
 grace of manner, and places so much value on all that 
 contributes to render a young man agreeable, it is 
 because he has already attended to the more solid part 
 of his son's education. Moreover, his pupil was not 
 lacking in qualities of honour, but in those that help 
 to render a man affable and gracious. Though many of 
 the ideas in Chesterfield's epistles may appear strange, 
 expressed by a father to his son, all these letters are, 
 nevertheless, animated by a spirit of true tenderness 
 and wisdom. Had Horace been blessed with a son, I 
 
LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 45 
 
 verily believe lie would have spoken to him in a Some- 
 what similar tone. 
 
 The Letters begin with the rudiments of education 
 and instruction. Chesterfield teaches his son the first 
 elements of history and mythologj' in French. I am 
 far from regretting the publication of these first letters ; 
 they contain excellent advice. Young Stanhope was 
 scarcely eight years old 'when his father compiled a 
 little method of rhetoric, within the child's capacity, 
 and endeavoured to teach him elegant language and 
 distinction in his mode of expression. He exhorts him 
 above all to pay attention to all he undertakes, and gives 
 this word its full value. It is attention alone, says he, 
 that grafts objects in our memory : " There is no surer 
 mark of a mean and meagre intellect in the world than 
 inattention. All that is worth the trouble of doing at 
 all deserves to be well done, and nothing can be well 
 done without attention." He frequently repeats this 
 maxim, and applies it to different subjects, in propor- 
 tion as his pupil becomes older and better able to 
 understand the term in its full meaning. No matter 
 whether it is question of work or pleasure, he wishes 
 everything to be well and thoroughly done in its proper 
 time. " When you read Horace, pay attention to the 
 accuracy of his thoughts, to the elegance of his diction, 
 and to the beauty of his poetry, and do not think of 
 the Be Homini et Cive of Puffendorf ; and when you 
 read Puffendorf, do not think of Madame de St. 
 Germain ; nor of Puffendorf, when you speak to 
 Madame de St. Germain." But this free and strong 
 power of directing one's thoughts by an effort of the 
 will, is peculiar only to great or singularly good 
 minds. 
 
 M. Eoyer-Collard used to remark: "What was 
 most wanting in these days was respect in the moral 
 
46 LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 order, and attention in tlie intellectual order." Lord 
 Chesterfield would, though in a less serious manner, 
 have been capable of giving utterance to the same idea. 
 He had soon felt what was lacking in this child, whose 
 spiritual growth had become the object of his life. 
 
 ** On sounding your character to its very depths," 
 he said to him, "I have not, thank God, discovered 
 any vice of heart or weakness of head so far ; but I 
 have discovered idleness, inattention, and indifference, 
 defects which are only pardonable in the aged, who, in 
 the decline of life, when health and spirits give way, 
 have a sort of right to that kind of tranquillity. But 
 a young man ought to be ambitious to shine and 
 excel." 
 
 It is precisely this sacred fire which makes the 
 Achilles, the Alexanders, and the Caesars — " To be the 
 first in all one undertakes." But nature had neglected 
 to implant, in the honest but essentially mediocre soul 
 of Chesterfield's son, this maxim of great hearts and all 
 illustrious men. " You appear to lack," said his father, 
 "that vivida vis animij which excites the majority of 
 young men to please, to strive, and to outdo others.'' 
 " When I was your age," he says again, " I should have 
 been ashamed for another to know his lesson better, or 
 to have been before me in a game, and I should have 
 had no rest till I had regained the advantage." This 
 little course of education by letter offers a ceaseless 
 dramatic interest ; in reading these epistles we follow 
 the efforts of a delicate, distinguished, and energetic 
 nature, such as Lord Chesterfield's, battling with an 
 honest but indolent one, struggling against an inert 
 temperament, and wishing to create, at any sacrifice, 
 an accomplished, agreeable, and original masterpiece ; 
 though, after all his striving, he merely produces a 
 fairly good imitation. 
 
LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 47 
 
 What sustains, in fact what touches the reader in 
 this struggle in which so much skill is expended, and 
 the same advice continually repeated, is the true 
 fatherly affection that animates and seems to inspire 
 this refined and excellent master. He is patient as 
 well as incisive, full of wonderful resource and 
 dexterity, and indefatigable in sowing in this barren 
 soil the seeds of elegance and grace. Not that this son, 
 the object of so much culture and zeal, was in any way 
 unworthy of his father. It was said that nobody could 
 be clumsier and more awkward than he, and Johnson 
 is supposed to have made a remark of the same nature. 
 These are, however, gross exaggerations. It appears, 
 according to more impartial evidence, that Mr. 
 Stanhope, though far from attaining a high standard ot 
 elegance, had in reality the tone of a well-bred, polite, 
 and discreet man. But do not my readers feel that it 
 was precisely these qualities which made matters so 
 hopeless ? It would have perhaps been better to have 
 totally failed, and only to have succeeded in creating 
 an original character in an inverse sense, instead 01 
 wasting care and money in the production of an 
 ordinary, insignificant man of the world. 
 
 Chesterfield must have been grievously disappointed, 
 and those who are not fathers themselves might smile 
 pitifully at his fruitless efforts. 
 
 From the very first, Chesterfield considered France 
 as the most suitable country in which his son could 
 gain polished manners and a certain gentleness that 
 cannot be acquired in later years. We glean from 
 certain private letters, written to a lady in Paris, called, 
 I believe, Madame de Monconseil, that Chesterfield 
 intended sending his son there from his childhood. 
 
 " I have a boy," he wrote to this friend, " who is 
 now thirteen years old : I freely confess to you that he 
 
48 LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD, 
 
 is not legitimate ; but his motlier was well bom, and 
 was kinder to me than I deserved. As to the boy, 
 perhaps it is partiality, but I think him amiable : he 
 has a pretty face ; he has much sprightliness, and I 
 think intelligence, for his age. He speaks French 
 perfectly ; he knows a good deal of Latin and Greek, 
 and he has ancient and modern history at his fingers' 
 ends. He is at school at present, but as they never 
 dream here of forming the manners of young people, 
 and they are almost all foolish, awkward, and un- 
 polished — in short, such as you see them when they 
 come to Paris at the age of twenty or twenty-one, I do 
 not wish my boy to remain here to acquire such bad 
 habits ; for this reason, when he is fourteen, I think of 
 sending him to Paris. As I love the child dearly, and 
 have set myself to make something good of him, as I 
 believe he has the stuff in him, my idea is to unite in 
 him what has never been found in one person before — 
 I mean the best qualities of the two nations." 
 
 He then enters into the details of his plans, and the 
 means he intends taking : an English tutor in the 
 morning, a French teacher in the afternoon, and, above 
 all, the help of refined society. The war that broke 
 out between France and England obliged the father to 
 jjostpone this plan of Parisian education, and it was 
 not until 1751, at the age of nineteen, that the young 
 man visited Paris. He had already travelled through 
 Switzerland, Germany, and Italy. 
 
 This most solicitous father had arranged everything 
 in a manner conducive to his son's success and wel- 
 come reception in Paris. The young man resided at 
 the Academy with M. de la Gueriniere. In the 
 morning he attended to his studies, and the rest of the 
 day he devoted to society. " Pleasure is now the last 
 branch of your education," writes this indulgent father ; 
 
LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFLELD, 49 
 
 " it will soften and polish your manners, it will incite 
 you to seek and finally to acquire graces^' On this 
 point the parent is unsparing in his remarks. He 
 incessantly repeats his admonitions touching elegance 
 of manner, for without the graces every effort is 
 fruitless. "If they are not natural to you, cultivate 
 them," he exclaims. He seemed to forget that, to be 
 able to cultivate them, one must already possess them. 
 
 Three ladies, friends of his father, were particularly 
 requested to watch over him and counsel him at the 
 commencement. These so-called governesses were 
 Madame de Monconseil, Lady Hervey, and Madame du 
 Bocage. Chesterfield considered them only essential 
 during the first period of his son's sojourn in Paris ; 
 he wished the young man to act afterwards in- 
 dependently, and choose for himself some charming 
 and more familiar guide. In regard to the delicate 
 question of women, Chesterfield breaks the ice as 
 follows : — " I shall not talk to you on this subject like a 
 theologian, or a moralist, or a father," he says ; " I set 
 aside any age, and only take yours into consideration. 
 I wish to speak to you as one man of pleasure would to 
 another, if he has taste and spirit." He inspires him 
 with that good taste by which he can indulge in his 
 pleasures, with a due regard to a refined association in 
 respect to the gentler sex, while he will be led to avoid 
 those relationships which tend to demoralize. His 
 principle was that "an honourable arrangement is 
 befitting a gallant man." His morality in this respect 
 was contained in this verse of Voltaire : " There is 
 never any evil in good company." Such passages as 
 these induced the grave Johnson, in a sense of modesty, 
 to turn his head away ; we, in our modesty, only smile. 
 
 The serious and the light are at every moment aptly 
 blended in these Letters. Marcel, the dancing-master, 
 
 D 
 
50 LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 is frequently recommended ; Montesquieu, the same. 
 The Abbe de Guasco, a parasite of Montesquieu, is also 
 referred to as a useful person for giving introductions 
 liere and there. 
 
 "Between you and me," writes Chesterfield, "he has 
 more knowledge than genius ; but a clever man knows 
 how to make use of everything^ and every man is good 
 for something. As to the President of Montesquieu, 
 he is in all respects a precious acquaintance ; ' He has 
 genius, with the most extensive reading in the world. 
 Drink of this fountain as much as possible.' " 
 
 Among the authors whom Chesterfield commends at 
 this period to his son's notice, are La Rochefoucauld and 
 La Bruyere : — 
 
 " If you read some of La Rochefoucauld's maxims in 
 the morning, consider them, examine them well, and 
 compare them with the originals you meet in the 
 evening. Read La Bruyere in the morning, and see in 
 the evening if his portraits are correct." 
 
 But these excellent guides have not any other utility 
 save that of a chart. Without personal observation and 
 experience they would be useless, and would even lead 
 one into as many mistakes as would a map if one 
 wished to gain a complete knowledge of towns and 
 provinces. Better to read one man than ten books. 
 Here are some remarks worthy of these masters of 
 morality : — 
 
 "The most essential of all knowledge, I mean the 
 knowledge of the world, is never acquired without 
 great attention, and I know a great many aged persons 
 who, after having had an extensive acquaintance, 
 are still mere children in the knowledge of the 
 world." 
 
 " Human nature is the same all over the world ; but 
 its operations are so varied by education and custom, 
 
LE TTERS OF LORD CHES TER FIELD. 5 1 
 
 that we ought to see it in all its aspects to get an 
 intimate knowledge of it." 
 
 "Almost all men are born with every passion to 
 some extent, but there is hardly a man who has not a 
 dominant passion to which the others are subordinate. 
 Discover this governing passion in every individual ; 
 search into the recesses of his heart, and observe the 
 different effects of the same passion in different people. 
 And when you have found the master passion of a 
 man, remember never to trust to him where that 
 passion is concerned." 
 
 "If you wish particularly to gain the good graces 
 and affection of certain people, men or women, try to 
 discover their most striking merit, if they have one, 
 and their dominant weakness, for every one has his 
 own, then do justice to the one, and a little more than 
 justice to the other" 
 
 "Women, in general, have only one object, which 
 is their beauty, upon which subject hardly any flattery 
 can be too gross to please them." 
 
 "The flattery which is most pleasing to really 
 beautiful or decidedly ugly women, is that which is 
 addressed to the intellect." 
 
 If at times he seems to despise women, he makes 
 amends elsewhere for his apparent scorn. Whatever 
 he may think, he does not permit his son to revile the 
 fair sex : — 
 
 "You appear to think that from the day of Eve 
 to the present time they have done much harm : as 
 regards that lady^ I agree with you ; but from her time 
 history teaches you that men have done more harm in 
 the world than women ; and, to speak truly, I would 
 warn you not to trust either sex more than is absolutely 
 necessary. But what I particularly advise you is this : 
 never to attack whole bodies, whatever they may be." 
 
52 LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 "Individuals occasionally forgive, tut bodies and 
 societies never do." 
 
 In all directions Chestei'field recommends circum- 
 spection and a certain impartial discretion, even in 
 relation to tlie rogues and fools witli which the world 
 abounds. "After their friendship there is nothing 
 more dangerous than to have them for enemies." His 
 is not the morality of Cato nor of Zeno, but that of 
 Alcibiades, Aristippus, and Atticus. 
 
 Referring to religion, in answer to some rather decided 
 opinions of his son, he says : — 
 
 " The reason of every man is, and ought to be, his 
 guide ; and I should have as much right to expect 
 every man to be of my height and temperament, as to 
 wish that he should reason precisely as I do." 
 
 In everything he advocates what is good and just, 
 but does not advise one to be an indiscriminate champion. 
 Even in literature, he says, we should tolerate the weak- 
 nesses of others. How different is this wisdom to our 
 severe practice of criticism ! 
 
 He does not, however, counsel untruth ; he is strict 
 on this point. His precept is this : not to express all 
 one thinks, but never to tell a lie. 
 
 We see that Chesterfield can treat subjects seriously 
 as well as pleasantly. He remarks continually that 
 the mind should be firm as well as pliant, and that 
 one's real decit^ion of character should be concealed 
 by a gentleness of manner. The Earl appreciated the 
 awakening earnestness of France in the eighteenth 
 century, and perceived her latent redoubtable fecundity 
 of ideas. According to him, Duclos was right in observ- 
 ing, in his Reflections, that "a germ of reason was 
 beginning to develop itself in France." " What I can 
 confidently predict," adds Chesterfield, " is that before 
 the end of this century the trades of king and priest 
 
 i 
 
LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 53 
 
 will have lost half their power." Already, in 1750, he 
 clearly foresaw our Eevolution. 
 
 From the very first he fortified his son against the 
 idea that the French are purely frivolous : — 
 
 "The cold inhabitants of the north look upon the 
 French as a frivolous people, who sing and whistle and 
 dance perpetually ; this is very far from being the 
 truth, though the army of Joi^s seem to justify it. But 
 these foj)s, ripened by age and experience, often turn 
 into very able men." 
 
 His ideal was to unite in oneself the respective merits 
 of the two nations ; but, even if the Englisli were 
 possessed of this combination, he seems to award the 
 preference to France : — 
 
 " I have said many times, and I really think, that a 
 Frenchman who joins to a good foundation of virtue, 
 learning, and good sense, the manners and politeness 
 of his country, has attained the perfection of human 
 nature." 
 
 Chesterfield himself united to a certain degree the 
 good qualities of the two nations, with an additional 
 feature eminently characteristic of his race. He had 
 imagination even in his humour. Hamilton possesses 
 this distinctive quality, and applies it to his French 
 wit. The great philosopher Bacon is nearly a poet in 
 his style. We can hardly say this of Chesterfield, and 
 yet he evinces more imagination in his wit than we 
 ever meet with in Saint- Evremond or in any of our 
 subtle moralists. In this respect he resembles his 
 friend Montesquieu. If, in the Letters to his son, we 
 are able, without undue severity, to point out certain 
 passages of a slightly corrupt morality, we can, by way 
 of compensation, find some serious and most excellent 
 ones ; those, for instance, in which he mentions 
 Cardinal de Retz, Mazarin, Bolingbroke, Marlborough, 
 
54 LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFLELD. 
 
 and many others. It is a book abounding in felicitous 
 thought and happy observations. 
 
 Chesterfield desired to educate his son for the diplom- 
 atic service. At first he found some difficulty in carry- 
 ing out his plans, from the fact of the illegitimacy 
 of his child. In order to still captious objections, 
 he secured for him a seat in Parliament ; it was the 
 surest means of vanquishing the scruples of the court. 
 During his maiden speech, Mr. Stanhope hesitated for 
 a moment, and was obliged to refer to his notes. He 
 would not attempt to address the House a second time. 
 He succeeded better in diplomacy in one of those minor 
 positions where solid worth suffices. He filled the 
 office of envoy- extraordinary at the court of Dresden. 
 But his health, which had always been feeble, pre- 
 maturely gave way, and his father, to his unutterable 
 grief, lost him at the age of thirty-six (1766). 
 
 By reason of his numerous infirmities, the Earl 
 lived at this period in complete seclusion, his most 
 painful ailment being that of total deafness. Montes- 
 quieu had formerly remarked to the Earl, when finding 
 that his sight failed him : " I know how to be blind." 
 Chesterfield could not say he knew how to be deaf. In 
 consequence of this infirmity, he wrote oftener to his 
 friends generally, and particularly to those in France. 
 " The exchange of letters," he remarked, " is the con- 
 versation of deaf people, and the only link which 
 connects them with society." He found his last solace 
 in his charming country-house at Blackheath, to 
 which he had given the French name of "Babiole." 
 He occupied himself with gardening, and the cultiva- 
 tion of melons and pine-apples. It pleased him to 
 vegetate " in company with them." 
 
 "I have vegetated here all this year," he wrote to 
 a French friend (September 1753), " without pleasures 
 
LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 55 
 
 and without troubles : my age and deafness prevented 
 the first ; my philosophy, or rather my temperament 
 (for one often confounds them), guaranteed me against 
 the last. I always get as much as I can of the 
 quiet pleasures of gardening, walking, and reading, 
 and in the meantime I await death without desiring or 
 fearing it." 
 
 He avoided undertaking any lengthy literary work, 
 feeling too weak for such an effort ; but from time to 
 time he sent agreeable articles to a periodical publica- 
 tion, The Wmid. 
 
 These articles are in keeping with his reputation for 
 refinement and good-breeding ; but nothing can equal 
 the quality of the work which he himself did not con- 
 sider a literary production — letters he expected no one 
 to read, and which are to-day the finest legacy of his 
 authorship. 
 
 He lingered through a somewhat premature old age. 
 He frequently made witty remarks in relation to this 
 sad subject. Speaking of himself and one of his friends. 
 Lord Tyrawley, who was equally old and infirm, he 
 remarked : " Tyrawley and I," he said, " have been 
 dead two years, but we do not wish it to be known." 
 
 Voltaire, in spite of his assumption of a moribund 
 condition, was far better preserved than his contempor- 
 ary. Lord Chesterfield. The French philosopher wrote 
 to the Earl the following letter, signed "The old 
 Invalid of Femey : " — 
 
 "May you enjoy an honoured and happy old age, 
 after having passed through all the vicissitudes of life 1 
 May you enjoy the pleasures of mind, and preserve 
 your health of body. Of the five senses that have 
 fallen to our share, you have only one which is en- 
 feebled, and Lord Huntingdon assures me you have an 
 excellent digestion, which is well worth a pair of ears. 
 
56 LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 
 
 It may perhaps be for me to decide wlietlier it is the 
 saddest to be deaf, blind, or the victim of a bad diges- 
 tion. I can judge of these three conditions, having 
 thoroughly examined the matter, but for a long time I 
 have not dared express a decided opinion on trifles ; 
 with how much more reason should 1 therefore hesitate 
 in expressing myself on such an important subject. I 
 am content in believing that if you have the sunlight 
 in the beautiful house you have built, you will secure 
 a few tolerably happy moments; this is all one can 
 hope for at our age. Cicero wrote a beautiful treatise 
 on old age, but he did not prove by the facts of his 
 life the truth of his work ; his latter years were 
 extremely unhappy. You have lived longer and 
 more happily than he. You have had to do with 
 neither Dictators nor Triumvirs. Your lot has been 
 one of the most desirable in this great lottery in 
 which the good numbers are so rare, — a lottery in 
 which the greatest of prizes — perennial happiness — has 
 never been gained by a single human being. Your 
 philosophy has never been ruffled by chimeras such 
 as have sometimes perplexed fairly good brains. You 
 have never in any way been a cliarlatan, nor the dupe 
 of charlatans, and this I consider as a very uncommon 
 quality, a quality contributing to the glimpse of happi- 
 ness we are allowed to enjoy in this short life." 
 
 Lord Chesterfield died on the 24th of March 1 773. In 
 mentioning his charming course of worldly education, 
 we have not deemed it inopportune, even in a demo- 
 cracy, to take a few lessons in the conduct of life and 
 good-breeding, and to accept them from a man whose 
 name is so intimately associated with that of Montes- 
 quieu and Voltaire, who, more than any of the country- 
 men of his day, has shown a singular predilection for 
 our nation ; who has appreciated, perhaps more than 
 
LETTERS OF LORD CHESTERFIELD. 57 
 
 we deserve, our amiable qualities ; who has understood 
 our serious qualities ; and of whom we might say, with 
 a full sense of sympathetic admiration, that his mind 
 would have been French, had it not exhibited, in its 
 humour and flights of fancy, that indescribable quality 
 of the imagination which bears essentially the impress 
 of his race. 
 
DE BALZAC. 
 1850, 
 
 A REAL study relating to the life and works of the 
 celebrated novelist who has but recently been taken 
 from our midst, and whose sudden death has caused 
 universal sorrow, would form a work of considerable 
 dimension ; but the moment for this has not yet come. 
 It is not beseeming to make moral inquests of this kind 
 on those who have only recently passed away — above 
 all, when the departed one was replete with strength, 
 promise, and fertility. All that is due to the memory 
 of a renowned contemporary at the moment that death 
 has claimed him as his own, is to point out, in a few 
 emphatic words, his merits, his ability, and the delicate 
 yet potent charms by which he has influenced his 
 century. I will endeavour to do so in relation to 
 Balzac, putting aside all personal feeling,* merely mak- 
 ing use of the rights reserved to unbiassed criticism. 
 Balzac was a portrayer of the manners of our century, 
 and was keener in his penetration and more original 
 
 * Look in the Revue parisienne, of August 25, 1840, for 
 M. de Balzac's article in relation to myself. If I have forgotten 
 it, I do not for one moment fear that other people remember it. 
 Such judgments as liis only condemn in the future those who 
 have expressed such opinions. 
 
DE BALZAC, 59 
 
 than any otlier author of that genre. Early in life he 
 appropriated the nineteenth century as his special 
 subject. He threw himself ardently into the study of 
 these times, and never once abandoned the theme. 
 Society, like a woman, requires a special painter to 
 delineate it in accordance with its own taste. He was 
 the painter of society, and was unique in its portrayal. 
 He invented a new method of painting this age of 
 ambition and frivolity, — an age which prides itself on 
 its unprecedented characteristics, — thereby gaining its 
 highest applause. He was born before the fall of the 
 Empire ; so, during his childhood, he knew the imperial 
 epoch, and contemplated it with that clearness and 
 fine penetration peculiar to children— that instinctive 
 knowledge that afterwards ripens into keen judg- 
 ment, but of which the fresh lucidity remains for ever 
 unequalled. Some one belonging to the same age as 
 himself has said : " As a child I felt things so keenly, 
 that my sensations could only be likened to having 
 a knife every moment piercing my heart." Balzac, in 
 this characteristic, was of similar temperament. His 
 childish impressions, resulting later in analysis and 
 portrayal, are characterized by a singular depth of 
 feeling, and it is precisely these impressions that lend 
 such life and delicacy to his ideas. He had already 
 attained manhood at the time of the Restoration, and 
 saw it in its entirety from the most advantageous point 
 of view — that is, as an artistic observer in the crowd, 
 poor and struggling with the hungering envy of genius 
 and human nature, with all that longing which gives 
 a foretaste of debarred luxuries. He was beginning to 
 gain his reputation at the time when the new Govern- 
 ment was proclaimed in July 1830. He saw the ad- 
 ministration of that Government from above as well as 
 below, and his opinion was perfectly unbiassed. He has 
 
6o DE BALZAC, 
 
 deliglitfully portrayed tlie characteristics of that period 
 in the presentment of his middle-class types. Balzac 
 lived through the three epochs (all utterly unlike each 
 other) that form the half of this century, and his works 
 are in measure the reflection of that period. Who, for 
 instance, has drawn a better picture of the old beaux 
 and beauties of the Empire? Who, above all, has 
 given us a more delightful sketch of the duchesses 
 and countesses at the end of the Kestoration — these 
 women of thirty, waiting with vague expectation to 
 be depicted in literature ? Who has more accurately 
 described the unctuous bourgeoisie, triumphant under 
 the dynasty of July, the already extinct class of 
 the Birotteaux and Crevels? Balzac had an immense 
 field before him. He determined soon in life to 
 delve into its very depths. He surveyed it entirely, 
 leaving no stone unturned, yet he found his ground 
 too narrow in proportion to his capacity for literary 
 ardour. Though it was his apposite and delicate 
 observation in relation to the higher orders whicL 
 gained him the hearts of the aristocratic society, 
 an entrance into which he had always aspired, he 
 was not content with merely observing, but often 
 created new characters. 
 
 The Woman of Thirty, The Deserted Woman, The 
 Female Grenadier, were the first productions that 
 conquered the attention of his readers. The idea 
 on which The Woman of Thirty was based, was not 
 entirely original. Since the existence of civilised 
 society, the woman of that age has held an important 
 place. During the eighteenth century — a century 
 which had leisure to give a touch of refinement to 
 all its ideas — a court ball was given on the Shrove 
 Tuesday of 1763, called the "Mothers' BalL" The 
 young girls formed the audience, and no woman 
 
DE BALZAC, 6i 
 
 under thirty was permitted to dance. The young 
 girls sang a song : — 
 
 II est 'plus d'un mois pour les fleurs^ 
 Et toutes Us roses sont soeurs. 
 
 Here, again, is the prettiest verse of this song : — 
 
 Belles qui formez des jprqjets^ 
 Trente ans est pour vous le bel age ; 
 Vous n'en avez pas moins d'attraits ; 
 Vous en connaissez mieux V usage; 
 Cest le vrai moment d'Stre heureux; 
 On plait autant, on aime mieux. 
 Enfants de quinze ans, 
 Laissez danser vos viamansl 
 
 We perceive the eighteenth century taking up the 
 idea for one evening. But our century has seriously 
 grasped the subject, and the theory regarding the woman 
 of thirty, with all her advantages, superiority, and 
 matured perfections, has only arisen in our day. Balzac 
 is the originator of this theory— a theory one of the 
 truest of all in his system of psychological studies. 
 This little book was the beginning of his success. 
 Through his having guessed so well at first, women 
 henceforth believed in him implicitly. 
 
 Balzac was certainly successful in France, but his 
 European renown was greater, his talent less contested 
 by other nations. The particulars we could give on 
 this subject would appear fabulous. Balzac described 
 the manners of his day, and his very success on this 
 point may in itself be considered as one of the most 
 curious illustrations of the spirit of that period. More 
 than two centuries ago, in 1624, Honor^ d'Urf^, — the 
 author of the famous novel VAstr^e^ — then living at 
 Piedmont, received a serious letter from twenty-nine 
 princes or princesses and great lords or ladies of 
 
62 DE BALZAC. 
 
 Germany. The writers informed him they had adopted 
 the names of the heroes and heroines in UAstr^, 
 and had formed a clique called the " Academy of True 
 Lovers." They urgently requested a sequel to the book. 
 That which occurred to D'Urfe was repeated in the 
 case of Balzac. For a time, society in Venice conceived 
 the idea of taking the names of his principal characters, 
 and playing their respective parts iij. real life. During 
 an entire season the town abounded with Radignacs, 
 Duchesses of Langeais, and Duchesses of Manfrigneuse, 
 more than one actor or actress being, for a fact, bent 
 upon adhering faithfully to his or her part. The 
 author, in his initiation of these reciprocal influences, 
 strikes the keynote of human nature, exaggerating to 
 a certain degree its peculiar tendencies. Society is 
 flattered, and puts into practice what the author had 
 merely imagined. Thus, that which at first appeared 
 an exaggeration, becomes at last incontestable truth. 
 Not only in Venice, but in Hungary, Poland, and 
 Russia, Balzac's works were considered law. The 
 slightly fantastic portions of his novels, that incurred 
 a somewhat severe criticism in his own country, dis- 
 appeared at this distance — in fact, added one more 
 attraction to his writings. For instance, his descriptions 
 of rich and fantastic furniture, amassed according to the 
 freaks of his imagination, became a reality. These 
 highly coloured pictures, that were to us as mere dreams 
 of an artistic millionaire, were accurately copied by 
 other nations, and it became the fashion to furnish 
 one's house d la Balzac. How could the author remain 
 insensible to these echoes of fame — heralds of future 
 glory! 
 
 Believing in these echoes, and inspired by a lofty 
 sense of ambition, his strong and fertile imagination 
 was stimulated to draw upon all its resources, and to 
 
DE BALZAC. 63 
 
 give fortli productions of every kind. Balzac had the 
 physique of an athlete, and all the fire of an artistic 
 nature in love with glory. The vast work he had 
 planned necessitated the use of these mental and 
 physical forces. Only in these days are to be found 
 such organizations, nearly herculean in their j)hysical 
 strength, producing in rich abundance for twenty years. 
 
 In reading Kacine, Voltaire, and Montesquieu, we do 
 not for one moment think of questioning whether they 
 were physically strong or not. Buff on was an athlete, 
 but his style does not indicate his physical strength. 
 The classic writers of those days only wrote with their 
 brains — with the essentially intellectual part of their 
 being. But in these times it is otherwise. By reason 
 of the immense labour that society forces a writer to 
 perform in a short space of time, by reason of the 
 necessity for an author to be rapid as well as emphatic, 
 he has not leisure to be platonic. The entire physical 
 organization of the author is brought into action, 
 and betrays itself in his works. He does not 
 merely write with his head, but with his blood and 
 his muscles. In analyzing the qualities of a writer, 
 his physique should be taken into consideration. 
 Balzac prided himself on being a physiologist, and he 
 certainly may be considered as such, though his science 
 of life was less accurate than he himself believed. ' His 
 physical nature and that of others play a conspicuous 
 part in his works, and are the more evident in his moral 
 descriptions. I do not wish in any way to detract 
 from his merit, his peculiarities being characteristic of 
 the picturesque literature of these days. 
 
 One day. Monsieur Villemain, who was very young 
 at the time, was reading to Sieyes his Eulogy on 
 Montaigne — that charmingly fresh ^loge^ the first he 
 had ever written. Coming to the passage where he 
 
64 DE BALZAC. 
 
 sa3^s, "But in reading Eousseau, E sliould be fearful 
 of dwelling too long on those guilty weaknesses that 
 we should always keep out of sight," — Sieyes inter- 
 rupted him, remarking, "But no — we sliould allow 
 them to be near us, so as to study them at a closer 
 proximity." Here we see the physiologist above all 
 in search of truth, opposed to the literary scholar, 
 who requires good taste in preference to all else. 
 Shall I venture to admit I am like Sieyes? This is 
 also admitting that I resemble Balzac. But on two 
 points I differ from him. I admire that particular 
 efflorescence in the delicate portions of his writing (I 
 can find no other term), by which he imparts to every- 
 thing an appearance of life, but I cannot accept, under 
 the pretext of physiology, the abuse of this particular 
 method. I cannot admire his enervated and luxurious 
 mode of writing — that deliciously corrupt style, imbued 
 with a nearly Oriental voluptuousness, and at times 
 more supple than the frame of an ancient mime. Does 
 not Petronius, in the midst of describing different scenes, 
 regret the decline of the oratio pudica — that chaste 
 style which does not abandon itself to every move- 
 ment ? On another point Balzac is faulty as a 
 physiologist and an anatomist — he had more recourse 
 to his imagination than to scientific facts. Skilful in 
 his moral dissections, he has certainly discovered new 
 channels, though many are of his own creation. At a 
 certain point in his analyses the real plexus ends 
 where the imaginary plexus begins, he himself not 
 being able to distinguish the one from the other. Like 
 liimself, the majority of his readers have confounded 
 them, especially his women readers. Balzac had an 
 avowed weakness for the precepts of Swedenborg, Van- 
 Helmont, Saint-Germain, and Cagliostro, and of others 
 similar to them — in fact, the author was subject to 
 
DE BALZAC, 65 
 
 illusions. Balzac professed to be scientific, but in 
 reality he j)ossessed a kind of physiological intuition. 
 In speaking of this, Ohasles remarks with great 
 penetration : " It has been continually repeated that 
 Balzac was a keen observer and analyst. He was 
 better or worse than that, namely, a seer." He generally 
 failed in all he had not comprehended at first sight, no 
 amount of after thought being able to supply this 
 deficiency of conception. How many things he was 
 able to comprehend at a single glance ! Conversing 
 with you, apparently absorbed in his work, he would, 
 in view of his own advantage, question you and listen 
 to your response ; though, even when he had not 
 apparently listened, and had been seemingly pre- 
 occupied, he would retire, having imbibed all the 
 knowledge he had wished to acquire, and would after- 
 wards astonish you in describing all that he had 
 silently gained. As I have already stated, he was 
 from youth upwards immersed in his work. He was 
 wont to confound with the world of reality that 
 little world which he partly depicted from exoteric 
 observation, and partly created in the recesses of his 
 own brain. He held converse with his own creations ; he 
 mentioned them frequently as intimate acquaintances. 
 He had created them in such verisimilitude, that, 
 having once brought them into being, they remained 
 for ever with him. 
 
 Balzac's real power requires defining ; it was that of 
 a copious nature, full of ideas, of types and of inventions, 
 ever creating, never wearied. It was that power he 
 possessed, and not the other, which is doubtless the truer 
 power — a power by virtue of which a writer system, 
 atizes his work, he meanwhile remaining superior to 
 his creations. It may be justly said that Balzac was 
 under the sway of his own work, and that his talent 
 £ 
 
66 DE BALZAC. 
 
 often rushed away with him, like the steeds of a four- 
 horsed chariot. I do not wish that every author shouhl 
 be precisely similar to Goethe, with his marble brow, 
 far above " the ardent cloud ; " nor do I concur with 
 Balzac, who has more than once in his writings ex- 
 pressed the opinion that an author should dive head- 
 foremost into his work, "like Curtius into the gulf." 
 Such phases of talent evince much fire and passion, but 
 frequently lack solid worth. 
 
 In order to illustrate Balzac's true literary theory, we 
 need only quote his own words ; for instance, if I take 
 Les Parents Pauvres, his last and most powerful novel, 
 published in this very journal,* I discover the author's 
 favourite ideas and secrets (if he ever fostered any) 
 in his description of the Polish artist, Wenceslas 
 Steinbock. According to what he writes : " A great 
 artiste is in these days a prince without a title ; he 
 has glory and riches before him ; but this glory cannot 
 be acquired either in playing or dreaming ; it is the 
 reward of obstinate labour and ardent concentration of 
 purpose. You have ideas in your brain ? Well, what 
 of that ! And so have I ideas. . . . What is the use 
 of having anything in your soul, if you do not put 
 it to account ? " That is what Balzac thought, and he 
 never spared himself hard work in the execution of 
 an idea. "To conceive," said he, "is to enjoy — it 
 is like smoJdng magic cigarettes; but unless you put 
 into execution that which you have conceived, your 
 conceptions evaporate into mere dreams." "Con- 
 stant work," he says again, "is the law of art, like 
 that of life— for art is idealized creation." Moreover, 
 the artiste, par excellence — the poet — does not wait for 
 orders or commands ; he produces to-day, to-morrow, 
 
 * Les Parents Pauvres appeared, first of all, as a serial In the 
 Constittdionnel. 
 
DE BALZAC, 67 
 
 always ; hence his habit of labour, hence the perpetual 
 knowledge of the difficulties he must undergo in order 
 to retain his intimate relationship with the Muse and 
 her creative powers. Canova lived in his studio, and 
 Voltaire in his study. Homer and Phidias must have 
 done likewise." I have expressly quoted this passage, 
 because, notwithstanding the praise he bestows on the 
 quality of industry, — an eulogium that does honour to 
 himself, — we still perceive the influence of the modern 
 spirit, the singular disregard with which Balzac for- 
 feited the very beauty that he professed to pursue. 
 Neither Homer nor Phidias lived thus in intimate 
 relationship with the Muse ; they always knew and 
 received her in her cljaste austerity. According to De 
 Bonald, "The Beautiful is always austere." These 
 words are like immoveable and sacred columns, that 
 I only wish to point out in the distance in order 
 that our admiration for a man of genius, and the 
 regretful homage we are extending to his memory, 
 may not induce us to overstep the confines of artistic 
 taste. 
 
 Balzac speaks again of those artistes who meet with 
 "an overwhelming success, in itself sufficient to crush 
 those whose shoulders are not strong enough to bear 
 it — a circumstance that often occurs." Indeed, there 
 remains a greater test for the writer than the battle he 
 has to fight sooner or later — that is, the day following 
 the victory. He must be endowed with real strength 
 to be able to bear all the glory, to be neither terrified 
 nor discouraged, so as not to sink under the blow, like 
 Leopold Robert. Balzac has proved that he possessed 
 this peculiar strength. He would often converse 
 pleasantly on the subject of glory. "I am well 
 acquainted with glory," he would say. " I was once 
 travelling with some friends in Russia. As night was 
 
68 DE BALZAC. 
 
 drawing near, we went to a castle to ask for shelter. 
 On our arrival, the hostess and her ladies hastened to 
 welcome us, one of the latter running immediately to 
 fetch some refreshments. In the meanwhile, the 
 conversation became animated. When the lady re- 
 turned, bearing them, she heard these words: 'Well, 
 M. de Balzac, you think, then, that' — She made a 
 movement of joyous surprise, and let the tray fall, 
 everything being broken to pieces. Is not that glory % " 
 Thus expatiating, he would make his listeners smile, 
 smiling himself the while, though he none the less 
 enjoyed the feeling of glory. It sustained him in his 
 work. The most intellectual of his followers, Charles 
 de Bernard, who has since died, did not possess this 
 incentive. In his epicurism, Bernard doubted every- 
 thing, and his remarkable works bear the stamp of his 
 peculiar cynicism. Through Balzac's very fervour, his 
 writing gained in warmth and animation, an exquisite 
 delicacy underlying his enthusiasm. The whole of 
 Europe was to him like a park, where he had only to 
 stroll to meet with friends, admirers, and sumptuous 
 hospitality. The little half- withered flower he would 
 show you, he had plucked the other morning, on his 
 return from the Villa Diodati ; the picture he would 
 describe to you he had seen yesterday in the palace of 
 a Roman prince. To him it appeared but a step from 
 one capital to another, from a villa in Rome, or from the 
 Isola-Bella, to a castle in Poland or Bohemia. With a 
 touch of his magic wand he had access to every spot ! 
 The Isola-Bella (The Beautiful Island) was not merely 
 a dream to him. That which had seemed to him for 
 years to be only a poetical illusion, was at last bestowed 
 upon him by one of those devoted women whom he 
 had idealized. 
 
 All the artists of the day were his friends, and he 
 
DE BALZAC. 69 
 
 has conferred on them a place of honour in his writings. 
 He was passionately fond of works of art, of painting, 
 sculpture, and antique furniture. When he found 
 leisure (and he frequently discovered means of obtaining 
 it, giving up his days to whatever pleased his fancy, 
 and his nights to work), he loved to hunt up the "fine 
 bits," as he called them. He had ferreted all the bric- 
 ^-brac shops in Europe, and would converse for the hour 
 about them. Therefore, the wonderful and dazzling 
 descriptions of china and furniture that we find in his 
 books, are life-like in their colouring — those descrip- 
 tions that from another pen would have appeared like 
 the mere imaginings of an artistic brain. His descrip- 
 tions are too lengthy, but the light and shade which 
 envelop them are generally true to art. The reader 
 feels affected, even when the result is not equal to the 
 trouble the author appears to have taken. Through 
 his gift of colour he charmed all painters ; they recog- 
 nised in him a confrlre^ who had mistaken his vocation 
 and gone astray in the paths of literature. He did not 
 appreciate the art of criticism ; he had made his way 
 in the world in spite of censure, and his genius was 
 not one that could be either guided or moderated. He 
 writes in relation to a sculptor, who had become idle 
 from mere discouragement : " Having again become 
 an artist in partibus, he met with much success in 
 society ; he was consulted by a number of amateurs, 
 and became a critic, like all the weak men, whose 
 debut promises more than they are able to perform." 
 This last trait may be true in relation to a sculptor 
 or painter, who, instead of working seriously, passes 
 his time in discussion and argument, but this idea 
 of Balzac's, that is continually being utilized by a 
 whole school of young writers, is both an error 
 and an injustice. But, as it is difficult to define 
 
70 DE BALZAC. 
 
 power and impotence, let us pass on to something 
 else. 
 
 Had Balzac been able to tolerate a sincere and intel- 
 ligent Aristarclius, such a guide would have been of 
 infinite use to him, considering how his luxuriant 
 nature, which lavished itself without restraint, required 
 control. 
 
 There are three points to be observed in the writing 
 of a novel — the characters, the action, the style. Balzac 
 excelled in the portrayal of his characters ; he imbues 
 them with life, he stamps them with indelibility. 
 Though they may be sometimes over-coloured, and at 
 other times just the reverse, they nevertheless always 
 possess some intrinsic worth. Through him we make 
 refined, charming, and jovial acquaintances, and some- 
 times others that are far from agreeable ; but in either 
 case we are certain not to forget one or the other. 
 Not content in merely well depicting his characters, 
 lie gives them singular and appropriate names, through 
 which they are grafted for ever on our memory. He 
 attached the greatest importance to the baptism of his 
 dramatis personce. According to Sterne, he attributed 
 a certain occult power to names in deference to either 
 ironical or descriptive nomenclature. The Marneffes, 
 the Bixious, the BirotteauXj the CrevelSj are thus named 
 by him, in virtue of some confused anomatopeia, by 
 which the man and his name resemble each other. 
 After the characters comes the action. On this point 
 Balzac is faulty ; his action often flags, digresses, and 
 becomes exaggerated. As to his style, it is delicate, 
 subtle, fluent, and essentially picturesque. I have 
 often wondered what effect a book of Balzac's would 
 produce on a mind nourished hitherto on ordinary 
 French prose, in its simple frugality — a class of mind 
 that no longer exists — a mind formed by the reading 
 
DE BALZAC. 71 
 
 of Nicole and Bourdaloue, whose homely and serious 
 Btyle " goes a long way," according to La Bruyfere. 
 
 This last- mentioned author has also said : " For all 
 thought there is but a single expression, and that is the 
 good one." In his writing, Balzac appears to ignore 
 this wise maxim of La Bruyere. He makes use of a 
 series of vivid and capricious expressions, that are 
 withal indefinite— one might almost call them attempted 
 expressions. His publishers knew it well. In the 
 printing of his books he would continually alter and 
 revise each proof. Metaphorically speaking, the mould 
 itself was perpetually bubbling, thereby preventing the 
 concretion of the metal ! Could not the most sympa- 
 thetic criticism — for instance, that of his friend and 
 associate, Louis Lambert — have guided him into the path 
 of sober ideas, not with a view of staying the torrent 
 of his genius, but rather to temper his mind with a few 
 axioms that I believe to be essential in all art and in 
 all literature ? 
 
 "Clearness is the varnish of the masters." — 
 Vauvenargues. 
 
 "A worl?: of art should only express that which 
 elevates the soul and pleases it in a noble manner. The 
 feeling of the artist should not overstep those limits — 
 it is wrong to venture beyond." — Bettina to Goethe's 
 mother. 
 
 "Common sense and genius are of the same lineage, 
 wit being only collateral." — Bonald. 
 
 I wish that he who so greatly admired Napoleon, 
 and whom his great examjDle dazzled, as he has dazzled 
 so many others, — I wish he had abandoned for ever 
 his senseless and puerile comparisons, and, if he found 
 it absolutely necessary to look for his ideal of power in 
 military life, he had put to himself the following 
 question — a question worthy of a good place in French 
 
72 DE BALZAC. 
 
 rhetoric : " Who is the grander of tlie two, an Eastern 
 conqueror leading on numberless hordes, or Turenne 
 defending the Rhine at the head of thirty thousand 
 men ? " But a man's nature cannot be altered by force, 
 and as death has closed the career of this great man, 
 let us, in all gratitude, accept the bounteous inheritance 
 of the talent that is no more. The author of Eugenie 
 Grandet is immortal. The father (I was about to say lover) 
 of Madame de Vieum^nil and Madame de Beaus^ant 
 will always retain his place on the most secret and 
 safe-guarded shelf of the boudoir. Those in search of 
 gaiety, mirth, and satirical humour, should not forget 
 the illustrious Gaudissarts^ the excellent Birotteaux, and 
 all their race. There is, in fact, pabulum for every 
 mind. 
 
 Were I not limited to the confines of this article, 
 I should like to discuss Balzac's last work, the which, 
 in my opinion, is one of the most remarkable of the 
 day, though not the most flattering to modern 
 society. Les Parents Fauvres (The Poor Relations) 
 shows us his vigorous genius in its maturity, giving 
 itself full scope. Human degradation has never before 
 been so completely exposed to view. The first part of 
 this novel (La Goudne Bette) abounds in characters 
 that are life-like, in conjunction with certain exaggera- 
 tions that the author appears incapable of avoiding. 
 To begin with, Bette, who gives her name to the 
 book, is one of these over-coloured types. This poor 
 creature, whom we perceive first of all as a simple 
 peasant of the Vosges, rough, badly clothed, and rather 
 envious, though really neither bad nor designing, hardly 
 see ma the same person who is suddenly transformed 
 into a woman of the world, nearly beautiful in 
 appearance, and infernal in her perverseness — a real 
 lago or female Richard the Third ! Such things do not 
 
DE BALZAC. 73 
 
 occur in real life — this creature belongs to the race 
 of the Ferragus and the Treize. Our corrupt ami 
 vicious society does not allow of such revengeful 
 hatred and cruelty. Certainly our sins are not small, 
 but, on the other hand, our crimes are not so great. 
 Other characters in the book are profoundly true, and 
 above all, that of the Baron Hulot, with his mad love 
 of women, which gradually brings him to utter ruin 
 and disgrace ; and Crevel, excellent in every way, in 
 his manner, deportment, and jokes — in fact, the very 
 incarnation of bourgeois vice, in all its vulgar pom- 
 posity. In this work we have no longer to do with 
 human whims and folly. Vice is the main-spring ; it 
 is social depravity which forms the principal matter 
 of the book. The author revels in this illustration 
 of sin, and at times his verve leads us to suppose he is 
 making sport of vice. There are a few pathetic scenes, 
 but the unhealthy ones predominate. The story is 
 full to overflowing with the sap of impurity ; those 
 infamous Marneffes seem to infect the whole book. 
 This remarkable novel, when well read and digested, 
 would lead to reflections, not merely in relation to 
 Balzac, but in relation to all of us writers — children, 
 partly mysterious or openly avowed, of a sensual 
 literature. Some (true sons of Bene) have hidden 
 or rather veiled their sensuality under the form 
 of mysticism, while others have publicly revealed 
 theirs. 
 
 Though Balzac was an ardent admirer of Walter 
 Scott, of whom Lamartine poetically exclaimed, — 
 
 "The noble sentiments arising from the pages, 
 Like so many perfumes from the odorous sands," — 
 
 he failed to take to heart the example of the Nortliern 
 Masician. He failed to inhale his universal charm 
 
74 DE BALZAC. 
 
 of purity and health — those salubrious breezes which 
 penetrate even through the conflict of human 
 passion. 
 
 After reading Les Parents Pmivres, one feels in- 
 clined to plunge into the perusal of some healthy 
 book, to throw oneself into Milton's " pellucid streams." 
 Were this a less incomplete work, and I at liberty to 
 give full scope to my thoughts, I might draw a lengthy 
 comparison between Balzac's talent and that of his 
 most celebrated contemporaries —Madame Sand, Eugene 
 Sue, and Alexandre Dumas. With an equally low 
 opinion of human nature, Merimee might be taken as 
 a contrast to Balzac, as regards his style and general 
 treatment of a subject. He is a man of taste and 
 accurate judgment, who, even when exaggerating an 
 idea, evinces a certain discretion and reticence in its 
 treatment, and was as keenly sensitive of ridicule as 
 Balzac was deficient in that particular susceptibility. 
 Much as we admire Merim^e's vigorous manner, we 
 cannot refrain from regretting the entire absence in 
 him of that enthusiasm which Balzac possessed in 
 excess. George Sand, needless to say, is a grander and 
 surer writer than Balzac ; she never experiments in her 
 mode of expression. She is a great painter of nature, 
 and especially of landscapes. As a novelist, she is 
 good in the original conception of her characters, but 
 they rapidly drift towards a certain ideal of the 
 Eousseau school — an ideal that becomes nearly 
 systematic. Her dramatis personcB do not live through- 
 out the book ; at a certain moment they become merely 
 lay figures. She never traduces nor embellishes 
 human nature ; she endeavours to idealize it, but in 
 60 doing, distends her characters out of all reasonable 
 proportion. She attacks society in the abstract, but at 
 the same time emphasizes the merits of the individual. 
 
DE BALZAC, 75 
 
 In a word, the masterful power she exhibits in her 
 descriptions is not to be found in the creation of her 
 characters. As to her style, it is of the first quality. 
 Eugfene Sue is perhaps equal to Balzac in invention and 
 fertility of imagination. He constructs grand plots ; 
 his characters are life-like, and deeply impress the 
 reader ; while he is strong in dramatic construction. 
 His details, however, are sometimes weak. They are 
 numerous and varied, but are not characterized by 
 that originality and delicacy of touch we perceive in 
 Balzac. Sue endows some of his characters with a 
 certain humour, though he occasionally degenerates 
 into affected eccentricity. Both -wTiters spurn pure and 
 healthy subjects, being prone to dissect that which is 
 corrupt and artificial. Sue is incapable of writing so 
 abundantly and subtlely as Balzac on subjects that 
 deal with sin. In fact. Sue was mistaken in not 
 entirely following the instincts of his own nature, 
 instead of consulting the modern system exemplified in 
 his last novels — a transgression of which Balzac was 
 never guilty. Balzac was at least faithful to his own 
 instincts and favourite inspirations. As to Dumas, 
 everybody knows his prodigious fervour, his easy 
 entrain, his happy construction, his witty and flowing 
 dialogue. Unlike Balzac, he covers immense canvases 
 without ever tiring his brush or his readers. Of the 
 three last- mentioned writers, Balzac may be considered 
 the most analytic. The revolution of February was a 
 blow to him. The entire structure of the refined 
 civilisation, such as he had always longed for, appeared to 
 be on the eve of giving way. For a moment he fancied 
 he would lose his ideal Europe and his ideal France. 
 He was, however, equal to the occasion, and meditated 
 describing the new society, now presented to him under 
 its fourth form. I might give the sketch of his last 
 
76 DE BALZAC, 
 
 planned work, whicli lie discussed witli such enthusiasm. 
 But wherefore speak of a mere dream? He is dead 
 of heart disease, a death frequent among the men of 
 these days, who exhaust their vitality by overwork. 
 Fr^d^ric Soulie, whom it would be unjust to forget 
 in grouping together the principal stars of modern 
 literature, died three years ago of the same disease. 
 Perhaps over the grave of one of the most versat- 
 ile of these writers, it is opportune to repeat that 
 this literature has formed its school and had its day. 
 We may think to-day that its strongest sap is ex- 
 hausted. But let it make a truce, let it rest for a time, 
 affording the opportunity to society of reposing after 
 its excesses, so that society may present new and 
 calmer pictures of itself to painters of a healthier 
 inspiration. Within these last years a strong com- 
 petition arose between the most powerful represent- 
 atives of this active, absorbing, and inflammatory 
 literature. The mode of publishing in magazines, that 
 obliged the writer to startle his reader in every new 
 chapter and arouse his curiosity, led to great ex- 
 aggerations in the colouring and effects of the novel, 
 a strain that could not be sustained much longer. In 
 admiring the intrinsic merit of these men, whose 
 talents were not stimulated by influences conducive 
 to a higher development, let us hope, in view of the 
 welfare of our future society, for the possession of 
 pictures none the less vast, but more peaceful and 
 comforting ; let us hope, too, for a calmer life for those 
 who depict them — a life with an inspiration equally as 
 fine as in the past, but milder, healthier, more natural 
 and serene. 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 
 1851. 
 
 No literature is richer in memoirs than the French 
 literature. The first memoirs we ever possessed, in our 
 language, were those of Villehardouin, written at the 
 end of the twelfth century. Our prose already then 
 evinced those simple, clear, and natural qualities 
 which it will undoubtedly always retain, with an 
 added tone of epic grandeur it has not for ever pre- 
 served. Villehardouin's work remains as the first 
 monument on the horizon. Afterwards comes a suc- 
 cession of capital historical pictures, drawn by witnesses 
 and contemporaries, Froissart, Comraynes, and many 
 others following. By a series of unbroken memorable 
 accounts, we thus arrive at the periods of Louis XIII. 
 and Louis XIV., periods abounding in these peculiar 
 kind of testimonies. The Memoirs of Cardinal de Retz 
 appeared to have attained the height of perfection as 
 regards interest, movement, moral analysis, and vivid 
 colouring. It seemed as if nothing could ever surpass 
 them. But then those of Saint - Simon appeared, 
 invested with such qualities of breadth, logic, expres- 
 sion, and colour, that they may be considered as the 
 most valuable collection of memoirs in existence. In 
 bringing them to a close, the author had the right of 
 
 7T 
 
78 THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 judging them as follows : — " I believe I miglit say tliat, 
 up till now, no memoirs have ever contained more 
 varied, more detailed, and more thoroughly tested 
 information ; nor have there ever existed any that 
 form a more instructive or curious collection." 
 
 These long ^femoirs, that were not completely pub- 
 lished until 1829-30, had for a long time been known 
 and discussed by historians and men of an inquiring 
 mind. Duclos and Marmontel continually made use 
 of them for their histories of the Eegency. In her 
 letters to Horace Walpole, Madame du Deffand made 
 frequent mention of Saint - Simon's Memoirs. The 
 Duke of Choiseul had lent her, by way of a great favour, 
 the manuscript deposited at the Foreign Office. She 
 frequently speaks of this work, and her impressions of 
 the book appear to vary in the course of reading. At 
 first she finds the Memoirs simply amusing, "although 
 the style is ahominable" she says, "and the portraits 
 badly done" — that is to say, roughly painted, and in 
 peculiar colours. But soon the feeling of truth gets 
 the better of her : she is overwhelmed ; she regrets 
 that Walpole is not with her to enjoy this incompar- 
 able book. "You would have infinite pleasure," she 
 writes, " unutterable pleasure ; he would take you out 
 of yourself." This is how the Memoirs affect all those 
 who read them with continuity ; they take you out of 
 yourself, and carry you back, whether you will or not, 
 into the midst of the living scenes they describe. The 
 existence of these Memoirs was a horror to the people 
 who knew that in this book they and theirs were 
 unmercifully treated and branded with letters of fire, 
 Voltaire, who had depicted the century of Louis XIV. 
 in a complimentary manner, with so much ability and 
 charm, and who was warned of the contradictions 
 which Saint-Simon's authority might one day raise up 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 79 
 
 against him, conceived the idea of refuting in part 
 these Memoirs. During his last visit to Paris, he was 
 planning this refutation. It seems to nie that, as 
 regards the century of Louis XIV., Voltaire was more 
 patriotic than veracious. Speaking of certain docu- 
 ments of and despatches from Charmillart in his 
 possession, and which afforded him information dis- 
 honourable to the ministry of 1701 to 1709, Voltaire 
 wrote to Marshal Noailles (1752): — "I have been 
 sufficiently prudent not to make use of them, being 
 more anxious to consider the glory and good of my 
 nation than to utter unpleasant truths." This point of 
 view differs greatly from that of Saint-Simon, of whom 
 it has been justly said that he was "as inquisitive as 
 Froissart, as penetrating as La Bruyere, and as vehement 
 as Alceste." 
 
 Saint-Simon was born in January 1 675. His father, 
 already old, had been a favourite of Louis XIIL, and 
 owed to this prince the possession of his fortune. 
 Brought up by a refined and virtuous mother, young 
 Saint-Simon exhibited at an early age an innate taste 
 for reading, and a particular liking for history. In 
 studying the historical memoirs that existed from the 
 time of Francis L, he conceived in his early youth the 
 idea of noting with his pen all he saw, that it might 
 be published after his death. He was determined to 
 keep his secret purpose to himself, and to preserve his 
 manuscript under lock and key to the end of his days. 
 This was an exceptional display of prudence in one so 
 young — a prudence which signalized his fitness for the 
 work he had undertaken. At nineteen years of age, 
 when in the army, he began his Memoirs, in July 1694. 
 From that time he was sedulous in his observation, and 
 ever diligent in putting on paper all the information 
 he gained. WHien afterwards, in seclusion, he gave 
 
8o THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 the finishing touches to his Memoirs, he consequently- 
 worked on the original notes he had daily inscribed. 
 It cannot therefore be alleged by those who desire to 
 depreciate the authenticity of the Memoirs, that he 
 compiled them long after the events, merely from 
 remembrances, which, being distant, would have been 
 necessarily blurred. 
 
 Saint-Simon's public and political life was simple, 
 and would hardly be worth mentioning were it not 
 for the fact of his having been an observer and a 
 historian. He entered the army at an early age, 
 retiring after a few campaigns, by reason of an in- 
 justice which had been done him. Married to the 
 daughter of the Marshal de Lorge, he frequented the 
 best circles, leading at the same time an extremely 
 virtuous life. On every occasion he displayed a great 
 eagerness to uphold the rights of the aristocracy, and 
 in their vindication became entangled in several con- 
 tests and lawsuits. His propensities, even in those 
 days, made him incur ridicule, and gave him a reputa- 
 tion for eccentricity. In spite of his virtue, Saint-Simon 
 was on terms of great intimacy with the future Eegent, 
 the Duke of Orleans. When this prince was pursued 
 by infamous accusations, he stood to the front on his 
 behalf, a circumstance which aiforded him the oppor- 
 tunity of exercising a real and active influence in the 
 first measures adopted by the Kegency. It may be 
 remarked, in the first steps he then took, he, for the 
 first and only time in his life, associated himself with 
 matters of a political character. He worked with 
 might and main for the restoration of the power of the 
 nobility, which, to him, more particularly comprised 
 the dukes and the peers. In deference to this object, 
 he endeavoured to diminish the powers of the law and 
 the rights of the Parliament, while labouring to tear 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. %i 
 
 the usurped rank from Louis XIV.'s bastards, who had 
 been made legitimate, and whom he looked upon with 
 the greatest abhorrence. Ultimately he held tempor- 
 arily an honorary embassy in Spain ; immediately after, 
 he retired from public life, dying in 1755, at the ripe 
 age of eighty years. 
 
 Touching one of these quarrels of etiquette and 
 prerogative raised by Saint-Simon, Louis XIV. could 
 not refrain from observing : " It was a strange thing 
 that since Monsieur de Saint - Simon had left the 
 service, he only thought of studying rank and bringing 
 actions against every one." Saint - Simon was un- 
 doubtedly possessed of the mania of differentiating 
 rank. Above all, he was passionately fond of observing 
 and dissecting character ; he was a great physiognomist, 
 added to which he could penetrate the mysteries of 
 any intrigue. He noted his knowledge and various 
 impressions in a vivid, ardent, and fanciful style, up to 
 tliat time unequalled by any other author in power of 
 expression. Chateaubriand remarked that "Saint- 
 Simon wrote d la Diahle for immortality." Saint-Simon 
 acted as the spy of his century, but Louis XIV. was 
 unconscious of his real function. What a formidable 
 spy he was, prowling on every side with a hungry 
 curiosity. " I examined every one with my eyes and ears" 
 he continually avows. The secret he is seeking, and 
 which he finally tears from the very bowels of the 
 earth, is exposed to our view in a language full of 
 animation, and nearly furious in its ardour. His 
 language palpitates with joy and anger, and we often 
 imagine that Moliere would have indulged in a like 
 manner of expression had he taken history as his 
 subject. 
 
 It is said that Saint-Simon was never able to perform 
 a useful part in the management of State affairs. I am 
 
 F 
 
82 THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 inclined to believe, tliis statement ; for he is too 
 incisive in his observation, too rebellious in his moral 
 impressions, and his genius is too impetuous, to allow 
 of his commanding political method and tact. A man 
 with his peculiar qualities is only fitted to notice, to 
 discover, and to criticise what others do. It was, 
 however, reserved to him to write all he knew, and 
 have it published for the benefit of posterity. 
 
 Monsieur de Noailles, a writer and confrhre whom I 
 greatly honour by reason of his serious mind and 
 elevated character, proclaimed himself as an adversary 
 of Saint- Simon. De Noailles, in his History of Madame 
 de Maintenon (vol. i. p. 285), has made accusations 
 against him I cannot endorse, considering the extremely 
 sAveeping character of his imputations. The historian 
 might in measure be excused, considering the fact that 
 it was natural he should indulge in a spirit of retaliation, 
 having regard to the spiteful and injurious manner 
 with which Saint-Simon spoke of his ancestor, Marshal 
 de Noailles, in relation to Madame de Maintenon. 
 These are family quarrels that we cannot enter into. 
 If, however, the historian professes to have expressed 
 an impartial and historical opinion, worthy of his 
 judgment, may I be allowed to suggest that he has 
 not rendered to Saint-Simon the justice this great 
 observer and writer deserves in so many ways, par- 
 ticularly as regards his sincerity^ his uprightness, 'and 
 his love of truth, all of which are made manifest in 
 defiance of his errors and his hatred. He never fails 
 to exhibit a certain honest, manly courage, even in his 
 excesses. 
 
 In history there are two ways of considering events 
 and people. One is to estimate them as they appear 
 on the surface, in their specious and proper arrange- 
 ment, in their more or less grave and noble behaviour. 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 83 
 
 This is an easy view, wlien it is the question of an age 
 such as tliat of Louis XIV. — an age over which there 
 presided so much decorum. It is from this point 
 of view that Voltaire himself, M. de Bausset, F^nelon, 
 and the historian Bossuet, and many others, have written 
 respecting this illustrious reign. The great moralist 
 La Eochefoucauld has defined the gravity of certain 
 individuals as "a mystery of the body invented to 
 conceal the defects of the mind." Indeed, most peojile 
 who possess this apparent solemnity have every reason 
 for dreading a familiar contact ; they are in fear of 
 being sounded, so to speak, in their weak points. It is 
 thus with certain periods. Towards its decline the 
 reign of Louis XIV. was in great need of this special 
 gravity and ceremony, in order to protect itself from 
 over-penetrating minds. These minds, after choosing 
 tlie characters they are about to portray, do not 
 hesitate to sound them to their very depths and piti- 
 lessly unmask them. It is the moralist and painter 
 of human nature, rather than the so-called histoiian, 
 who possesses the art of disrobing people and exhibiting 
 them in their true light. Though differing in their 
 form of expression, Moliere, Cervantes, Shakespeare, 
 and Tacitus, all possessed this insight into human 
 nature. Saint - Simon was a moralist as well as a 
 historian, and it is this admixture of the qualities of 
 both which constituted his originality. 
 
 In his Memoirs, Saint-Simon begins by asking himself 
 with a grave sincerity whether it is allowable to write 
 and to read history, more especially the history of his 
 day. In order to understand his peculiar scruples, we 
 must remember he was pious and devotional — often 
 seeking retreat at the monastery of the Trappists, in 
 the intervals between his quarrels and his slanders. 
 He knew full well how utterly inconsistent with 
 
84 THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON, 
 
 charity were tlie views he took of human nature. " Is 
 not an innocent ignorance," he would ask himself, 
 " preferable to a knowledge so alien to charity ? " But 
 he responds boldly to his own question, and in realizing 
 that the Holy Ghost Himself had condescended to 
 inspire the first writers of history, he persuaded him- 
 self, with much ingenuity, that the Holy Ghost would 
 approve of what he was undertaking, and that it was 
 permitted to him as a writer not to remain in a blinded 
 and duped condition in the presence of wicked and 
 intriguing people. He thus explained his mission : 
 " The wicked, who have already so many advantages 
 over the good, would have a yet greater triumph if 
 the good were not able to discern and consequently 
 to avoid the wicked. . . . Charity, which imposes so 
 many laws, could not, however, impose the law of not 
 seeing men and things as they really are." He there- 
 fore pursues his particular vocation, believing that, 
 in so doing, he is not guilty of any great sin. In 
 his Introduction he gives a full definition of history, 
 according to his conception, and concludes with a moral 
 obvious to any truly religious person ; he remarks that, 
 if the multitude of individuals who are the actors in 
 history, " had been able to perceive in the future the 
 result of their efforts, of their vigilance, and of their 
 intrigues, nearly all of them would have stopped short 
 at the beginning of their career. They would have 
 forsaken their opinions and most cherished pretensions," 
 and realized that here below all is emptiness and 
 vanity. 
 
 Did Saint-Simon, in his furious animosity against 
 those he pursued, fulfil all he promised to himself? 
 Was he able to withstand passions that were irrecon- 
 cilable with the austere principle of charity as defined 
 by him? Did he write with a sense of true justice? 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 85 
 
 No — certainly not. Nevertheless, on finishing his 
 Introduction, one should immediately read the four or 
 five pages which terminate his last volume under the 
 title of Conclusion. In these pages he boldly j ustifies 
 himself, while at the same time he evinces a sincere re- 
 pentance for any injustice he may have committed. He 
 eacrificed everything to truth, and exclaims : " It is this 
 very love of Truth that has been so injurious to ray 
 good fortune. I have often felt it was so, but I have 
 preferred truth to everything, and could never stoop 
 to deception ; I may say, I have even cherished truth 
 against my own interests." However, in spite of his 
 holding his head so high on the subject of truth, he 
 admits that he has not been entirely impartial ; his 
 strong feelings overbalance his judgment. "We are 
 delighted," he says, "with straightforward and true 
 people ; we are annoyed with the knaves with which 
 the Court is infested ; we are even more disgusted with 
 those who have done us some injury." " Stoicism is a 
 beautiful and noble chimera. It were useless priding 
 myself on being impartial." Praise and censure pro- 
 ceed from his heart according as Saint-Simon is affected. 
 In short, his only aim in what he writes is to put truth 
 even before feeling, save here and there, where his own 
 nature is at fault ; he wishes the very essence of his Memoirs 
 to testify the sincerity and truth of the book in its 
 entirety. In this we perceive Saint-Simon's integrity 
 of purpose, and, save the restrictions we have just made 
 in relation to the historian's invincible antipathies, all 
 his writings are consistent with the spirit of an honest 
 man. What, in fact, does he say in speaking of his 
 father whom he has just lost? After describing him 
 in an elevated tone, tinctured by a true filial affection, 
 he does not hesitate to exhibit his parent at a certain 
 period of his life as offering his services to Louis XIII., 
 
86 THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 witli a view to convey a somewhat dishonourable 
 message to Mademoiselle d'Hauteville — an offer which 
 was repudiated by the king, and for which the monarch 
 called him to order. Apart from this, the portrait of 
 his father is one of extreme grandeur. He, however, 
 over-colours the picture in representing his sire with all 
 the qualities of some grand feudal lord ; he exaggerates 
 in saying the blood of Charlemagne runs in his father's 
 veins. But we admire this very illusion, for the sake of 
 the dignified filial affection it displays. The pages 
 where he describes this aged man, faithful to the very 
 last to the memory of Louis XIII., exhale a real elo- 
 quence of heart, and testify to a nobility of race. He 
 pictures his venerable father attending regularly every 
 year at St. Denis, on 14th May, the annual funeral 
 service of the deceased monarch ; he depicts his fathers 
 indignation at finding himself at last alone at the tomb 
 of the departed ruler. Saint-Simon, the son of this 
 favourite of Louis XIIL, had a grand idea of the nobility 
 — an idea in accordance with our primitive independ- 
 ence. Strange as it may appear, after Eichelieu, and 
 under Louis XIV., Saint-Simon would have liked the 
 nobility to be invested with legislative power in the 
 State, such as that order possessed in the time of Clovis 
 and Pepin. 
 
 Saint-Simon's first descriptions relate to his cam- 
 paigns. He begins with the siege of Namur (1692). 
 His first pictures are full of life and freshness ; he then 
 portrays the monastery of Marlaigne, near Namur, with 
 its adjoining hermitages, and the beautiful scenery, in 
 a style far more graphic than we are accustomed to find 
 in the reign of Louis XIV. 
 
 The historian cannot refrain from discussing every- 
 thing that is presented to his gaze, and from presenting 
 all he contemplates. His Captain Maupertuis and his 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON, 87 
 
 friend Coesqnen are sketched in a few felicitous touches, 
 and in the person of the former he already begins to 
 criticise and demolish the importance of those he 
 describes. Indeed, nearly all these great people, when 
 scrutinized more closely (I am even speaking as regards 
 the peerage), seem most inferior beings. Saint-Simon's 
 curiosity is not thoroughly aroused until just before the 
 marriage of his friend, the Duke of Chartres, the future 
 Eegent, with one of the bastard daughters of Louis XIV. 
 "For several days I had noticed something (touching 
 this marriage), and as I imagined there would be some 
 interesting scenes, my curiosity rendered me extremely 
 vigilant." Saint-Simon drafts with a master-stroke the 
 various scenes that took place at the time of this marriage. 
 He shows us Louis XIV., in his inexorable majesty, over- 
 awing his whole family ; he describes the weakness of the 
 young prince, who, in spite of his first resolution, finally 
 agrees to everything ; he gives us a presentment of 
 his mother, the haughty German woman, who finds she 
 is obliged to consent to the alliance, striding rapidly 
 up and down the gallery of Versailles, and "gesticulating 
 with all the fury of Ceres after the rape of her daughter 
 Proserpine ; " he does not forget either to mention the 
 vigorous box on the ears she inflicts on her son before 
 the whole court, at the moment when he comes to kiss 
 her hand. In these descriptions we see the painter in 
 the full s^ving of his genius. The Princes of Lorraine, 
 used as infamous tools towards persuading the Duke of 
 Chartres to acquiesce in this marriage, are qualified in 
 merciless terms. Saint-Simon does not belong to those 
 discreet writers of the French school, those slaves of the 
 court, who, before expressing an opinion, ascertain 
 whether it be universally held. He has the frankness 
 of the primitive Gaul — in fact, of the ancient Franks. 
 Somebody has said of the historian, that when he writes 
 
88 THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 badly and uses forced expressions, he uses the language 
 of one of the early Barbarians. No ; Saint-Simon, even 
 then, is no other in reality than the last comer among 
 the conquerors. In every page of his book there is 
 scene after scene, and the characters seem to breathe 
 before your very eyes. The Duke du Maine marries. 
 Monsieur de Montchevreuil, who had been the Duke's 
 tutor, remains with him as gentleman of the chambers. 
 " Montchevreuil," says the author, " was an extremely 
 worthy and unpretentious, but very dull man ; his wife, 
 who was a Boucher-D'Orsay, was a big, thin, sallow- 
 looking creature, who had a silly laugh, and showed 
 much of her large, ugly teeth ; she was pious beyond 
 measure, and comported herself with great correctness. 
 She only required the traditional wand to become a 
 perfect fairy. In spite of her utter lack of mind, she 
 had so captivated Madame de Maintenon, that," etc. 
 The Memoirs are all written in this style. The 
 dramatis personce seem literally to converse with us. 
 One person, as in the world of reality, follows upon 
 another, and we have enough to do to make our way 
 through this great crowd of individuals. We have 
 hardly time to breathe in the presence of this ceaseless 
 comedy. Saint-Simon excels in detail as well as in 
 the general grouping of his characters. 
 
 His history might be likened to a fresco of Eubens, 
 which has been boldly painted without any regard to 
 previous careful drawing, and in which the faces stand 
 out all the more vividly by reason of these dashing 
 strokes of the brush. His work is similar to a great 
 historical fair held in the gallery of Versailles. The 
 painter revels in his depictions, evincing, however, a 
 lack of artistic power in the management of his out- 
 lines. He is himself the first to acknowledge this 
 defect: "I was never an academical subject," he re- 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 89 
 
 marks ; " I have never been able to shake off the habit 
 of writing rapidly." If he had revised his work he 
 would have spoilt and crippled it ; he was right in 
 letting it remain as it was, vast and full of movement, 
 and somewhat extravagant in many ways. 
 
 There is much to select from in a painting of such 
 dimensions. I shall make choice of two vast scenes, 
 and point out a few of Saint-Simon's great qualities. 
 One of the scenes is the picture he gives us of the 
 Court at the time of the death of Monseigneur, son of 
 Louis XIV. The second is that which signalizes, in a 
 measure, the happiest day of the historian's life. It is 
 that of the Council which consummates the degrada- 
 tion of the Duke of Maine and the legal destruction of 
 the legitimated bastards. 
 
 In both these scenes Saint-Simon does not merely 
 play the part of an inquisitive man ; he has personal 
 interest in both. But in the first of these his individual 
 feeling keeps itself within bounds. He retains before 
 all else the capacity of painter and moralist, and does 
 not display, as in the second scene, his vices and his 
 excesses — I may even say, the ferocity of his vindictive 
 nature. 
 
 It is in the month of April of the year 1711. The 
 royal family has not yet lost any of its members, 
 when suddenly it is reported that the son of Louis 
 XIV., Monseigneur, a stout man of about fifty years of 
 age, who in the order of nature appeared destined 
 very shortly to occupy the throne, has fallen dangerously 
 ill at Meudon. At this news, all the ambitions, fears, 
 and hopes of the courtiers are aroused. Saint-Simon is 
 truthful, and here he proves by his admissions, that if 
 needful he can cherish truth, though he does so against 
 his own interests. He was on bad terms with Mon- 
 seigneur and with his followers ; therefore the sudden 
 
90 THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 news of the prince's dangerous condition was most 
 agreeable to tlie historian. This he confesses without 
 hypocrisy : " I passed the day," he says, " in inward 
 conflict, my Christian feelings struggling against those 
 of the man and the courtier," But, in spite of all his 
 efforts, his nature gets the better of him, and he abandons 
 himself to hopes of a smiling future. Saint-Simon was 
 on very good terms with the little Court of the Duke of 
 Burgundy, who, on his father's — the Monseigneur's — 
 death, would be on the eve of ascending the throne. While 
 Monseigneur was dying at Meudon, " the Court at Ver- 
 sailles," remarked Saint-Simon, "presented quite a 
 different scene. The Duke and Duchess of Burgundy 
 were openly holding Court there, and this Court re- 
 sembled the first daivn of day." During five days every 
 one is in suspense — a suspense that Saint-Simon fully 
 describes. At last, Monseigneur, who appeared to be 
 recovering, has a relapse, and dies. As soon as the 
 Court hears he is dying, the courtiers flock towards the 
 Duchess of Burgundy, to worship the rising sun. At 
 this point Saint-Simon draws a picture which surpasses 
 all that can be imagined as regards sagacity and genius 
 in the portrayal of human nature. At the very first 
 rumour of Monseigneur's relapse and approaching death, 
 Saint-Simon hastens to the Duchess of Burgundy, and 
 finds all Versailles assembled there,— the ladies in 
 undress, the doors open, and everything in confusion. 
 He seizes with eagerness the most splendid opportunity 
 he has ever found, of reading at first sight the faces of 
 these actors : " This spectacle," he says, " absorbed all 
 the attention I could muster in the midst of the 
 different feelings that assailed my soul." In contem- 
 plating each countenance, he exercises his faculty of 
 moral dissection. He initiates his work by observing 
 the two sons of the dying man, then scrutinizes their 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 91 
 
 wives, and, by degrees, each who is interested in the 
 great event. 
 
 " All those present" he exclaims, with a joy he can 
 hardly suppress, ^^ expressed hy their faces what they 
 felt; it was only necessary to have eyes, without any 
 knowledge of the Court, to distinguish the interests depicted 
 on the different countenances, or the vacuity of those who 
 were uninterested; these individuals were perfectly calm, 
 while the others were affected with sorrow, or trying to pre- 
 serve a decent gravity to hide their relief and their joy " 
 
 In saying that it suffices to have eyes in order to 
 decipher the diverse interests written on the human 
 countenance, Saint-Simon seems to imagine everybody 
 is gifted with the same penetration as himself. He 
 appears to ignore the fact that penetration so pro- 
 minently developed is a gift, which happily has not 
 fallen to the lot of many of us. If every one could so 
 easily read the hearts of others, and see through their 
 hidden motives, all friendship, good understanding, and 
 social intercourse would for the most part perish. Such 
 a gift is not easy to manage with discretion ; it is diffi- 
 cult to refrain from its abuse. Solomon has said in 
 his Proverbs, "As in water face answereth to face, 
 so the heart of man to man." But it is difficult to 
 follow the mandates of wisdom, when one can fathom 
 so well the souls of other men. It is hard, even if one 
 does not prostitute this power from interested motives, 
 to refrain from frequently hating and despising others, 
 and from showing one's antipathies and feelings. The 
 fault, and in part the glory, of Saint-Simon as a writer 
 consisted in the indulgence of his fiery and flaming 
 passions, incited by his gift of second sight. 
 
 He finds, then, great pleasure in contemplating this 
 crowd assembled at Versailles, and again confesses his 
 own feelings in relation to the decease of Monseigneur. 
 
92 THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 As only the news of his relapse and not his death had 
 already spread, Saint-Simon was not perfectly reassured. 
 " I feared, in spite of myself," he remarked, " that the 
 invalid might possibly recover, and I was extremely 
 ashamed of this fear." Every man has had moments 
 in his life when his own thoughts have made him 
 blush. Saint-Simon knows it well, and proves it in 
 relation to himself. Having made his own confession, 
 he unhesitatingly enters upon a sort of universal 
 dissection of souls. We might liken him in the midst 
 of this bewildered crowd to a wolf in the sheepfold. 
 
 At a certain hour of the night, when positive news 
 of Monseigneur's death has arrived, Saint-Simon shows 
 us, in this great gallery at Versailles, a vast scene, the 
 apparent confusion of which conceals a sort of arrange- 
 ment of the various figures. 
 
 At the end of the gallery, in an open salon, sit the 
 two princes, sons of the deceased, the Duke of Bur- 
 gundy and the Duke of Berry, each with his princess 
 at his side. They are seated on a sofa near an open 
 window, with their backs towards the gallery. " Every 
 one is in confusion, and those ladies in most familiar 
 intercourse with the Court are sitting at the feet of 
 their friends." "The grouping is mirrored; you see 
 the picture." 
 
 Then follows the description of the apartments in the 
 gallery. At the other side in the jirst rooms — that is 
 to say, in those the farthest from the drawing-room of 
 the princes — stand the valets, who cannot withhold their 
 groans in their despair at losing so vulgar a master — a 
 master "so exactly made for them." Among these 
 disconsolate valets there are others who are more 
 circumspect, and who have been ordered by their 
 masters to watch this moving scene, — the valets, these 
 Figaros of the period, hastening to hear the news, 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 93 
 
 " and who demonstrated by their mien what shops they 
 swept" 
 
 Then after the valets came the courtiers of every 
 description. " The majority — that is to say, the fools — 
 drew sighs from their heel% and, with eyes wild and 
 tearless, praised Monseigneur, but always uttered the 
 same j)raise, that of goodness." After the fools we have 
 those who are keener ; there are even some sincerely 
 grieved and shocked. Again, there are the politic — 
 thoughtful, and reflecting by themselves over the con- 
 sequences of such an event ; and others who assume 
 great gravity and formality in order to conceal their 
 lack of grief. They are fearful of betraying themselves 
 by too free a manner. 
 
 ^^But in the expression of their eyes they afford com- 
 pensation for the lack of external agitation. In spite of their 
 efforts, they can be distinguished from the rest of the courtiers; 
 they shift their position, as if uncomfortably seated or stand- 
 ing in an uneasy position ; they appear to avoid each other's 
 glances ; a certain indefinable freedom, a certain sparkle, 
 seems to pervade their whole person, in spite of their attempts 
 at assuming a rigid demeanour." 
 
 After having exhausted with a subtle curiosity, and 
 described with a surpassing eloquence, the various 
 attitudes of those assembled at Versailles, Saint-Simon 
 returns to his two princes and princesses in the large 
 salon. There he studies their countenances, which he 
 delineates in the finest and most precise shades. We 
 might liken him to a Hippocrates at the bedside of a 
 dying man, studying every symptom, every twitching of 
 the face, and delivering his opinion of the disease with 
 all the authority of a master. But in this case Hippo- 
 crates cannot keep cool ; he gives vent to the sense of 
 joy and feeling of satisfied curiosity ; he exclaims in the 
 midst of this multitude of objects,^ 
 
94 THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 " It is one of the greatest delights at Court to those who 
 know how to enjoy such a pleasure^ to look around and 
 fathom the hearts of those about us. On such an occasion 
 as this, the first disturbance caused by the surprise to the 
 observed facilitates our insjyection ; we are astonished to 
 find lacking in some of the individuals qualities for which 
 \m gave them credit, and in which they are deficient^ 
 probably for want of heart or mind; then, again, we dis- 
 cover in others more than we expected; all these discoveries 
 form a keen enjoyment.^' 
 
 Two or three comical incidents, such as the circum- 
 stance in relation to the arm of the/a^, sleeping porter, 
 which he suddenly stretches out near the sofa, and the 
 apparition of Madame in full court dress, weeping and 
 howling as loud as she can with grief, without knowing 
 why, are intermingled with the scenes of mourning, so 
 as to add a touch of brightness ; for Saint-Simon never 
 forgets to be true to nature. At last, towards the end 
 of this night, every one goes to bed, exhausted with 
 emotion, and those who are the saddest sleep the best ; 
 but the historian, still intoxicated with the pleasures 
 of moral dissection, does not sleep long. He arises at 
 seven in the morning. " But I must admit," he remarks, 
 " that such a wakefulness as this is sweet, and such an 
 awakening delicious." 
 
 The second scene that I recommend to those who 
 wish to revel in the picturesque genius and inexhaust- 
 ible passion of Saint-Simon, is the one describing the 
 Council of the Regency, in which the Duke of Maine 
 was disgraced (August 26th, 1718). Again the writer 
 cannot sleep for joy during the few nights preceding 
 this grand day, which shall relieve his smothered anger 
 and avenge him of so many insults. We must remember 
 that in this second scene, so replete with dramatic 
 interest, he is the counsellor and instigator. He has 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 95 
 
 wound up the machine ; he delights in watching it 
 gradually work, and strike the eyes of those who do not 
 expect the hlow, and he revels in their consternation. 
 In this description he is less disinterested than in the 
 scene relating to Monseigneur's death ; he shows too 
 visibly the gratification of his vindictive cruelty. Tlie 
 poor Duke of Maine and all his adherents are scourged 
 with the lash of his venom. When once Saint-Simon 
 falls furiously upon any individual, he does not release 
 his hold ; he tramples his victim under foot. One 
 should read the page in which Saint-Simon describes the 
 moment when, in the Council of the Kegency, the Duke 
 of Orleans declares his resolution of giving back to the 
 bastards of Louis XIV. the simple rank of peers. All the 
 machinations devised against these fallen favourites are 
 revealed. A gloom passes over the faces of the lookers- 
 on — of the Villars, the Tallards, the D'Estr(5es, and other 
 members of the Council. The varying shades of sadness 
 are graphically rendered. Saint-Simon, who pretends 
 to have no knowledge of the secret, and who restrains 
 his exultation within decent bounds, gives us a marvel- 
 lous picture of the nearly sensual intoxication of his joy. 
 
 " Thus constrained," he remarks, " I attentively studied 
 the faces of those around me ; immoveable as if nailed to 
 my seat, I was full of the keenest joy, and of the most 
 delightful restlessness. I revelled immoderately in the 
 enjoyment persistently longed for and at last realized; the 
 very captivity of my transports enforced me to a state of 
 anguish, hut this anguish filled me with a sense of volup- 
 tuousness which I never felt before or since this memorable 
 day. How inferior are the pleasures of the senses to those 
 of the mind, and how true it is that our ultimate satis- 
 faction is proportioned to the troubles we have undergone." 
 
 We already perceive in this presentment that the 
 author has not sufficient contix)l over his feelings, and 
 
96 THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON. 
 
 we should notice this defect the more were I to give 
 further quotations which exhibit the development of 
 this scheme of action. He is for ever experiencing 
 different emotions, and is never wearied of giving them 
 expression. In order to fully represent his feelings, he 
 unconsciously pushes language to its last limits. In 
 his hands it is like a steed who has run his race, and is 
 exhausted by the effort, his rider the while remaining 
 full of energy, and requiring the quadruped to perform 
 what he can no longer accomplish ; in fact, language 
 fails to convey to the fullest, Saint-Simon's super- 
 abundance of joy and passion. 
 
 Let us examine the remarkable jubilation we have 
 just witnessed, and let us boldly say : Such was the man 
 who utters no lie, who dissimulates not, who makes 
 liimself no better than he really is, and who betrays 
 with his own pen himself as well as others. With 
 passions so ardent and so persistent as those he confesses, 
 he must undoubtedly have often been mistaken, have 
 frequently exaggerated, and imagined what did not exist 
 Though he was unjust and rash in more than one 
 detailed statement, I do not think there is much extrava- 
 gance in his history when taken in its entirety. He had 
 the greatest abhorrence of servility and baseness, and he 
 had a horror of the slavery of man, arising in a too 
 mean devotion to his own narrow interests. He 
 deplored the ruin of the State caused by unbridled 
 selfishness ; in short, he hated what then constituted 
 the deeply-rooted corruption of Courts—a corruption 
 which has not ceased to be the greatest evil amongst 
 the communities of men. Imagine for a moment a 
 Saint-Simon no longer at Versailles, but in one of the 
 great modern assemblies, and ask yourself what he 
 would see there. 
 . Therefore, without pretending to warrant the truth 
 
THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON, 97 
 
 of the historian's opinion of such and such a person, 
 and taking into full consideration his sagacious and 
 nearly animal instinct,— an instinct which rarely 
 deceived him, — we can hardly say that in the main he 
 has either calumniated his century or mankind. If he 
 has slandered it, he has done so in a manner worthy of 
 Alceste, and with that degree of anger which is the 
 stimulant of potent souls and the sap which gives 
 colour to genius. 
 
 For all that, Saint-Simon was in the composition 
 of his ensemble not quite a superior writer. Though 
 possessing great qualities of mind and singular gifts, 
 he was unable to control and group the mass. He also 
 failed to give to his opinions that proportion and 
 harmony the possession of which banishes all appear- 
 ance of vanity or prejudice. He was, so to speak, 
 the victim of his own instincts. 
 
 If the length of this essay were not limited to a 
 certain number of pages, I might mention a hundred 
 curious and amusing things relating to Saint-Simon ; 
 ray readers would smile at his opinion of Voltaire, and 
 of everything in relation to law and literature ; they 
 would smile, too, at his aristocratic propensities. I 
 happen to know several rather amusing verses, in which 
 he is called "The Greffier of the Peers," "Little 
 Huzard of the Regent of France," and some other more 
 or less witty lines in relation to him. But when we 
 have but a short space for the treatment of a subject, 
 we can only dwell on its serious part. Saint-Simon 
 wished impossibilities for the nobility of his day — 
 this nobility already so greatly in subjection. Like 
 Boulainvilliers, he wished to reinvest it with its power, 
 splendour, and independence, and endow it with a 
 legitimate share of legislative and sovereign authority. 
 He forgot that the nobility, never of any great import- 
 
 Q 
 
98 THE MEMOIRS OF SAINT-SIMON, 
 
 ance in France, and at that time devoid of real basisj 
 was no longer more than a Court nobility ; he little 
 guessed that, in less than twenty-five years after his 
 death, the most chivalrous supporters of the Aristocracy 
 would be the first to change their idol, and become 
 adherents of the Eevolutions. He was indignant at the 
 sight of these servile courtiers — this race of the Villeroys, 
 the Dangeaux, and the D'Antins. He failed to foresee in 
 the near future the other extreme, which would have 
 equally grieved him ; he had no perception that 
 noblemen would become leaders in a democratic move- 
 ment — the Mirabeaux, the Fayettes, the Lameths, and 
 his very own descendant figuring as the most eccentric of 
 democrats. Nevertheless, though Saint-Simon appeared 
 too late to be able to render to the French nobility its 
 political and patrician influence (as our national con- 
 dition was no longer conducive to such a change), he 
 has, at least, given in his own person to the aristocracy, 
 the greatest and most vigorous writer it has ever 
 possessed. This member of the nobility, who was once 
 ridiculed, now ranks between Moliere and Bossuet as 
 one of the most glorious writers of France.* 
 
 * Since this I have written a longer account of Saint-Simon 
 on the same lines, to be used as an introduction to the correct 
 edition of the Memoirs^ published by Cheruel (Hachette 
 Library), 
 
CAMILLE DESMOULINS.* 
 1850. 
 
 After discoursing on the language of the age of Louis 
 XIV., as represented in. its flower and elegance by the 
 most charming pupil of Madame de Maintenon, and 
 after having discussed the literary style of the eighteenth 
 century in its fulness and vigour, with Jean-Jacques 
 Kousseau as its most brilliant exponent, I have decided 
 on writing on the subject of the manner of literary 
 expression appertaining to the period of the Eevolution, 
 and associating with these comments reflections upon 
 Camilla Desmoulins, who may be looked upon as 
 the most talented writer in that department to which 
 he devoted his efforts. In the above, we have three 
 periods all opposed to each other. By comparing 
 them, our thoughts dwell long on what consists in 
 perfection, progress, and corruption, evolved during 
 these times. 
 
 One of my honoured fellow - critics has out- 
 stripped me in the Journal des D^batsf in speaking 
 
 * Biography/ of Camille Desmoulins. By M. Edward 
 Fleury. 
 
 f Article by M. Cuvillier Fleury, commenced in the Journal 
 des Dibats of the 3rd November, and completed in the numbers 
 of the 24th November and Ist December. 
 
100 CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 of Camille Desmoulins, but he has not said his 
 last word on this subject. I regret having to 
 express here my ideas before being able to profit by- 
 all of his. Moreover, my views are restricted, and, 
 without actually avoiding the political side of the 
 question, I shall confine myself as much as possible to 
 all that concerns taste and language. 
 
 Camille, in his last work, entitled Tke Old 
 Cordelier J was bold enough during the time of the 
 Revolution to utter the words of peace, in spite of the 
 fact that up to that date he had been himself an 
 anarchist. In this utterance he aroused the furious 
 anger of the tyrants, and a bloody sacrifice ensued, 
 the result being his consecration in history as martyr 
 of humanity. We always think of him in this supreme 
 attitude. Nevertheless, if we wish to study him in the 
 capacity of a man and writer, and not to bow down to 
 him as to an idol, it is necessary to examine him at the 
 beginning of his career, and in his successive actions 
 and writings. During his imprisonment, Desmoulins 
 wrote thus to his wife : " My justification lies complete 
 in my eight republican volumes. It is an easy pillow 
 on which my conscience slumbers while I await the 
 decision of the Court of Justice and posterity." Poor 
 Camille had strange illusions in reference to the 
 revolutionary tribunals, and even as regards posterity. 
 The Study which Monsieur Fleury has just published, 
 and the numerous extracts this writer has taken from 
 Camille Desmoulins' papers and pamphlets, from 1789 
 to 1793, hardly conduce to gain him honour and great- 
 ness in the eyes of posterity — I mean, in the eyes of 
 sensible people, under every administration, and in all 
 times. I wished to see the text with my own eyes, so 
 have lying before me on my writing-table the eight 
 volumes of the Revolutions of France and Brabant^ 
 
CAMILLE DESMVUL7NS. Joi 
 
 a journal published by Camille from December 1789 
 to the end of the year 1791. These volumes, on which 
 he declared he could rest and fall asleep with so much 
 confidence, make, I must admit, an extremely bad 
 pillow. I have also the greater portion of his pamph- 
 lets and smaller compositions. After glancing over 
 them, my impression remains the same as when I had 
 finished reading M. Fleury's extract, and is, in fact, if 
 anything, worse. 
 
 I cannot, however, be oblivious of Camille Desmoulins' 
 last written utterance. Strange to say, he finished well 
 after beginning badly. Those in prison in December 
 1793, and in January 1794, often spoke, after their 
 deliverance, of the wonderful impression they received 
 when reading the first numbers oi The Old Cordelier. Six 
 months before Thermidor, this pamphlet appeared like 
 . the first sunbeam struggling through the prison-bars. 
 The man who procured for his persecuted though 
 innocent fellow-men such a gleam of hope, and who 
 ultimately paid for this noble deed with his head, 
 deserves to have much forgiven him. But let us 
 immediately add, he stood in great need of forgiveness. 
 
 Camille Desmoulins was born in 1760, at Guise, in 
 Picardy. His father was lieutenant-general in the 
 bailiwick of this town. Camille was sent to Louis-le- 
 Grand College, where he was a companion of Robes- 
 pierre. One of Camille's relatives obtained him a 
 scholarship, to which he did honour. His literary and 
 classical studies appear to have been both excellent and 
 varied, and his knowledge of antiquity as great as 
 could be found in those days in a well-informed pupil 
 of the university. His revolutionary style is inter- 
 larded with quotations from Tacitus and Cicero, and 
 other Latin authors. He adapts these quotations to 
 existing circumstances, with a touch of gaiety and 
 
102 CAAtlLLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 parody. This is one of liis peculiarities. It seems 
 strange that a writer who professed before all else to 
 address the people, should have thus written Latin at 
 random, and constantly have indulged in allusions 
 only to be understood by those who had gone through 
 a course of sound learning. 
 
 In one of the first numbers of his journal {The 
 Revolutions of France and Brahant), he felt compelled 
 to justify himself on this point : — 
 
 " My dear reader, I heg of you to pardon me for making 
 tise of quotations, I am not oblivious to the fact of its 
 being considered pedantic in the eyes of many people ; but 
 I have a weakness for the Greeks and the Romans. It 
 seems to me that nothing elucidates the ideas of an author 
 so well as comparisons and illustrations. These additional 
 touches in my Journal are like so many wood-cuts with 
 which I embellish my periodical paper. As to the sentences 
 I quote from ancient irriters, convinced of the great sense 
 contained in the following Tnaxim of the Community of 
 Bunglers, ^ Nihil sub sole novum' (^Nothing new under 
 the sun'') — plagiarism on plagiarism, — I thought it as 
 well to be the echo of Homer, Cicero, and Plutarch, as to be 
 that of the clubs and coffee-houses, which resorts I greatly 
 esteem." 
 
 Indeed, he had a great liking for coffee-houses, and 
 he curiously blends the style and tone of these places 
 with his quotations from Tacitus and other ancient 
 authors. Speaking, in one of his first writings, of the 
 Cafe Procope, near the district of the Cordeliers, he 
 says, in allusion to the witty men who frequented it 
 in the eighteenth century : " Nobody can enter there 
 without experiencing the religious feeling by reason of 
 which Pindar s house was preserved from the flames. 
 It is true we have no longer the pleasure of hearing 
 there Piron, Voltaire, etc." Piron and Pindar I This 
 
CAMILLE DESMOULINS, 103 
 
 association of the names of two such different men is 
 essentially characteristic of Camille Desmoulins. He 
 enters a coffee-house with a religious feeling, and he 
 would willingly make fun of the gospel. 
 
 Desmoulins became a member of the Bar. Being 
 briefless, he was consequently free in 1789, and ready 
 to play the part of an agitator, a pamphleteer, and 
 journalist. From the very first he took up these occupa- 
 tions with such ardour and energy, that they appeared 
 to have been always his true vocation. He began by 
 ^v^iting odes and poems ; he has been accused of com- 
 posing verses in honour of Brienne and Lamoignon. 
 Here, however, are some lines of a lay he admits 
 having written, and in which he celebrates Necker at 
 the time of the opening of the States-General. This 
 verse is written in a tone equally solemn as The Ode 
 to Namur and the poems of Jean-Baptiste Kousseau : — 
 
 " JVhat do I hear '^ What shouts of joy resound on 
 every side ? Wlience comes this sudden edasy of the 
 children and the aged men? Necher descends the 
 mountain; reason alone accompanies him; in him the 
 people hope still. Holy laws, laws for ever lasting! 
 In his hands he holds the two tables ! He is about to 
 overthrow the golden calf." 
 
 The " mountain " Necker descended was supposed to 
 represent Mount Sinai, and was not as yet the famous 
 mountain where we shall soon perceive Desmoulins. 
 Sunday, the 12th of July 1789, two days before the 
 capture of the Bastille, it was Desmoulins who mounted 
 a table in the Palais-Royal, and announced to the 
 Parisians the dismissal of Necker. Then followed that 
 well-known scene, in which he drew his sword, showed 
 his pistols, and hoisted a cockade as a sign of hope and 
 freedom. He was not, however, a born orator ; his 
 personal appearance was far from agreeable, and he was 
 
104 CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 Hesitating in his speech ; he was only an orator on that 
 particular day. But he soon became and remained a 
 long time one of the brightest, maddest, and most 
 skilful writers of the democratic and anarchical party. 
 He was the first instigator of the Ee volution ; he 
 continued to be its promoter, pressing forward the 
 chariot down the rapid slope, until the day when he 
 suddenly resolved to turn round and order fhe wheel 
 to be locked. His orders were not heeded, and he was 
 dashed to pieces beneath the chariot which he had 
 originally impelled. 
 
 The first two pamphlets that appeared before his 
 journal are Free France and The Speech of the Lantern to 
 the Parisians. Free France is a purely republican and 
 democratic pamphlet. When we have taken into con- 
 sideration the agitation of those times, and the excite- 
 ment which seemed to turn every head, we do not even 
 then feel in a proper frame of mind for reading Camille 
 Desmoulins' first pamphlet ; we do not as yet feel as 
 if we had attained its level (style of the times), for 
 many portions of this pamphlet are not only foolish 
 but atrocious. For instance, in speaking of the defeat 
 of the enemies of the public welfare, he says : — 
 
 " They are compelled to crave pardon on their knees. 
 Maury has been kicked out by his landlord; D''Espr^menil 
 has been even hooted by his lackeys ; the Keeper of the Great 
 Seal has been disgraced in the midst of the populace; the 
 Archbishop of Paris has been stoned; a Condi, a Conti, a 
 jyArtois have been publicly consigned to the infernal gods. 
 Patriotism spreads daily with the rapidity of a great fire. 
 Young men are fired with enthusiasm ; the aged men for 
 the first time fail to regret the days gone by ; they blush for 
 them:' 
 
 This final stroke is worthy of a writer, but the rest 
 is only worthy of a revolutionary instigator. Again, 
 
CAMILLE DESMOULINS, 105 
 
 what are we to say of the following, addressed to those 
 who were not content with the pure zeal of a dis- 
 interested patriotism, but who needed a more 'powerful 
 motive of action? — ^^ Never will richer 'prey have been 
 offered to the vanquishers. Forty thousand palaces, Jwtels, 
 .castles, — two-fifths of the property of France for distribution^ 
 — will he the prize of valour. Those who -pretend to he our 
 conquerors will he conquered in their turn. The nation 
 will he purged, and the foreigners, the had citizens, all 
 those who give precedence to their ovm interest before the 
 public good, will be exterminated." 
 
 It is true that immediately afterwards Camille adds : 
 " But let us turn from these horrors." Nevertheless, 
 he thinks so little of this last exhortation, that in one 
 part of his pamphlet he lingers with satisfaction over 
 the summary execution of the unfortunate Launay, 
 Flesselles, Foulon, and Berthier. " What a lesson for 
 their equals," he exclaims, " in the fact of the Surveyor 
 of Paris meeting the head of his father-in-law at the 
 end of a broomstick, and, an hour afterwards, his own 
 head, or rather the shreds of his head, at the end of a 
 spear ! " 
 
 I will leave out further odious particulars. Do not 
 for one moment believe, my readers, that the description 
 of these blood-curdling details is in any way repulsive 
 to him, nor that the feeling of humanity which is 
 aroused in him too late, evinces here the least sign of 
 existence. He makes a point of adding : — " But the 
 liorror of their crime surpasses the horror of their 
 punishment." In another passage he praises the hasty 
 lawful proceedings taken by the " Savetier de Messine," 
 that man " eaten up with the zeal of public welfare," 
 who himself made a point of executing in the evening, 
 with the help of an air-gun, the guilty creatures whom 
 he and his workmen had privately condemned during 
 
io6 CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 tlie day. Can we liave the courage, in such a pamphlet, 
 to notice the presence of a certain fiery talent, of 
 something peculiarly adapted to win over unreflecting 
 men ? 
 
 The second pamphlet, Th^ Discourse of the Lantern to 
 the Parisians, in which Camille justifies himself for 
 having taken the nickname of " Attorney- General of 
 the Lantern," is a production of the same delirious 
 order. We might justly ask what is Camille's lantern. 
 Whether it is the simple lantern of Sosius or Diogenes, 
 of which he himself speaks at the end of his Claim 
 in favour of the Marquis of Saint- Huruge (1789) : "As 
 for me, gentlemen, nothing can prevent my following 
 you with my lantern to lighten your footsteps. When 
 80 many men are striving to pass motions in the 
 National Assembly, Diogenes will not alone remain 
 idle ; he will roll his tub into the town of Corinth." 
 Or is it not rather a question of the other terrible 
 lantern, with its broken glass, and from behind which 
 one threatens to seize all the passers who are displeasing. 
 Undoubtedly, it is of this lantern that Desmoulins 
 speaks ; it is this lantern which he holds and playfully 
 dances before the eyes of his adversaries ; it is witli 
 this lantern that he toys in the manner of a " spoilt 
 child," as Eobespierre said, and — as we should say — in 
 the manner of an insolent, careless, and cruel urchin, 
 whose knowledge of good and evil comes to him later on 
 by fits and starts, and who ultimately perishes by what 
 he has wantonly sported with. In reading the nonsense, 
 the invective, and the buff'oonish bravado of this public 
 insulter, who ultimately becomes humane, and finally 
 a victim, we feel inclined to continually exclaim : 
 " Nescia mens horainum fati sortisque futurae " (" Oh, 
 how ignorant is man of his own destiny, and of the 
 fate that awaits him to-morrow ! ") 
 
CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 107 
 
 In speaking in Tlie Lantern the day following the 
 night of the 4th of August, after bestowing much 
 praise on the Assembly and the Parisians, he says : — 
 
 "It is time I add just complaints to these eulogiums. 
 How many rascals have just escaped me ! Not that I 
 like too expeditious a justice ; you know that I showed 
 signs of displeasure at the time of Foulon's and Berthier's 
 execution ; twice I broke the fatal tape. I was strongly 
 convinced of the treason and misdeeds of these two 
 scoundrels, but the carpenter was too precipitate in 
 the matter. I should have liked an interrogatory." 
 
 You perceive the tone, the sportiveness, and the 
 fitness of this gaiety. Cruel and merciless child, when 
 will you attain manhood? when will you have the 
 ordinary feeling of humanity ? 
 
 This pamphlet, so execrable in its spirit and tendency, 
 certainly contains some exceedingly witty portions, 
 and real verve. Monsieur de Lally, in the middle of 
 the night of the 4th of August, when privileges were 
 being conferred on every side, was found in the act of 
 exclaiming, with an impulse of loyal sentimentality : 
 " Long live the King ! long live Louis XVI., restorer 
 of French Liberty ! " 
 
 " It was then two hours after midnight, and good Louis 
 XVI., doubtless in the arms of Morpheus, scarcely expected 
 this proclamation, nor to receive on rising a medal. Neither 
 did he imagine he would have to sing with all the Court 
 a troublesome Te Deum for all the good he had just been 
 doing. Monsieur de Lally, nothing is beautiful except 
 the true ! " 
 
 Monsieur Target having begun a speech to the king 
 with the following words, " Sire, we bring to the feet 
 of your Majesty," was interrupted by cries of " Down 
 with the feet ! " This same Target had demanded a 
 demurrer for the abolition of the fisheries right, and 
 
io8 CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 he received an address of thanks from the "eels of 
 Melun." Thereupon Camille exclaims: "Frenchmen, 
 you are still the same bright, amiable, and satirical 
 people. You air your grievances in the shape of 
 vaudevilles, and in the provinces you give your vote 
 to the tune of ' Marlborough.' " In his celebration of 
 the night of the 4th of August, Camille introduces a 
 kind of hymn, in which he commences by parodying 
 those of the Church, and ends by alluding to the 
 nocturnal revels of Venus : — 
 
 '■^Haec nox est . . . Frenchmen, it is to-night, not on 
 the Holy Sabbath, we have escaped from the miserable 
 bondage of Egypt. This night has exterminated the 
 wild boars, the rabbits, and all the game which devoured 
 our crops. This night has abolished the tithes and the 
 perquisites. This night has abolished the tributes and 
 dispensations. . . . The pope will no longer levy a tax on 
 the innocent caresses of two cousins. The lustful uncle "... 
 
 But here it becomes too loose in tone. He continues 
 this peculiar style throughout two pages : — 
 
 " Oh ! disastrous night, disastrous for the High Court 
 of Justice, the registrars, the attorneys, the secretaries, 
 undersecretaries, for the solicitous beauties, the porters, 
 valets, the lawyers, the creatures of the King, and for all 
 birds of prey ! Night disastrous for the Leeches of the 
 State, the Financiers, the Courtiers, the Cardinals, for the 
 Archbishops, the Abbots, the Canons, the Abbesses, the 
 Priors, and the Under-priors I But oh ! night most 
 delightful, o vere beata nox ! for thousands of young 
 Nuns, Bernardines, Benedictines, Visitandines, for they 
 will be visited." .... 
 
 Here we see Camille beginning to reveal his saturn- 
 alian tastes, his dream of a republic flowing with milk 
 and honey — this republic which he nearly inaugurated 
 the 12th of July in the Palais-Royal, and by which his 
 
CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 109 
 
 imagination was for ever affected. He desired Paris to 
 resemble Athens, and the free-thinkers of the Port-au- 
 BU to be as polite as the female grass-vendors of Piraeus ; 
 he wished to suppress the police, and to let the news- 
 vendors hawk the papers in the middle of the streets. 
 Entire freedom of action, or at least speech, was Camille's 
 eternal and only receipt for universal happiness. Even 
 in the Vieux Cordelier^ after he had evinced a sort of 
 repentance, he says : " I shall die with the opinion 
 that to render the Kepublic of France happy and 
 flourishing, a little ink and one guillotine would have 
 sufl&ced." Apparently he alludes to the guillotine of 
 Louis XVI. 
 
 Camille, the future writer of the Vieux Cordelier, 
 is perfect in his pamphlet of The Lantern as regards 
 drollery and natural talent. He strides over every 
 period, and couples names in a most astonishing 
 manner; for instance, that of Louis XVI. he links 
 v;ith the great emperor Theodosius ; that of Monsieur 
 Bailly, with the famous Theban, Epaminondas. He 
 is full of mad daring, facetious and irreverent fancies, 
 and unbridled boldness, blended here and there 
 with flashes of wit. He is carried away by the flow 
 of his own verbosity, and strings his words together 
 into a sort of Litany. This journalist was imbued 
 with some of the spirit of a Figaro and a Villon. He 
 is the Glerc de la Basoche perched on the table of a coffee- 
 house, and raised to the important position of a political 
 agitator. Have you ever seen those impudent urchins, 
 striding boldly along in front of a regimental band, 
 and who mimic the fifer and the drummer, and especi^ 
 ally the man with the big drum ? Camille Desmoulins 
 is the sham fifer of the Revolution, who makes merry 
 till the day when he learns, to his own cost, that we 
 cannot play with impunity with the tiger. I am told 
 
no CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 Monsieur MicKelet called him " a blackguard of genius. * 
 I think, after reading his Discourse of the Lantern, and 
 his Revolutions of France and of Brabant, it is quite 
 enough to call him a blackguard of verve and talent- 
 It would be only too easy to prove all this by giving 
 samples from his writings. I am boasting, though, when 
 I say too easy, for it would be difficult, and oftener 
 impossible, to quote from Desmoulins, by reason of the 
 coarseness and cynicism of his passages, even of those 
 pregnant of a certain degree of wit. I will not deny 
 that under his defiant and undisciplined imagination 
 he conceals a feeling of patriotic inspiration and a 
 sincere love of liberty and modern equality. Perhaps 
 in the storming of the old administration and in the 
 complete overthrow of the feudal Bastille, it was 
 necessary to have these foolhardy fifers, these lost 
 children, marching in advance of the pioneers of the 
 regiment ; but in reading Camille in these days, there 
 seems in every page an utter lack of common sense ; 
 it is only in the amusing passages that we can find 
 any trace of reasoning. We discover the indications 
 of a frenzied mind rather than those of a fervent heart. 
 It seems as if the writer had in his brain a burning 
 coal incessantly turning, and leaving him no rest, 
 
 Mirabeau, with his superior penetration, saw from 
 the very first the advantage he could reap by the 
 services of this zealous youth, and the necessity of not 
 making an enemy of him ; he took him to Versailles, 
 employed him as secretary for a fortnight, then watched 
 over hirn at a distance, and so impressed the young 
 man with the idea of his patron's genius, that later, 
 wlien completely emancipated and at the height of 
 his rebellion, Camille still respected the great tribune, 
 though he often poisoned his admiration with some 
 inevitable insult. "You know principles better than 
 
CAMILLE DESMOULINS. iii 
 
 I," said Mirabeau one day, in flattering him, "but I 
 know men better." * 
 
 Danton, like Mirabeau, influenced Camille, and kept 
 him in his power till the very last. In fact, the young 
 man was only an impetuous writer in the service of a 
 stronger brain. 
 
 In the Confederation of the sixteenth century there 
 were burlesque, buffoonish, and satirical preachers — the 
 democratic journalists of those days — avowed champions 
 of the "Seize," who advocated anarchy and rebellion 
 in the market-places and in the district of Saint- 
 Eustache. During the Eevolution, Camille Desmoulins 
 played the part of these preachers ; he resembles them 
 in his jokes, and is analogous to them in sprinkling 
 his discourse with Latin quotations, which he adapts 
 to the occasion, and converts into burlesque. 
 
 The Revolutions of France and of Brabant (1789-91) 
 are nothing but a long and continual insult to the 
 public powers that the first Constitution endeavoured 
 to establish or rather preserve, after regenerating them. 
 This work is nothing but a defamation, often of 
 the most slanderous description, of all the most 
 prominent men of the day, and whom Camille now 
 and then praised only to vilify all the more after- 
 wards. The degree of licence and invective in which 
 the writer of this journal indulges, surpasses all 
 imaginable bounds. The paper was published every 
 
 * We read as follows in the sixth secret note of Mirabeau to 
 the Court, dated the 1st July 1790 : — " As Desmoulins appears 
 to belong to the secret Council of the Jacobins, and as this man 
 is to be easily won ovei' by money, it will be possible to find out 
 more about the Confederation " (vol. ii. p. 68, of the Corre- 
 spondence between the Count Mirabeau and the Count de La 
 Marck, 1851). We cannot contest such a testimony as this. 
 Mirabeau knew Desmoulins thoroughly. 
 
112 CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 Saturday, with an engraving whicTi generally repre- 
 sented a caricature. The author, in accordance with 
 the title of "Revolutions of Brabant," alludes to the 
 revolutionary feeling which was commencing to make 
 itself manifest in the provinces of Belgium. He dwells 
 on all that is most likely to arouse the curiosity of the 
 French. " Every publication," he remarks in his pro- 
 spectus, " from the book in folio to the pamphlet ; all 
 the play-houses from Charles the Ninth's Theatre to the 
 Punch-and-Judy show ; every corporation, from the 
 Parliament to the Fraternities ; every citizen, from the 
 President of the National Assembly, who represents the 
 legislative power, to Monsieur Sanson, representative of 
 the executive jpower^ — all these, I say, will be submitted 
 to our weekly review." Sanson was the executioner. 
 Camille's jokes always contain some allusion to the 
 guillotine; he never ceases being the cruel, cunning 
 ape, amusing himself with pointing out in the distance 
 the edge of the sanguinary blade. The beginning of 
 the prospectus promises many things, and the writer 
 keeps his pledges fairly well. If we were merely to 
 consider this journal as a testimony of a distant past, 
 we could point out many striking portraits and many 
 amusing caricatures. Every time that the author feels 
 that his verve is on the wane, he revives it by pulling 
 to pieces the Abbe Maury or Mirabeau — Tonneau. He 
 is amusing as regards certain people, but in relation to 
 the majority of men I can find no apter expression than 
 by saying he is both odious and infamous. Other men 
 raised the actual scaffold for the execution of Bailly, 
 but nobody beforehand worked with a greater zeal 
 towards its erection, and no one was more successful in 
 preparing the implements of torture. Camille is the 
 true type of the generation who, on entering life, have 
 no respect for any individual or anything that has 
 
CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 113 
 
 preceded them. He said in his Free France : " Death 
 extinguishes instantly." " It is for us who exist, who 
 are now in possession of this Land, to make the laws 
 in our turn." In other words, as the people are never 
 in full possession of this Land, and never masters of an 
 open field, it is necessary to drive out those who 
 hesitate to abandon their rights and -position, and who 
 attempt to prevent the aggrandizement of the pro- 
 letariat. Camille devotes himself to what he deems the 
 necessary mission of driving out, and by mearft of his 
 journal devotes himself incessantly to his cynical 
 operations ; he cries down all the virtue, enlighten- 
 ment, and moderation existing in the Constituent 
 Assembly, and destroys this Assembly day by day, by 
 attacking its influential members and depreciating 
 all its works. 
 
 We cannot excuse him on the grounds of ignorance 
 or thoughtlessness. He knows full well what he is 
 doing ; he has the genius of a true journalist ; he justly 
 estimates the power of the implement he wields, which 
 in time, he says, nothing can resist. He inflames 
 men's opinions and men's passions in the way they best 
 like, and he boasts of being always six or even eighteen 
 months in advance of others in the advocacy of the public 
 cause. He has the instinctive knowledge of attack : in a 
 glance he guesses his adversaries' weak points, and all 
 means appear to him legitimate for the destruction of 
 the enemy. 
 
 On the occasion of the issue of the so-called Marc 
 d^ Argent decree, which imposed certain monetary con- 
 ditions in regard to eligibility for government ofiice, 
 Camille declares that this decree makes France an 
 aristocratic government, " and that the institution of this 
 decree is the greatest victory the lad citizens have ever 
 gained in the Assembly. In order to conceive the 
 H 
 
114 CAMILLE DESMOULINS, 
 
 absurdity of this decree, it is sufficient," he adds, "to 
 say Jean-Jacques Kousseau, Corneille, and Mably would 
 not have been eligible." According to his hateful 
 habit of disrespect as regards the creeds of others, he 
 abuses the clergy who have voted for the measure. 
 After loading them with insulting epithets, he says : 
 *' Do you not see that your own God would not have 
 been eligible % " He continues to bring in the name of 
 Jesus in his invective. Then, after positively declaring 
 his theory, which was subversive to all constitutional 
 power, he adds : " Every one is aware of my profound 
 respect for the holy decrees of the National Assembly ; 
 I am only speaking so freely of this decree because I 
 do not regard it as such." Among the edicts issued 
 by the Assembly, Camille chooses those that serve his 
 purpose, and considers the others as being of no account, 
 on the pretext that they have been voted by a majority 
 formed by the members of the clergy and nobility — 
 members more numerous in the Assembly than they 
 should have been. He goes on to ask what would have 
 happened if, on leaving the Assembly, the members 
 who had voted for the decree had been assailed by the 
 people, shouting: — "You have just cut us off from 
 society because you were the strongest in the Chamber ; 
 we, in our turn, cut you off from the number of the 
 living because we are the strongest in the street ; you 
 have killed us civilly, we kill you physically." It is 
 true that Camille adds, " if the people had picked up 
 stones, he would have opposed himself with might and 
 main against their act of stoning." It would be then 
 indeed time for him to interfere. Just as Camille 
 makes a distinction between decree and decree^ so he 
 distinguishes insurrection from stoning. It would be 
 difficult to differentiate the meaning of the two words. 
 The writer who professes this theory, immoral both 
 
CAMILLE DESMO ULINS. 1 1 $ 
 
 from a social and liiiman point of view, is the same who, 
 in his first number, gives lis Cicero's treatise on " The 
 Duties " as tine master'piece of common sense. Here is one 
 more inconsistency. 
 
 A few passages of a somewhat elevated tone, a few 
 pages (vide Number 4) such as would have been written 
 by Milton in the capacity of a pamphleteer, are not 
 sufficient to induce us to shut our eyes to all his hateful 
 theories, or to the insults with which Camille pursues 
 the men who are in fact the most worthy of being 
 honoured ; nor can we be oblivious to his detestable 
 views, even when we read the termination of a letter 
 addressed to his father {vide Number 7). At that time 
 lie accepted the r6le of public accuser and informer — a 
 rMe that he afterwards cursed in the very depths of his 
 heart. In a controversy with La Harpe, he does not 
 hesitate to say : — 
 
 " / am endeavouring to reinstate this word inculpation. 
 . . . Under existing circumstances^ v:e find it is necessary 
 this v)ord should he honoured, and we will not alloio M. 
 de La Harpe in his capacity of academician to abuse his 
 authority as a lexicographer, and banish a ivord because it 
 happens to displease Monsieur PanckoucheJ^ 
 
 These pitiable words should be placed in front of the 
 third number of The Old Cordelier, which fully atones 
 for them. 
 
 Andre Chenier had published, in August 1790, 
 Advice to the French as regards their Real Enemies. 
 In this work he strove, with the moderation and firm- 
 ness that characterize his noble pen, to draw the 
 boundary line between true patriotism and the false 
 enthusiasm which leads to destruction. He said : " The 
 National Assembly has committed faults, because it is 
 composed of men ; . . . but this Assembly is the last 
 anchor which sustains us and prevents our destruc- 
 
ii6 CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 tion." He rebuked in energetic and scorching words — 
 but without naming any one in particular — those false 
 friends of the lower orders, those men who, through 
 ostentation and violent demonstrations, gained the 
 confidence of the people in order to incite them to 
 rebellion ; he upbraided " the men to whom every law 
 is burdensome, every restraint insupportable, and all 
 government odious ; men for whom honesty means the 
 most trying of all yokes. They hate the old admini- 
 stration, not because it was bad, but from the very fact 
 of its being an administration." Camille did not fail 
 to recognise his own portrait in what Chenier wrote. 
 When attacking in his Number 41 the members of the 
 Society of 1789, who separated themselves from the 
 Club of the Jacobins, Desmoulins spoke of their mani- 
 festo as the work " of some unknown Andre Chenier," 
 but not he of the "Charles IX. Theatre." Among 
 Andr^ Chenier's letters we find the following in relation 
 to Camille : — 
 
 ^^ My friends have made me read Number 41 of the 
 Revolutions of France and Brabant. I had already 
 seen a few extracts from this journal — extracts in which 
 absurdities, often most atrocious, appeared to me to be 
 sometimes blended with fairly amusing fancies. Yet I 
 have been still more diverted in reading this Number 41, 
 in which the author profusely scatters his honourable in- 
 sults on the whole Society of '89, and on me in particular. 
 He quotes from my work all the severe names I have give^i 
 to the marplots, the calumniators, the corrupters, and 
 enemies of the people, and he imagines these names are 
 intended for him. He says : ' See how we are treated. 
 See what is said of us.^ In thus betraying the simplicity 
 of his conscience, he seems to me more amusing than in 
 anything I have ever seen emanating from his pen. If 
 you yourselves have read this Number 41, I am sure that, 
 
CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 117 
 
 like me^ you have smiled at the thought of a man recognising 
 his own portrait in a booh where no names are mentioned^ 
 and in which he finds general mention of a number of 
 authors who, by reason of their loritings, by reason of a 
 long succession of deeds fully proved, are treated as seditious 
 agitators, hungry marplots, and bloodthirsty men. I am 
 sure you must have smiled to find him openly declare that 
 he fully understood that all these insults were intended for 
 him. I must admit I was astonished at such stupidity on 
 the part of a man who is not supposed to be entirely devoid 
 of brains. I consulted my friends, and ashed them whether 
 they thought I was obliged to retaliate, and make him 
 blush for his folly and extraordinary injustice ; whether I 
 ought to destroy — as far as it lay in my power — the venom 
 ivhich overfioios in his last ivorh. They unanimously 
 observed that when an author distorts the meaning of what 
 he quotes, and accuses you of intentions never manifest, it 
 beseems a man of honour to remain silent, because it is 
 beneath his dignity to tahe up his pen against a writer to 
 whom one can only reply by giving him the lie ; to wish to 
 make such a man blush is simply a rash enterprise, and 
 beyond all human power. It is useless to endeavour to 
 discredit his discourse, because he is too well hnown to be 
 dangerous ; even among his so-called partisans he is merely 
 looked upon as a buffoon, who at times can be diverting 
 enough ; his friends despise him, and their contempt is even 
 greater than that of his enemies, for his friends know him 
 better. I yielded to these various reasons, fully appreciating 
 their force and truth." 
 
 This cutting retaliation of Chenier, this condem- 
 nation from the pen of an honourable man, is worth 
 appending to the eight volumes of the Revolutions 
 of France and Brabant as the ignoble brand significant 
 of their character. The fact that both Camille Des- 
 moulins and Andr6 Chenier were finally victims of the 
 
ii8 CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 Kevolution, is not in itself a sufficient reason to confound 
 the one with the other. Let us give each his due ; 
 let us avoid lowering in the public opinion the man 
 who in times of violence, cowardice, and frenzy, 
 belonged to the small number of men who never 
 swerved from their rule of duty. 
 
 The Eepublic, which had long been predicted by 
 Camille, at last made its appearance. The day following 
 the 10th of August, he and t)anton were raised, or 
 ^'■lioisted,^^ as he says, to the post of general secretary 
 in the Ministry of Justice. They quitted this post 
 together, and took up a corresponding position in the 
 Convention. As a pamphleteer he continues his 
 role of instigator. In his Brissot Unmasked, and more 
 especially in his History of the Brissotins, he brings 
 charges against the whole Gironde ; he makes a point 
 of showing that the men he insultingly calls Brissotins, 
 are conspirators, royalists, and instruments of intrigue 
 and venality. He remarks agreeably of Brissot : " I 
 am vexed with myself for having failed to realize 
 sooner that Brissot was the partition wall between 
 Orleans and La Fayette, — a wall like that between 
 Py ramus and Thisbe,— and through the crevices of 
 which the two factions have unintermittently communi- 
 cated with each other." It was with similar dainty 
 touches, scarcely suitable even for a theatrical paper, 
 that the senseless Camille gradually helped to deprave 
 the public opinion and secure victims for the guillo- 
 tine. He pointed out with supreme arrogance all the 
 factions that were then at war with each other, until 
 the day when the last vanquished were crushed at 
 the feet of his friends and his kindred. 
 
 "Danton, Robespierre, and Lindet — these deputies of 
 every department, these mountaineers of the Conven- 
 tion, this rock of the Eepublic — have at last triumphed. 
 
CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 119 
 
 icldUe the other men have been all vatiquished in their 
 turn; Maury the Royalist by Mounier-les-deux-Chambrcs ; 
 Mounier-les-deux Chanibres by Mirabeau-le-Veto-Absolu ; 
 Mirabeau-Ur Veto - Absolu by Barnave - le-Veto-Suspensif ; 
 Barnave-le-Veto-Suspensif by Brissot, who wished for no 
 othev veto but his own and that of his friends." 
 
 Camille believed himself to be one of the most solid 
 portions of this unbreakable rock, which apparently 
 exclaimed to the waves, " You shall come no farther ! " 
 
 The execution of the Girondins, in October '93, was 
 a great blow to him. It is said he nearly fainted on 
 hearing the sentence of their death, and exclaimed, 
 " It is I who have killed them ! " At last the feeling 
 of humanity triumphed, and, finding his new opinions 
 coincided with his party interests, he took up his 
 journalistic pen again, with a view to publishing (in 
 December '93) the first numbers of The Old Cordelier. 
 
 In reading this pamphlet, we require much deep 
 reflection to discover in it a regression to common sense 
 and ideas of moderation and justice. At first one 
 would imagine it were written under the direct inspir- 
 ation of Robespierre, considering the abundant praise 
 that is bestowed on this wicked and ambitious man, and 
 considering the emphatic way in which Desmoulins 
 extols his " sublime eloquence." In order that his new- 
 found moderation should be well received, Camille feels 
 more than ever the necessity of disguising it under 
 the red cap of liberty. He is not even ashamed of 
 calling Marat ^'divine." Two years previously he was 
 less polite to this demoniac. On one occasion, when at 
 .variance with him, Camille wrote thus : "/ti spite of 
 the insults, Marat, that you have thrown at me for the 
 last six months, I declare that as long as I see you acting 
 extravagantly on your revolutionary principles, I shall 
 persist in praising you, because I think we should defend 
 
120 CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 our liberty^ like the town of St. Malo, not only with ineUy 
 but with dogs" * 
 
 Marat is apparently treated with greater consider- 
 ation in The Old Cordelier ; but we can understand that 
 this consideration is merely due to politic reasons. In 
 the beginning of that work we see the man has gone 
 so far astray, that, in order to return to the right path, 
 he finds it absolutely necessary to again go through 
 all the mud and mire of the past. Neither can he 
 avoid revisiting the old scenes of bloodshed ; not only 
 does he commend Marat and Billaud-Varennes, but 
 several times he extols the guillotine of the 21st 
 January, and exclaims, in the tone of a hero : " I was 
 a revolutionist long before any of you ; indeed, I was 
 more — I was a brigand, and I glory in it." 
 
 The national delirium and disorder must have indeed 
 been great in those days for such words as these to have 
 been considered reasonable arid indicative of a return 
 tO' a milder form of thought. Everything is relative 
 in this world, and Camille, the anarchist of yesterday 
 in his struggle with the wretched Hebert, is the embo- 
 diment of the civilisation — in fact, the embodiment of 
 the social genius of his day. He is similar to Apollo 
 fighting against the serpent Python. Desmoulins must 
 have had much courage to remark, in the second 
 number of his paper, that Marat had reached the 
 apex of patriotism, and that beyond this point love 
 of country could go no further ; everything beyond 
 Marat being naught else but frenzy and exaggeration 
 — " deserts, savages, glaciers, and volcanoes." He per- 
 ceived, though late, that the revolution must have a 
 limit. 
 
 The third number of The Old Cordelier more fully 
 expresses Camille's ideas. Under the pretext of trans- 
 * Revolutions of France and Brabant, Number 76. 
 
I 
 
 CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 121 
 
 lating Tacitus, he draws a picture of the " suspects " of 
 the Kepublic, enumerating them as did the Latin 
 historian those wlio were suspected during the tyranny 
 of the Roman emperors. Beneath the cloak of raillery 
 he becomes seriously eloquent, and decidedly courageous. 
 In the fourth number he grows more explicit : " I think 
 quite differently from those who say that the ' Terror ' 
 should be considered as the order of the day. On the 
 contrary, I believe that our freedom would be consolid- 
 ated and Europe vanquished if you had a Committee 
 of Clemencij." The word is uttered ; he may endeavour 
 afterwards to enfeeble its meaning. The cry of 
 suffering hearts has responded to his words, but the 
 rage of the tyrants is not to be abated. 
 
 To Camille is due the honour of being the first to 
 exclaim to the group of oppressors and Terrorists on 
 the day of his separating himself from them : " No — 
 Liberty is not a nymph of the opera, nor a red cap, 
 nor a dirty shirt, nor rags. Liberty is happiness and 
 reason. . . . Do you wish me to recognise her, to fall 
 at her feet, and shed my blood for her ? Open the 
 prison-doors to the two hundred thousand citizens 
 whom you please to call ' suspects.' " Such utterances 
 as these, marked by the eloquence of a Tacitus, atone 
 for much, especially when expressed aloud and alone in 
 the midst of the stupid, insensible crowd. 
 
 The following numbers of his journal are neither 
 characterized by good taste nor sustained force. Even 
 had he possessed these qualities, he would still have felt 
 compelled to reproduce all the more in words the 
 picture of his riotous surroundings, more especially as 
 he was endeavouring for the first time to withdraw 
 from taking an active part in the doings of his fellows. 
 With the exception of a few eloquent and witty 
 passages, his Old Cordelier is similar in spirit to his 
 
122 CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 
 
 preceding works ; lie is incolierent, indecent, and 
 continually coupling together the most conflicting 
 images and names ; for instance, he mentions Moses in 
 the same breath as Eonsin, and calls the Saviour a Sans- 
 culotte ; while he expresses indignation at the masquer- 
 ade of the apostate Bishop Gobel ; in short, he makes 
 use in that work of all the slang of the day. His style 
 is slipshod, devoid of dignity, and lacking in self- 
 respect and respect for others — qualities peculiar to 
 every healthy soul. 
 
 As I have already said, Camille evinces in one part of 
 The Old Cordelier a touch of real eloquence ; it is in 
 Number 5, when he speaks of selling his life, and appears 
 ready to sacrifice it in the cause of humanity and 
 justice ; it is when, on addressing his colleagues of the 
 Convention, he exclaims : — " Oh, my fellow-workers, I 
 will say to you what Brutus said to Cicero, We have 
 too great a fear of death, exile, and 'poverty. — ' Nimium 
 timemus mortem et exilium et paupertatem.' Is this life 
 worth living at the expense of honour ? All of us have 
 reached the summit of the mountain of life. Nothing 
 remains to us but to descend it through a hundred vicissi- 
 tudes, that even the most obscure man cannot avoid. 
 This descent will not offer to our gaze any unknown land- 
 scapes. Any joys lue may yet discover in this descent were 
 offered to King Solomon in a manner a thousand times 
 more delightful than we can ever expect them to fall to our 
 lot. Yet in the midst of his seven hundred wives he spurned 
 all this furniture of happiness, exclaiming, ' Wherefore I 
 praised the dead which are already dead more than the living 
 which are yet alive. Yea, better is he than both they, which 
 hath not been, who hath not seen the evil work that is 
 done under the sun.' " 
 
 But even here we see that Camille cannot sustain his 
 elevated style. The idea of Solomon with his furniture 
 
CAMILLE DESMOULINS. 123 
 
 of happiness spoils the whole effect of his speech. Even 
 in the midst of his emotion, he cannot refrain from 
 exhibiting the wildly comical side of his imagination. 
 Camille is always the same. To the very last he 
 associates, as we have already seen, the names of 
 Pindarus and Piron, that of Corneille and Mathieu ; he 
 links together the name of the Palais-Royal — God 
 forgive me ! — and that of the gospel. I might quote the 
 ^next page in this Number 5 of The Old Cordelier, as 
 it is perhaps more irreproachable in its eloquence. He 
 commences with these words : " Let us occupy our- 
 selves, my colleagues, not in defending our life, like 
 so many invalids." This page is perhaps the only 
 really beautiful one in the work — a work which, appear- 
 ing as it did during one of the most disastrous crises of 
 a great nation, assuredly deserves to remain as a token 
 of generous repentance. But this work will never 
 be ranked among the writings that do honour to the 
 human mind. 
 
 A place of honour is only reserved for healthy works ; 
 for those devoid of these strange amalgamations which 
 represent unworthiness of thought and language ; for 
 those works in which patriotism and the feelings of 
 humanity exclude any kind of reference to blood- 
 thirsty men, and in which there figure no inappropriate 
 pleasantries. Again I say, a place of honour is only 
 reserved for those works that do not offend any one's 
 conscience or literary taste by the grotesque juxta- 
 position, for instance, of Loustalot and Marat, between 
 Tacitus and Machiavelli on the one hand, and Thrasy- 
 bulus and Brutus on the other hand. 
 
 What a longing we feel after reading these pages, 
 encrusted with mire and blood — pages which are the 
 living image of the disorder in the souls and morals of 
 those times, — what a need we experience of taking up 
 
124 CAMILLE DESMOULINS, 
 
 some wise book, where common sense predominates, and 
 in which the good language is but the reflection of a 
 delicate and honest soul, reared in habits of honour and 
 virtue. We exclaim, "Oh, for the style of honest 
 men — of men who have revered everything worthy of 
 respect ; whose innate feelings have ever been governed 
 by the principles of good taste ! Oh, for the polished, 
 pure, and moderate writers ! Oh, for Nicole's Essays ; 
 for Daguesseau writing the Life of his father ! Oh, 
 Vauvernargues ! oh, Pellison ! " 
 
 I have but one more word to say in relation to 
 Camille Desmoulins. He died on the scaffold the 5th 
 of April 1794. A week afterwards his young wife was 
 sacrificed in the same way. Camille, who had fallen in 
 love with this young Lucille, had married her on the 
 29th of December 1790. From among the sixty people, 
 deputies and journalists, who signed his marriage 
 contract, there remained on December 1793 (at the 
 time he began The Old Cordelier) but "two friends," 
 Danton ^nd Eobespierre. All the others had by this 
 time emigrated, or were imprisoned or executed. He 
 had five witnesses at his marriage — Petion, Brissot, 
 Sillery, Mercier, and the ever dear Eobespierre. These 
 five witnesses dined with the young bride and bride- 
 groom on their wedding-day. We know what ulti- 
 mately became of the five men. All of them excepting 
 Mercier — who only escaped death by imprisonment — 
 perished by a violent death, in consequence of the deed 
 of the other guest, the dear Monsieur Eobespierre. 
 The hyena had entered the sheepfold, and out of the 
 inveterate instinct of his cruel nature, had strangled all 
 he found. 
 
DIDEROT.* 
 
 1851. 
 
 The latest studies in relation to Diderot are all alike 
 in their tendency. They accord him his proper rank 
 in literature without exemplifying any undue disap- 
 proval, anger, or enthusiasm. The marked qualities of 
 his genius, his character, and his rich intellectual nature, 
 are justly estimated in these criticisms, while his ex- 
 travagances are reproved and explained. In some 
 measure this explanation lessens the gravity of his faults. 
 M. Genin has shown us that certain passages of Diderot 
 expressing a positive atheism must have been written by 
 his impetuous editor, Neigeon, who took the liberty of 
 inserting his own comments in his master's manuscript. 
 In philosophically discussing Diderot's anti-religious 
 doctrines, Bersot endeavours to prove that this philo- 
 sopher was nearer a certain lofty conception of the 
 Deity than he himself believed. Indeed, it often 
 appears that he lacks but one ray of light with which 
 to enlighten all his thoughts. We might say of Diderot 
 what he himself remarked regarding a pastoral view at 
 Vernet, when twilight had darkened the landscape : 
 " Let us wait till to-morrow, when the sun will have risen." 
 
 * Study on Diderot, by M. Bersot, 1851. Woi'ks selected 
 from Diderot, with a notice by M. G6nin, 1847. 
 
 125 
 
 % 
 
126 DIDEROT. 
 
 Yet in spite of all we may sa}', we can never prove that 
 Diderot was an unconscious believer, nor even a dei&t^ 
 according to the true acceptation of the word. More- 
 over, a discussion on this particular point would be too 
 delicate and intricate for me to approach. But I shall 
 have much pleasure in expressing my opinions on 
 Diderot from a literary and moral point of view. 
 
 Diderot was born at Langres in 1713. Like EoUin's 
 parent, his father was a cutler. From his early child- 
 hood he possessed to a high degree the quality of family 
 affection — a quality he had inherited from his people, 
 for he came of a simple and worthy race. He was the 
 eldest child of the family ; he had a sister of an ex- 
 tremely original character, an excellent-hearted girl, 
 who would not marry, because she wished to remain at 
 home to attend to the needs of her father. She was 
 " lively, bright, active, and determined, easily offended, 
 slow in recovering her good-humour, and heedless of 
 the present and the future ; she would not allow her- 
 self to be imposed upon by anything or any one ; she 
 was free in her actions, and freer still in her speech — in 
 fact, a sort of female Diogenes" In this description we 
 can see in what way Diderot resembled his sister, and 
 where he differed from her. She was the branch which 
 remained in its wild and uncultured state ; he was the 
 bough that was grafted, cultivated, and full of blossom. 
 He had a brother to whom he bore no likeness in any 
 way ; this brother, possessed of a peculiar temperament, 
 was extremely sensitive and reserved, and rather odd 
 in mind and character. He was canon of the cathedral 
 at Langres, and was considered one of the most pious 
 men of the diocese. Proceeding from this strong 
 middle-class stock, but gifted by nature with the 
 addition of broad capacities, Diderot was first of all the 
 black-sheep of the family ; afterwards he became its 
 
DIDEROT. 127 
 
 glory. He began his studies with the Jesuits of his 
 native town, who woukl have liked to make him one of 
 their own ; then his father sent him to the College 
 d'Harcourt in Paris. On leaving school, he continued 
 living in Paris (1733-43). His life there was a hap- 
 hazardous one ; he tried any numher of professions 
 without actually deciding on one in particular ; he 
 accepted any work he could find, and continued to study 
 and eagerly devour every kind of literature. He gave 
 mathematical lessons, which he prepared on the road 
 as he sauntered along. In the summer-time he would 
 stroll through the Luxembourg Gardens "in a grey 
 fustian coat with torn cuffs, and black woollen stockings 
 darned at the back with white thread ; " then, with 
 that wild and ardent look which characterized him in 
 those days, he would enter the shop of Mdlle. Balbuti, 
 the pretty librarian of the Quai des Augustins — she 
 afterwards became Madame Greuze, — he would say, 
 " Mademoiselle, I require the Tales by La Fontaine, if 
 you please, or Petronius . . ." and so on. Here he 
 demonstrates a defective side of his character — a side 
 we shall too often have reason to discuss. In short, 
 before his marriage — a love-match he made at the age 
 of thirty — Diderot continued leading a too hap-hazard 
 existence. His genius — for one could not give another 
 name to such a breadth and power of diverse faculties 
 — was so well able to conform itself to his peculiar 
 mode of life, that we cannot believe he was fitted for 
 any other kind of existence. We are inclined to think 
 that in thus adapting his genius to a. variety of employ- 
 ments he followed his real vocation. His great work — 
 his, so to speak, individual work — was The Encyclopedia. 
 The librarians who had conceived the first idea of this 
 literary enterprise, instantly discoveretl, on interviewing 
 him, that they had found the man they required. They 
 
128 DIDEROT, 
 
 there and then decided on carrying out their vast pro- 
 ject. Diderot embraced the idea with so much zeal, 
 and presented the scheme in so brilliant a light, that 
 he succeeded in gaining the approval of the pious 
 Chancellor Daguesseau, who consented to confer his 
 patronage on the enterprise. Daguesseau was its first 
 patron. During more than twenty-five years (1748- 
 72) Diderot was firstly, with the assistance of 
 D'Alembert, and afterwards alone, the prop, the pillar, 
 and Atlas of this great enterprise. At times he seemed 
 to bend under the burden, yet for ever he retained his 
 smiling serenity. He was entrusted with the task of 
 writing the History of Philosophy, which, it is true, he 
 failed to discuss in an entirely original manner. He 
 also wrote the Description of the Mechanical Arts, in 
 which he perhaps evinced a greater originality. Three 
 to four thousand copper-plates were designed under 
 his supervision. However, the labour and responsibility 
 evolved by the entire direction of this vast enterprise 
 never succeeded^ in completely absorbing Diderot's 
 attention, nor in blunting the vivacity of his humour. 
 
 Towards the close of his life, he heaved a sigh of regret 
 on looking back at the past, and exclaimed, " In truth, 
 I know a great number of things, but nearly every 
 other man knows his particular trade much better than 
 I mine. This superficial acquaintance with every 
 branch of study is the consequence of my insatiable 
 curiosity and my want of money. My poverty has 
 always prevented my giving myself up to any special 
 section of human knowledge. All my life I have been 
 compelled to take up employments for which I was 
 unfitted, and abandon those for which I had a natural 
 inclination." I rather fancy he was mistaken in 
 speaking thus, and that this variety of occupations was 
 really in accordance with his own tastes. He has re- 
 
DIDEROT, 129 
 
 marked that, in the province of Langres, the changes of 
 the atmosphere are such that, in the course of twenty- 
 four hours, the weather is successively hot, cold, and 
 stormy, and he adds that it is but natural this change- 
 ability in the climate should influence the tempera- 
 ments of those who are subject to it. " From his earliest 
 childhood a Langrois is accustomed to turn with every 
 wind. The head of an inhabitant of Langres can be 
 only compared to a weathercock ; but, in spite of the vol- 
 atility of their desires, emotions, and ideas, the Langrois 
 are slow of speech. As for myself, / have the character- 
 istics of my country^ and it is only through living in the 
 capital, and through a constant attention of mind, that 
 I have been able in some measure to correct my faults. 
 I am constant in my tastes." I will allow he was con- 
 stant in his tastes, but he was certainly extremely 
 variable in his impressions. He admits this in looking 
 at his own portrait, painted by Michel Vanloo — a portrait 
 in which he could scarcely recognise himself. " My 
 children, I must inform you this is not myself. In one 
 day I wore a hundred different expressions of face, 
 according to how I was affected. I was calm, sad, 
 dreamy, tender, violent, passionate, and enthusiastic, 
 but I was never such as you see me there." He 
 adds — for it is necessary we should see him well from 
 the very first : — " I had a large forehead, very sparkling 
 eyes, somewhat coarse features, and quite the head 
 of an ancient orator ; I had a look of good-nature 
 which nearly approached an expression of stupidity — a 
 stupidity which verged on the clownishness of olden 
 times." 
 
 Let us therefore picture to ourselves Diderot as he 
 
 really was, according to the unanimous testimony of all 
 
 his contemporaries, and not as his artist friends, Michel 
 
 Vanloo and Greuze, have painted him. The latter painter 
 
 I 
 
1 30 DIDEROT, 
 
 made him resemble Marmontel, if we are to judge from 
 the engraving taken from his picture of Diderot. " His 
 large, open, and softly moulded forehead, bore," we are 
 told by Meister, " the impress of a vast, luminous, and 
 fertile mind." He adds that Lavater recognised in his 
 physiognomy the indications of a timid, unenterprising 
 character. Indeed, we have reason to believe that in 
 spite of his daring mind, his spring of action was some- 
 what weak. By the means of a little skill, one could do 
 what one liked with him. With all his sudden and 
 rapid eagerness, he lacked self-confidence. " His profile," 
 again remarks this same Meister, "was characterized 
 by a sublime and manly beauty ; the outline of his 
 upper eyelid was delicately curved ; his eyes habitually 
 expressed great sensitiveness and softness, but when 
 he grew excited they blazed with fire. His mouth 
 suggested an interesting mixture of subtlety, affability, 
 and good-nature." That is a picture of the man who 
 was not really himself until he became animated — a 
 circumstance which often occurred. Then his head 
 would assume an appearance " of nobleness, energy, and 
 dignity." All Diderot's contemporaries declare that 
 those who have only known him through his writings 
 have not known him at all.* He, who was so affable and 
 frank towards every one, shunned, however, fashionable 
 society. He was never able to accustom himself to the 
 salons of Madame Geoffrin, Madame du Deffand, Madame 
 
 * President de Brosses, in his letters from Paris, written in 
 i754, describes his meeting with Diderot, to whom he was intro- 
 duced by BuflFon : "I wished to become acquainted with thia 
 furiously metaphysical head." After he has seen him, he adds : 
 *' He is an extremely nice, amiable fellow ; he is a great philo- 
 sopher and arguer, but rambles greatly in his talk. Yesterday, 
 when he was in my room from nine to one o'clock, he digressed 
 at least twenty-five times from the main subject of his discourse. 
 Oh 1 Buffon is much clearer than all those kind of people." 
 
DIDEROT, 131 
 
 Necker, nor to those of any other fine ladies. He would 
 sometimes frequent tliem, but left them as soon as 
 possible. Madame d'Epinay, witli the help of Grimm, 
 succeeded, after much trouble, in inducing him to visit 
 her ; she deserved being successful, considering her 
 lively appreciation of the great author. " Four lines 
 from the pen of this man," she remarked, " make me 
 ponder more, and interest me more, than a complete 
 work by any of our so-called heaux-esprits" The Empress 
 of Russia, the great Catherine, succeeded also, by dint of 
 the superiority of her mind and the graciousness of her 
 manner, to tame the philosopher. As we know, he 
 visited her at Saint-Petersburg, and it is not sure 
 whether he did not sometimes treat her as a friend in 
 their long conversations. " Proceed," she would say, 
 when she saw him by chance hesitating before giving 
 utterance to some freedom of speech ; " between men all is 
 allowable." During the farewell evening he spent with 
 her, he commenced weeping bitterly; and on her address- 
 ing to him a few kind and friendly words, she nearly 
 followed his example. One had to get accustomed to his 
 natural outbursts. If he had not given way to them, he 
 would have appeared somewhat constrained. He was 
 only perfectly at his ease with his intimate friends. In 
 their society he gave full play to his rich, powerful, 
 imaginative, and ardent nature, fascinating all those 
 who listened to him. It was impossible to know him 
 without liking him. 
 
 It has been said of the Abh6 Morellet, who was a 
 strict observer of method and correctness, that even 
 when he walked, "he drew his shoulders forward, so 
 as to be nearer himself." This posture was quite the 
 reverse of that assumed by Diderot We picture him 
 open-chested, with his head forward, and his arms 
 stretched out, always ready, if you pleased him ever so 
 
132 DIDEROT. 
 
 little, to embrace you at first siglit. His attitude was 
 but the reflection of his mind. 
 
 If the ETicyclopedia was in Diderot's time considered 
 his principal social work, his principal glory in the 
 eyes of the men of to-day consists in his having been 
 the first to create the emotional and eloquent style 
 of criticism. It is through this that he has become 
 immortal, through this that he will be for ever dear to 
 us journalists of every sort and condition. Let us bow 
 down to him as our father, and as the founder of this 
 style of criticism. 
 
 Before Diderot's time, the French style of criticism 
 had been, firstly, as offered by Bayle, of a precise, 
 inquiring, and subtle tone. Fonelon represented criti- 
 cism as an elegant and delicate art, while Rollin 
 exhibited its most useful and honest side. From a due 
 sense of decency, I refrain from mentioning the names 
 of Freron and Des Fontaines. But nowhere yet had 
 criticism acquired anything like vividness, fertility, 
 and penetration ; it had not yet found its soul. Diderot 
 was the first to find it. Naturally inclined to look 
 over defects, and to admire good qualities, " I am more 
 affected," he remarked, " by the charms of virtue than 
 the deformity of vice ; I quietly turn away from the 
 wicked and Jly forward to meet the good. If there 
 happens to be a beautiful spot in a book, a character, 
 a picture, or a statue, it is there that I let my eyes rest ; 
 I can only see this beautiful spot, I can only remember 
 it, while the rest I nearly forget. What do I become 
 when everything is beautiful ! " This inclination to 
 welcome everything with enthusiasm — this sort of 
 universal admiration — undoubtedly had its danger. It 
 is said of him that he was singularly happy " in never 
 Imving encountered a wicked man nor a bad book." 
 For even if the book were bad, he would unconsciously 
 
DIDEROT, 133 
 
 impute to the author some of his own ideas. Like the 
 alchemist, he found gold in the melting-pot, from the 
 fact he had placed it there himself. However, it is to 
 him that all honour is due for having introduced 
 among us the fertile criticism of beauties, which he 
 substituted for that of defects. Chateaubriand himself, 
 in that portion of the Genius of Christianity in which 
 he eloquently discourses on literary criticism, only 
 follows the path opened by Diderot. 
 
 The Abb^ Arnaud said to Diderot : " You possess 
 the reverse of dramatic talent ; the dramatist must 
 transform himself into all characters ; you, on the con- 
 trary, transform them into yourself." Though Diderot 
 was in no wise a dramatic poet, though he was not 
 equal to this style of sovereign creation and impersonal 
 transformation, he possessed, on the other hand, to a 
 high degree, that faculty of semi-metamorphosis which 
 is the highest triumph of criticism, and which consists 
 in the critic putting himself in the place of the author, 
 and taking the latter's point of view of the subject — in 
 short, it consists in reading every work according to the 
 spirit that has indited it. He excelled in adopting 
 voluntarily, for a time, the mind of others. The spirit 
 of other men would inspire him to a greater degree 
 than they themselves had been inspired. Thus absorbed 
 in the writings of others, his heart as well as his brain 
 would become kindled with enthusiasm. He was the 
 great modern journalist of his day ; he was the Homer 
 of his genre, always intelligent, warm, expansive, and 
 eloquent. He was continually wrapped up in others, 
 and even if he were buried in the depths of his own 
 ideas, he would be always ready to welcome those of 
 other men. His mind was eminently hospitable, and 
 disposed to befriend every one and everything. In- 
 deed, he would give to all those he criticised, be they 
 
134 DIDEROT. 
 
 authors, speakers, or artists, a feast instead of a 
 lesson. 
 
 He shows the same "beneficence in his admirable 
 Salons de Peinture. One day, Grimm, who was send- 
 ing to several sovereigns of the North letters con- 
 taining news of literature and the fine arts, requested 
 Diderot to write him an account of the Salon of 1761. 
 Up to that time Diderot had discoursed on varied 
 questions, but had not yet made any particular study 
 of the heaux-arts. So as to satisfy the wish of his 
 friend, he bethought himself, for the first time, of 
 examining what he had till then merely glanced at, 
 without any deep reflection. The result of his observ- 
 ation and reflection was the creation of this work, con- 
 taining some marvellous causeries — a work which has 
 really created in France the criticism of the fine arts. 
 
 I know the objection usually raised against these 
 fine discourses on art, and which is more particularly 
 l)rovoked by Diderot's Salons. The objection is 
 that they are, so to speak, at the side of the subject ; 
 that they treat the subject from the literary and 
 dramatic point of view — the point of view most 
 acceptable to the French. Madame Necker wrote thus 
 to Diderot : " I continue to be infinitely amused by 
 the perusal of your Salons. I only care for painting in 
 the form of poetry, and it is thus that you have been 
 able to translate all the works, even those of the most 
 ordinary description, of our modern painters." Here 
 is an eulogium which, according to a few people of 
 taste, is the highest criticism. " In fact," say the 
 latter, "the peculiarity of the French is to judge 
 everything, even form and colour, with their mind. 
 As there is no language that can express the fine shades 
 of form, and the variety of effects of colour, we are 
 reduced, for the want of being able to express what we 
 
DIDEROT. "135 
 
 feel, to describing other sensations, wliich can be 
 understood by every one." Diderot incurs this re- 
 proach more than any other critic. He merely takes 
 the pictures he sees as a pretext or motive for those he 
 creates in his own imagination. Nearly every one of 
 his articles is divided into two sections ; in the first he 
 describes the picture placed before him ; in the second 
 he suggests his own. However, when such writers are, 
 like him, imbued with their subject, and impregnated 
 with vivid artistic feeling, they are useful as well as 
 interesting. They lead you on, they fix your attention, 
 and while you are following thera and listening to 
 them, your latent sense of form and colour is aroused 
 and quickened. From some mysterious cause that 
 words cannot define, you become in your turn a good 
 judge and connoisseur. From the very first we notice 
 how the literary instinct of Diderot predominates in 
 his criticism of the pictures. A painter has represented 
 the reception of Telemachus by Calypso. The young 
 hero is represented relating his adventures seated at 
 table, and Calypso is offering him a peach. Diderot 
 considers the presentation a stupidity^ and that Tele- 
 machus exhibits much more ability than either the 
 nymph or his painter, for the traveller continues to 
 relate his adventures without accepting the fruit. But 
 the critic remarks, if this peach were well offered, if 
 the light fell on it in a certain way, if the expression 
 of the nymph corresponded with the general effect, if, 
 in short, the painting were from the brush of a Titian 
 or a Veronese, this peach might have been a master- 
 piece, in spite of the stupidity suggested to our mind 
 l)y the offering. In a picture our ears have no function 
 to perform ; we are all eyes. The account of the 
 adventures of Telemachus we cannot hear, consequently 
 the fact of the offer of the peach interrupting the 
 
136 DIDEROT, 
 
 story of the speaker can be only a secondary con- 
 sideration. 
 
 In a great number of cases, though, Diderot gives 
 utterance to these just and striking remarks more as a 
 painter than a critic. For instance, in addressing M. 
 Vien, who has painted a Psyche, advancing with a 
 lamp in her hand to take the sleeping Cupid unawares, 
 he says : — 
 
 " Oh I what a lack of mind there is among our painters ; 
 what a small knowledge they possess of nature. Psyche^ s 
 head should hend towards Cupid, while the rest of her 
 body should be leaning backwards, in the position one 
 assumes when approaching a place one fears to enter, and 
 whence one is ready to fly, with one foot resting on the 
 ground, the other but lightly touching it. Should Psyche 
 let the light from her lamp fall on the eyes of Cupid ? 
 Ought she not rather to hold it away, and interpose her 
 hand so as to dim the brightness ? This would, moreover, 
 be the means of giving light and shade to the picture in an 
 extremely striking manner. The painter evidently does 
 not know that the eyelids are peculiarly transparent. 
 Seemingly, he has never seen a mother with a lamp in her 
 hand, looking during the night at her child in its cradle, 
 and fearing to awaken it.'^ 
 
 Diderot is especially instructive, even to painters, 
 in the article where he lays stress on the necessity of 
 observing unity in the composition, and harmony as 
 well as effect in the ensemble of a painting ; in a word, 
 he insists on the general conspiracy of movement. He 
 instinctively understands the secret of this vast unity, 
 and incessantly reiterates his advice in this respect. 
 He dwells on the importance of attending to the con- 
 cordance of tones and expressions ; to an appropriate 
 union of the accessory portions with the ensemble. 
 Touching Deshay's painting, which represents Saint- 
 
DIDEROT, 137 
 
 Benoit dying, and receiving the Holy Communion, 
 Diderot proves that if the artist had depicted the saint 
 a little nearer his last moments, "his arms slightly 
 stretched out, his head thrown back, with death on his 
 lips, and ecstasy on his countenance," he would, by 
 reason of this alteration, have been obliged to change 
 the expression of every face, and stamp each with the 
 impress of a greater commiseration and tenderer piety. 
 " Here we see a picture," he adds, " which demonstrates 
 to young beginners that in altering one part, one must 
 necessarily alter all the other portions of a painting \ 
 if not, the truth disappears. In these remarks is afforded 
 a disquisition on streiigth and unity." In all such 
 questions as now treated upon, Diderot is an able critic. 
 No art, under the pretext of technique, could escape his 
 general criticism. "It appears to me," he remarks, 
 " that when we take up our brush, we should be imbued 
 with some strong, ingenious, delicate, or striking idea, 
 and propose to ourselves the execution of a certain effect, 
 or the portrayal of a certain impression. . . . Few 
 artists have ideas, and yet there is scarcely a single 
 painter who can afford to do without them. . . . They 
 possess no resources, nor interesting ideas ; they display 
 no original subjects, nor any astounding mechanical 
 skill in their pictures." 
 
 When Diderot meets with this astounding mechanical 
 skillj without which the idea cannot after all subsist, 
 this superior power of execution, characteristic of every 
 great artist, he is the first to feel it, and describe it to us 
 in astounding and singular words, such words emanating 
 from an entirely new vocabulary, of which he is, so to 
 speak, the inventor. His style is replete with flashes of 
 inspiration. All Diderot's precious qualities have full 
 play in these flying leaves; they which are his surest 
 claim to posterity. They reveal his power of invention, 
 
138 DIDEROT, 
 
 his picturesque and lively imagination, Lis profound, 
 ingenious, and daring ideas, and his love of nature and 
 family life. In these Jlying leaves, he exhibits also his 
 innate materialism, his marked taste in treating of and 
 describing form, his conception of colour, of Jlesh, of 
 life and blood — a quality for which the colourists often 
 seek in vain, but which seemed to come to Diderot as 
 he wrote. 
 
 He surpasses himself every time he mentions Vernet 
 and Greuze. Greuze is Diderot's ideal as an artist. 
 This painter is a sincere and congenial delineator of 
 family life and dramatic scenes; pathetic and honest, 
 he is withal slightly material, though moral. When 
 Diderot discusses him, he interprets and explains him, 
 adding also much from his own imagination — in fact, he 
 sympathetically lingers over his works. " I am perhaps 
 somewhat tedious," he remarks, " but if you only knew 
 how much I amuse myself in wearying you ! I am like 
 all the other bores in the world." The analyses, or 
 rather the presentments that Diderot has given us of 
 " The Village Bride," " The Maiden weeping over her 
 Dead Bird," and " The Beloved Mother," etc., are master- 
 pieces ; they are little poems written on the subject of 
 the pictures. Diderot is fond, in speaking of his painters, 
 of remarking, "He paints boldly, he draws boldly;" we 
 might say the same of him in his criticisms, he launches 
 out boldly. He is effusive in his criticisms. Even in 
 describing with delight every family idyl by Greuze, he 
 finds means of tincturing his description with hia own 
 tone of thought. In his analysis of the "Weeping 
 Maiden," he goes further ; he introduces an elegy of his 
 own invention. This young child, who appears to be 
 shedding tears over the death of her bird, has her 
 secret grief, and is crying for something else as well. 
 " Oh, what a beautiful hand ! " exclaims, in contem- 
 
DIDEROT, 139 
 
 plating it, the excited critic, — " what a beautiful hand ! 
 what lovely arms I See the truth in the details of these 
 fingers, the dimples, the softness, and the slight tinge of 
 red with which the pressure of her head has coloured 
 their delicate tips. Look at the charm of all this. We 
 should approach this hand to kiss it, had we not too 
 great a deference for this child and her grief." Though 
 professing to respect her sorrow, he nevertheless draws 
 near to her ; he commences speaking to her, and 
 raises the veil of mystery as gently as possible. " But, 
 little one, your grief is very deep, and you seem to be 
 wrapped in profound meditation. What betokens this 
 dreamy and sad look ? What ? for a bird ! You are 
 not weeping, but you are inwardly grieving, and you 
 are thoughtful as well as sorrowful. Open your heart 
 to me, my little one ; tell me truthfully, is it really the 
 death of this bird which makes you muse so deeply and 
 so sadly ? " The picture itself is merely to him a pre- 
 text for reverie and poetry. Diderot is the king and 
 the god of those half-poets, who, merely requiring an 
 exoteric stimulus to attain the highest form of poetry, 
 reveal themselves as entire poets in their criticism. In 
 analyzing this work, and also the other paintings of 
 Greuze, Diderot, let us remember, delights in inter- 
 weaving with the moral of the pictures a slight vein 
 of sensuality — a vein that may perhaps already exist 
 there, but which he certainly likes to explore and point 
 out, a vein which he would rather dwell upon in a spirit 
 of exaggeration than leave unnoticed. For instance, he 
 continually alludes to the roundness of the breast, the 
 softness of the outlines, even in the scenes of family 
 life where there figure mothers and wives. He 
 describes all this animal beauty with evident satisfac- 
 tion, not as a critic nor artist, nor even as a subtle 
 libertine (Diderot was not in the least corrupt), but as a 
 
140 DIDEROT, 
 
 natural, material, and sometimes somewhat coarse man. 
 His inclination to animalism was his weak — in fact, 
 vulgar, and somewhat low characteristic. This excellent, 
 cordial, noble, and effusive man, this critic so animated, 
 ingenious, and subtle, and who above all else advocates 
 morality, is not content, in the presence of an ohjet-d'art, 
 with elevating our idea of the beautiful, or even 
 with satisfying our emotions ; he goes further, he 
 slightly troubles our senses. If at times you perceive 
 on his brow a ray of platonic light, mistrust it, for on 
 closer inspection you are certain to discover the foot of 
 the Satyr. 
 
 Whosoever reads Diderot will not fail to recognise 
 what we wish to point out, and of which it is difficult 
 to give a perspicuous illustration. Here, however, is an 
 example among a thousand, and one of those that can 
 be quoted. Diderot speaks of the young landscape- 
 painter Loutherbourg, who begins by painting pastoral 
 scenes, replete with freshness. " Courage, young man ! " 
 he exclaims ; " you have been further than it is per- 
 mitted at your age. . . . You have a charming com- 
 panion, who should keep you at home. Only leave 
 your studies to go and consult nature." "We 
 wonder whence proceeds this young companion of 
 young Loutherbourg. But Diderot enjoys the idea, 
 and returns to it. "Inhabit the fields with her," he 
 continues ; " wander out together to see the rising and 
 setting of the sun. . . . Arise from your couch in the 
 early morn, in spite of the fascinations of the young 
 and charming woman at whose side you repose." 
 The description which then follows, of the beautiful 
 landscape, is overflowing with ravishing purity, and is, 
 BO to speak, moist with dew and glistening with light. 
 But nevertheless we feel how inappropriate and nearly 
 indecent is the insertion and repetition of this idea in 
 
DIDEROT, 141 
 
 relation to tlie marital alcove. In the midst of all liis 
 charming, delicious, and suave qualities, Diderot hardly 
 ever fails to display a certain indelicate and sensual 
 habit of mind — a certain bourgeois looseness of ideas, by 
 which he proves his inferiority to that other great art 
 critic, Lessing. 
 
 But it would be unjust to dwell on this point, for he 
 excels in so many other ways. What he remarked 
 about sketches in general can also be applied to himself 
 and his leaflets. "Sketches are usually characterized 
 by a dash that pictures do not possess. The artist 
 creates them in the heat of the moment ; they are the 
 expression of an unalloyed ardour, without that appear- 
 ance of artifice which reflection lends to everything ; it 
 is the soul of the painter diffused on the canvas. The 
 pen of the poet, the pencil of the skilful sketcher, seem 
 to run and disport themselves. Kapid thought expresses 
 itself in a single stroke. The vaguer the expression of 
 art, the more it pleases the imagination." Here is 
 Diderot, in his capacity of critic and painter, taken in 
 the act of dashing off his rapid sketches. Touching the 
 pastels of La Tour, he has somewhere remarked, " that 
 one stroke from the wing of Time would suffice to raise 
 the dust with which they are encrusted," and reduce the 
 artist to a mere name. Many years have passed, and 
 La Tour's pastels still live ; Diderot's sketches live also. 
 
 Diderot composed on Vernet and the seven pictures 
 this painter exhibited at the Salon of 1767, a poem — I 
 can find no apter term than poem. The critic pretends 
 that at the moment he is about to commence the analysis 
 of Vernet's views and seascapes, he is obliged to leave for 
 a place near the ocean, and that there he makes himself 
 amends for what he has missed seeing at the Salon, by 
 contemplating several real views. He describes these 
 scenes, giving us also the details of his excursions, of the 
 
142 DIDEROT, 
 
 conversations and discussions of every kind that arise 
 between various interlocutors. The delicate relations 
 between art and nature are discussed, and there are 
 lengthy conversations touching the world, universal 
 order, and the point of view in relation to humanity in 
 its entirety. Diderot profusely scatters these thousand 
 germs of thought — germs in which his mind abounds. 
 Then suddenly, at the end of this article, his secret, 
 which two or three times has been at the tip of his pen, 
 at last escapes him, and these landscapes in reality, to 
 which he has led us, are, we discover, simply Vernet's 
 pictures, that he had taken a pleasure in thus describing, 
 imagining himself in the position of the artist who had 
 painted them ; imagining himself surrounded by the 
 same views of nature which had inspired the wielder of 
 the brush. There is quite a creation in tliis mode of 
 criticism. 
 
 In his Salons, Diderot has found that the only 
 true way of speaking to the French people in regard to 
 the fine arts, was to initiate them in this new feeling, 
 by wit and conversation, and to make them understand 
 the subtleties of colour through the medium of ideas. 
 How many individuals, before reading Diderot, might 
 have said with Mnie. Necker : " I had never been able 
 to see in paintings aught but flat and inanimate colours ; 
 his imagination has enabled me to discover life and 
 relievo in them ; I owe to his genius the acquirement 
 of nearly a new sense." This newly acquired sense has 
 greatly developed in us since then ; let us hope that 
 to-day it has become quite an ordinary sense.* Diderot 
 
 • Diderot's Salons were not published during his lifetime ; 
 they appeared for the first time in the collection of his works 
 compiled by Naigeon (1798) ; but they were already known in 
 society, and copies were in circulation, as we see according to 
 Madame Necker's letter. 
 
DIDEROT. 143 
 
 was quite as helpful to artists as he was to the public. 
 I have been told that David, the great painter, or rather 
 the great master of painting, spoke of him only in 
 terms of gratitude. David's early ventures had been 
 discouraging ; he had failed two or three times in his 
 first struggles. Diderot, who was in the habit of 
 haunting the studios, happened one day to visit that of 
 the great painter. He there sees a picture on the eve 
 of its being finished. He admires, he interprets it, he 
 discovers in it grand thoughts and intentions. David 
 listens attentively to him, and avows he had never 
 possessed all these beautiful ideas. " What ! " exclaims 
 the writer, " is it then unconsciously, instinctively, that 
 you have thus proceeded ; that is even better still ! " 
 And he explains the reason of his admiration. This 
 cordial welcome on the part of a celebrated man en- 
 couraged the artist, an encouragement which did much 
 to stimulate his talent. 
 
 Diderot has bequeathed to us several hastily written 
 leaflets, short tales and fanciful sketches, which we have 
 been in the habit of calling masterpieces. A master- 
 piece ! We must be somewhat indulgent in using the 
 word in relation to this writer. The properly so-called 
 masterpiece — that is to say, a complete work, where 
 good taste proportions all the movement and feeling, 
 is certainly not his strong point. He dissipates his 
 superior quality of mind ; it is concentrated nowhere 
 — nowhere do we find it radiant and disciplined within 
 distinct limitations. He is rather, as we have already 
 seen, a literary sketcher. In his intentionally short 
 pieces, such as "The Eulogy on Richardson," or the 
 " Regrets on my old Dressing-gown," we find great grace, 
 many felicitous thoughts, invested with apt expression ; 
 but in several places he grows too emphatic, indulging 
 in gusta of emphasis, and thereby spoiling the natural 
 
144 DIDEROT, 
 
 effect. In this lie is slightly ridiculous — a fact which 
 has deservedly induced many caricatures of his peculiar 
 literary methods. Diderot is the most successful when 
 he is the most spontaneous, and not striving after effect — 
 that is, when his thoughts escape him, and the printer 
 is hurrying him, awaiting the fruits of his pen. Or, 
 again, he is at his best when, on expecting the arrival 
 of the postman, he hastily writes a letter to his friend on 
 the table of an inn. It is in his " Correspondence " 
 with this friend, Mdlle. Voland, and it is in his SalonSj 
 written for Grimm, that his most delightful pages are 
 to be found ; they are the frank and rapid sketches in 
 which he relies. You must not, however, believe that 
 in writing rapidly he writes in a careless manner. 
 The style in his most rapid passages is correct and full 
 of harmonious effects — effects which correspond with 
 the most secret shades of feeling and thought. His pen 
 mirrors nature with all its verdure ; his style suggests 
 infinitely more in relation to her than either that of 
 Buffon or Jean- Jacques. Diderot has imported into 
 our language colours from the palette and the rainbow ; 
 he sees nature with the eyes of a painter. I would 
 bestow even greater praise on him in respect to the 
 possession of this brilliant quality relating to colour, 
 had not other writers since his day abused this manner 
 of delineation. 
 
 His work entitled Rameau's NepheWj met with 
 great praise. Goethe, whose conceptions and method 
 were always of a superior order, endeavoured to discover 
 in this book a plot or a moral. I must admit I find 
 it difficult to grasp either one or the other. I find in 
 this work a thousand daring, profound, probably true, 
 and often libertine and reckless ideas, and a contradic- 
 tion so feeble between the dramatis personcB of the 
 story, that it appears as if there were rather a complicity 
 
DIDEROT, 145 
 
 between the two characters than otherwise. Then, 
 again, there is no satisfactory outcome of the perpetual 
 vicissitudes and hazards encountered in the work, and, 
 what is still worse, the book concludes in doubts, ending 
 without a definite impression. In this case we might 
 appropriately apply what Chevalier de Chastellux re- 
 marked touching another of Diderot's productions — a 
 remark which could be repeated in relation to nearly 
 all his works : " They are intoxicated ideas, that are 
 running one after the other." As Diderot was approach- 
 ing old age, he asked himself whether he had well 
 employed his life ; whether his had not been a wasted 
 existence. After reading the third chapter of Seneca's 
 treatise, " On the Brevity of Life," — a chapter in which 
 the reader is so severely admonished, — Diderot, whose 
 conscience was touched, wrote this simple commentary : 
 " I have never read this chapter without blushing ; it is 
 my own life." Seneca's words run thus : " Look over 
 your past days and years, make them render account of 
 themselves ! Tell us how much of this time has been dis- 
 sipated through your own fault by a creditor, a mistress, 
 a patron, or a client. . . . "What a number of people have 
 plundered your life, while you yourself did not feel 
 what you were losing." Many years previously, Diderot 
 remarked to himself: "I am not conscious of having 
 put half of my powers to account ; up to now I have 
 only trifled" He could have uttered the same regret 
 when dying. But by way of an emollient to his over- 
 whelming self-reproofs as a writer and artist, he 
 answered as a philosopher and moralist : " My life has 
 not been stolen, I have given it away ; and what could 
 be better than conferring a portion of it on him who 
 respects me sufficiently to solicit this present 1" Imbued 
 with a similar sentiment, he has inscribed somewhere 
 else the following admirable and humane words : — 
 K 
 
146 DIDEROT. 
 
 "A pleasure that I enjoy alone affects me hut 
 and is of short duration. It is for my friends as well as 
 myself that I read, that I reflect, that I write, that I meditate, 
 that I listen, that I look, that I feel. In their absence I am 
 still devoted to them, I am continually thinking of their 
 happiness. If I am struck with a beautiful line, they must. 
 know it. If I meet with a fine passage, I promise myself 
 to impart it to them. If I have before my eyes some 
 enchanting spectacle, I unconsciously plan a description of 
 it for their benefit. I have consecrated to them the use of 
 all my senses and faculties ; and it is perhaps for this very 
 reason that everything becomes somewhat enriched in my 
 imagination and exaggerated in my discourse. Neverthless, 
 the ungrateful creatures sometimes reproach me." 
 
 We wlio belong to the number of his friends — to 
 those of whom he thought at a distance, and for whose 
 benefit he has written — we will be in no wise ungrateful, 
 but while regretting that there should exist in his works 
 that touch of exaggeration of which he is himself fully 
 aware, that lack of sobriety, that slight freedom of 
 morals and language, and that occasional breach of 
 good taste, we will not fail at the same time to render 
 homage to his bonhomie, his sympathy, his cordiality 
 of intellect, his subtlety, his wealth of descriptive power, 
 his breadth of view, his suave treatment of subject, and 
 to his delightful freshness, of which, in spite of his in- 
 cessant labour, he preserved the secret to the last. For 
 all of us it is consoling to study such a man as Diderot. 
 He is the first great writer up to date who really 
 belongs to democratic modern society. He is the 
 example, and shows us the way. His maxim was, that 
 either belonging or not belonging to the Academies, an 
 author should write for the public, address himself to 
 the masses, and improvise and hasten onwards incess- 
 antly ; that a writer should fathom reality, even if lie 
 
DIDEROT. 147 
 
 adores reverie ; that he should give and give again, but 
 never hoard his mental treasures. He remarked, *' It 
 is better to wear oneself out than grow rusty." This 
 maxim he carried out to the end of his life with energy 
 and devotedness, though sometimes with a feeling of 
 grief at his continual deperdition. Yet, in defiance of 
 all his shortcomings, and without really great eifort, he 
 has been able to gather a few tokens of fame from out 
 these scattered fragments. He teaches us how we 
 can reach posterity, be it only by means of the shreds 
 gleaned from the shipwrecks of every day. 
 
LA BRUYfiRE. 
 
 1836. 
 
 After miicli groping about in the dark, it has now 
 been positively ascertained that La Bruyere was born 
 in Paris, and baptized there on the 17th of August 
 1645. This has been proved from the parish registry 
 of Saint-Christopher-en-Cite. . . . 
 
 From a note written about the year 1720, by Father 
 Bougerel or Father Le Long, in one of the private 
 memoirs which happened to be discovered in the 
 library of the Oratoire, it is supposed that La Bruyere 
 belonged to that brotherhood ; but we do not know 
 whether this means that he was simply a pupil, or that 
 he at some time held an appointment there. His first 
 acquaintance with Bossuet is probably connected with 
 this circumstance. 
 
 Be that as it may, he had just bought a place in the 
 Treasury of France at Caen, when Bossuet, whom he 
 knew, we know not how, offered him the post of his- 
 torical tutor to M. le Due. La Bruyere spent the rest 
 of his life in the Hotel de Conde at Versailles, attached 
 to the prince's household in the capacity of a scholar, 
 with a pension of a thousand crowns. D'Olivet, who 
 unfortunately is too concise on the subject of this cele- 
 bratad author, but whose words possess authority, 
 
 143 
 
LA BRUYkRE. 149 
 
 describes him worthily as " a philosopher who thought 
 only of a quiet life among his friends and his books, 
 making a good choice of both ; neither seeking nor 
 evading pleasure ; disposed to simple enjoyments, and 
 ingenuously creating them ; polished in his manners 
 and wise in his discourse ; eschewing every kind of 
 ambition, even that of displaying his talents." This 
 testimony of the academician is strikingly confirmed 
 by that of Saint-Simon, who, with the authority of one 
 whose evidence would not certainly be suspected of 
 indulgence, lays stress on those very same qualities, 
 namely, good taste and wisdom. "The public," he 
 says, " lost soon after (1696) a man illustrious for his 
 wit, his style, and his knowledge of human nature ; I 
 mean La Bruyere, who died of apoplexy at Versailles, 
 after having surpassed Theophrastus, whose style he 
 imitated. In his new Garacteres he has depicted the 
 world of our day in an inimitable manner. He was, 
 besides, a simple honest man, with nothing of the 
 pedant or the self-seeker in his nature. I knew him 
 well enough to regret him, and the work which from 
 his comparative youth and vigour might have been 
 expected of him." 
 
 Boileau appears to have been a little more difficult to 
 please than the Duke of Saint-Simon, when he wrote 
 to Eacine on the 19th of May 1687: "Maximilien 
 (why this sobriquet of Maximilien ?) came to see me at 
 Auteuil, and read to me part of his Theophrastus. He is 
 a very honest man, and in no sense deficient, if nature 
 had only made him as pleasing as he would like to be. 
 However, he is possessed of wit, wisdom, and worth." 
 We question this judgment of Boileau's. La Bruyere 
 was still in his eyes a man of a new generation, one of 
 those who show more openly than is necessary that their 
 intelligence is second to none, if not indeed superior. 
 
ISO LA BRUYERE, 
 
 This same Saint-Simon, wlio regretted La Bruyere, 
 and who had on more than one occasion talked with 
 him, describes to ns the Prince of Conde's househokl, 
 and more particularly M. le Due, the philosopher's 
 pupil, in terms which gravely reflect on the private life 
 of this latter. Apropos of the death of M. le Due 
 (1710), he tells us, in the graphic way in which he 
 handles every subject: "his complexion was bright 
 yellow, his temper almost always outrageous, but at all 
 times so haughty and imperious that it was difficult to 
 get accustomed to him. He had some talent, was well 
 read, and thoroughly educated (which I can believe), 
 could be polite and even gracious when it pleased him, 
 wdiich it very rarely did. . . . The ferocity of his 
 nature was extreme, and displayed itself in all hia 
 actions. He was like a millstone, always in motion, 
 and making everything fly before him, — one of whom 
 even his friends were never sure that he would not 
 either insult them or make them the victims of some 
 cruel practical joke," 
 
 In the year 1697, he relates how this young duke 
 gave a grand example of the friendship of princes, and 
 a good lesson to those who court them. He had in- 
 herited the Burgundy estates from his father, the 
 prince, and one evening at Dijon, in drinking wine 
 with Santeul, he actually thought it a good joke to 
 empty the contents of his snuff-box into a large glass of 
 champagne before offering it to him to drink. Poor 
 Theodas, so simple and artless, a boon companion, full 
 of wit and animation, was seized with terrible sickness, 
 and died in frightful agony. Such was the grandson 
 of the great Cond^, the pupil of La Bruyere. In 
 former times the poet Sarasin had been beaten to death 
 by a Cond^ to whom he acted as secretary. 
 
 From the energetic way in which Saint-Simon speaks 
 
LA BRUYERE. 151 
 
 of tliat race of Cond^s, we discover how by degrees the 
 heroic spirit of the race came to be something no nobler 
 than the excitement of the hunter or of the wild boar 
 itself. 
 
 In La Bruy^re's time, however, learning found favour 
 in their eyes, for, as Saint-Simon further tells us of 
 Santeul, "M. le Prince nearly always had him at 
 Chantilly when he went there : M. le Due brought 
 him to all his parties ; he preferred him to any other 
 member of the household, and liked to vie with him 
 in wit, making rhymes and all kinds of amusing jests 
 and playful witticisms." 
 
 As an observer. La Bruyere enjoyed an inestimable 
 advantage, in being thus closely associated with a family 
 so remarkable at the time for the rare mixture of such 
 qualities as charming courtesy, ferocity, and debauchery. 
 All his remarks on heroes and the children of 'princes 
 originated there, and a certain bitterness, skilfully 
 disguised, is always distinct. 
 
 " The children of the gods, so to speak, are exempt 
 from nature's rules. They have nothing to learn from 
 age or experience. Their merit is beyond their years, 
 knowledge comes with their birth, and they arrive at 
 perfect manhood before ordinary beings are out of 
 childhood." 
 
 In his chapter on The Great he allows himself to 
 utter what he must often have thought. " Great men 
 have an immense advantage over others in one thing. 
 I do not envy them their good living, their furniture, 
 their dogs and horses, monkeys, dwarfs, fools, and 
 flatteries ; but I envy them the happiness of having in 
 their service men who equal them in heart and intel- 
 lect, nay, who sometimes surpass them." 
 
 The princely morals were scandalous, and his inevit- 
 able reflections on them have not been lost. This is 
 
152 LA BRUYERE. 
 
 indirectly demonstrated in tlie following suMerfuge : 
 " There are miseries in this world which strike cowardice 
 to the heart : some are denied even necessary food ; 
 they dread the winter, and fear to live. Others eat the 
 earliest fruits ; the seasons are forced forwards, and the 
 earth is made to yiold its riches in advance to furnish 
 them with delicacies ; ohscure citizens, simply hecause 
 they are rich, have the audacity to swallow in one 
 morsel the living of a hundred families : I am not 
 pleased with such extremes, and would not choose to 
 he either so poor or so rich, but would find refuge in 
 moderation." 
 
 The private citizens come in very appropriately to 
 saddle with the reproach, but I am pretty certain the 
 thought was written down one night on returning from 
 one of those princely suppers at which M. le Due 
 drank champagne with Santeul. 
 
 La Bruyere was descended from an ancient leaguer 
 who was famous in the memoirs of his time, having been 
 one of the municipal councillors of Paris in the anti- 
 Bourbon faction ; it is a striking fact that the grandson, 
 the tutor of a Bourbon, was able to study the race so 
 intimately. Our moralist must often have smiled to 
 himself, and probably thought oftener of that ancestor 
 whom he does not name, than of that " Geoffroy de la 
 Bruyere of the Crusades" to whom he jestingly alludes. 
 
 La Bruyere, who loved to read ancient authors, one 
 day took it into his head to translate Theophrastus ; he 
 then thought of introducing at the end, and, as it were, 
 under the patronage of his translation, some of his own 
 reflections upon modern manners. Was this translation 
 of Theophrastus simply a pretext he made, or was it 
 really the deciding cause, and the first and principal 
 design ? We rather incline to this latter supposition, 
 when we look at the form in which the first edition of 
 
LA BRUYERE. 153 
 
 the Caradhes appeared, and see what a prominent place 
 Theophrastus lield in it. La Bruyfere was entirely im- 
 bued with the idea with which he opens his first 
 chapter, that " everything has already been written,^' and 
 that " as Tnen have lived and thought for more than seven 
 thousand years, we have been born too late" He declares 
 his own inclination to have been (and it has been shared 
 in our own day by Courier), to read and re-read ancient 
 authors continually, translate them if we can, and 
 sometimes imitate them : " In writing we cannot always 
 find the perfect expression, nor can we surpass the 
 ancients but by imitating them." To the ancients La 
 Bruyere adds the learned among modern authors, as 
 having culled for their successors all that is the best 
 and most beautiful. It is in this disposition that he 
 begins to glean, and each seed, each grain which he 
 considers wortliy, he sets before us. Ideas of pain, of 
 maturity, and of perfection visibly occupy his mind, 
 and each word of his gravely testifies to us the 
 solemn time of that century in which he writes. It 
 was no longer a time for first attempts. Nearly all 
 those who had produced great works were alive. 
 Moliere was dead, long after Pascal ; La Eoche- 
 foucauld had disappeared ; but nearly all the others 
 remained. What names ! what a profound and accom- 
 plished auditory, men august and venerable, and 
 rather silent ! In his discourse before the Academy, 
 La Bruyere himself in their presence has enumerated 
 them ; and in his studious vigils many times before he 
 had reviewed them. These great minds, " quick inter- 
 preters of wit," Chantilly, " the rock of destruction for 
 indifferent talent," and the king "sheltered in his 
 majesty," who sways them all ! What judges, of whom 
 as at the end of a great tournament to come and ask 
 for glory ! La Bruyere had foreseen all, and he dares. 
 
154 LA BRUYERE. 
 
 He knows the bounds of propriety and tlie point to 
 strike. Modest and sure lie proceeds ; not a single vain 
 effort, not a word too much ! At once his place, which 
 is never yielded to another, is gained. Those who, from 
 a certain inclination of heart and mind, an inclination 
 only too rare, are in a condition, as he says, to give them- 
 selves up to the pleasure which perfection in literary art can 
 give, — those alone experienced an emotion, conceivable to 
 themselves only, on opening the little edition (in 12mo), 
 a single volume, dated 1688, of 360 pages large type, 
 in which Theophrastus and the preliminary discourse 
 occupies 149 pages, when they think that, excepting 
 the numerous and important improvements which finish 
 and complete the following editions, the whole of La 
 Bruyere is in that little volume. 
 
 Later, after the third edition. La Bruyere added 
 much and successively to each of his sixteen chapters. 
 Many thoughts which he had probably retained in his 
 portfolio in his first heedful circumspection, witty or 
 sarcastic remarks which the publication of his book 
 suggested to him, eccentricities which might readily 
 be applied, enriched and completed in diverse ways his 
 chef d^oeuvre. It is to be noted that the first edition 
 contained incomparably fewer portraits than the follow- 
 ing ones. The excitement and irritation following 
 publication drew them from the pen of the author, who 
 had at first thought chiefly of a collection of reflections 
 and moral remarks, even supporting this idea by the 
 title given to the book, of Solomon-Proverbs. The 
 Caracteres were made infinitely more attractive by the 
 additions ; but the original and simple design of the 
 book, its happy accident, if I may so call it, may be 
 more readily observed in its first and shorter form. 
 
 M. Walckenaer, in his Etude on La Bruyere, recalls 
 an agreeable anecdote extracted from the Memoirs of the 
 
LA BRUYERE. 155 
 
 Academy of Berlin ; tlie incident had been preserved 
 by tradition : " M. de la Bruyfere," says Formey, who 
 had it from Maupertuis, " used to go nearly every day to 
 the shop of a bookseller named Michallet, where he 
 would sit down and turn over all the new books, amus- 
 ing himself at the same time with the pretty little 
 daughter of the bookseller, to whom he had taken a 
 liking. One day he drew a manuscript from his pocket, 
 saying to Michallet, * Will you publish this (it was the 
 Caracthres) ; I don't know if it will pay you, but if it is a 
 success, the profit will be for my little sweetheart here.' 
 The bookseller, more uncertain of the result than the 
 author, undertook to publish an edition, and no sooner 
 was it issued than it was sold, and he had to print it 
 over and over again, and made two or three hundred 
 thousand francs by it ; and in this unexpected way the 
 bookseller's daughter was dowered. And long afterwards 
 she married a man in a very good position, a man 
 known to M. de Maupertuis, indeed his name is known, 
 M. Edouard Fournier having discovered it in the course 
 of his researches on La Bruyere. She married, he 
 says, an honest financier, who became Farmer-General 
 of Taxes, and whose reputation was spotless. When he 
 married the little Michallet girl, he received more than 
 a hundred thousand Uvres with her. This book, with 
 its bitter, almost misanthropical experiences, became the 
 dower of a young girl ; a singular contrast, is it not ? " 
 Supposing La Bruyere to have been born in 1644, he 
 was forty-three in 1687. His habits were formed, his 
 manner of life determined and fixed, and he made no 
 change in it. The sudden fame which came to him 
 did not dazzle him ; he had dreamt of it long before, 
 had turned it all over in his mind, knew the value of 
 his work, and was perfectly well aware that even if 
 fame had not come, his book would not have been less 
 
156 LA BRUYERE. 
 
 valuable because of tliat. Since his first edition he had 
 written, " How many admirable men of great talent 
 have died without ever being heard of ; and how many 
 are living now of whom no one talks, or ever will talk," 
 Praised, blamed, sought after, he probably was only a 
 little less happy after than before his success, and no 
 doubt some days he regretted that he had published so 
 much of his hidden life and thought. Imitators at 
 once appeared on all sides. Abbe de Villiers, Abbe de 
 Bellegarde (besides Brillon, AUeaume, and others whom 
 he did not know, and whom the Dutch were never able 
 to distinguish from him). We are told that after the 
 Garacteres were published, there appeared thirty 
 different volumes, besides the translations of La 
 Bruyere's own work, and the ten editions of it. In 
 fact, the whole literary world was inundated by 
 Garacteres with various titles, and all more or less 
 copies of the original. These authors, " born copyists," 
 who fasten themselves on to every successful enterprise 
 like flies on a plate of sweetmeats, these Trublets of 
 his time, must often have annoyed him ; it has been 
 thought that his advice to an author " born a copyist " 
 (in the chapter Works of Intellect and Learning), which 
 is not found in the early editions, was directed to that 
 honest Abbe de Villiers. 
 
 Admitted a member of the Academy on the 15th 
 June 1693, at which time there were already in France 
 seven editions of his Garacteres, La Bruy^re died 
 suddenly of apoplexy in 1696, and thus disappeared in 
 the very height of his fame, before biographers had 
 dragged him from his modest retirement in attempts to 
 interview him. It appears that once before, in 1691, 
 without any solicitation on his part. La Bruyfere had 
 seven votes for his admission to the Academy, obtained 
 through the good offices of Bussy, who, with discreet 
 
ZA BRUYERE, 157 
 
 delicacy (we are allowed to suppose), laid the matter 
 before the author of the Caracteres. Among the Nouvelles 
 Lettres of Bussy-Rabutin we find the few words of 
 thanks addressed to him by La Bruy^re. This is the 
 only letter of his which has been preserved, except a 
 pleasant little half-chiding note to Santeul, carelessly 
 printed in the Santoliana. 
 
 We read in a manuscript note in the library of the 
 Oratoire, and quoted by Audry, that " Mme. la Marquise 
 de Bellefori^re, of whom he was an intimate friend, 
 could have furnished some particulars of his life and 
 character." This Mme. de Belleforiere, however, has 
 given no information, and was probably never interro- 
 gated. An aged lady in 1720 (the date of the manu- 
 script), she was one of the persons of whom La Bruy^re, 
 in his chapter on TJie Heart, must have been thinking 
 when he said, "It sometimes happens in the course 
 of life that our most ardent pleasures, most tender 
 attachments, are forbidden us ; it is natural we should 
 regret them, they cannot be surpassed ; our only com- 
 pensation is in the knowledge that we have had the 
 moral strength to renounce them." Was it she, perhaps, 
 who inspired this expression, the delicacy of which is 
 almost sublime : " There are some women of such 
 radiant loveliness and such perfect goodness, that to 
 see them is to love them, even if we can never hope to 
 converse with them " ? 
 
 By the exercise of a little imagination we are enabled 
 to build and rebuild more than one kind of hidden 
 life for La Bruy^re, for some of his thoughts contain a 
 whole life's story, and, as it appears, a buried romance. 
 From the way in which he speaks of friendship, of its 
 relish, which no common nature can reach, we may 
 suppose that he renounced it for love ; and from the 
 way in which he treats certain very delicately charming 
 
158 LA BRUYERE, 
 
 questions, we may be sure his experience of love was 
 quite sufficient to cause him to neglect friendship. 
 
 The variety of faultlessly finished ideas, from which 
 we may in turn collect various modes of existence, 
 charming, delightful, profound, and scholarly, and which 
 one person could never have formed direct from his 
 own experience, is explained in one sentence. Moli^re, 
 without being Alceste, nor Philinte, nor Orgon, nor 
 Argan, is all of them in succession. La Bruyere, in his 
 sphere of moralizer, has the similar gift of being each 
 mind in succession ; he is one of the few men who 
 have knowTi everything. 
 
 If we study Moliere closely, we shall find that he does 
 not practise what he preaches. He represents unseemly 
 things, ridiculous things, love and passion, and falls into 
 the same mistakes himself; La Bruyere, never. He 
 has caught the little inconsistencies of Tartufe^ and his 
 Onuyhre is irreproachable ; the same in his own 
 conduct, he ponders everything, and conforms his life 
 to his maxims and experiences. Moliere is a poet, 
 impulsive, irregular, a mixture of fire and simplicity, 
 and probably greater and more loveable by his very 
 contradictions ; La Bruyere is wise. He never married. 
 " A single man," he has observed, " can, if he has wit, 
 raise himself above his station, and mix in the world 
 on a footing of equality ; which is less easy if he be 
 married, for marriage seems to settle people into their 
 proper rank." 
 
 Those to whom this bachelor calculation of his is 
 displeasing, can suppose that he loved in some im- 
 possible quarter, and remained faithful to a memory 
 in his renunciation. It has frequently been remarked 
 how the human beauty of his mind forcibly declares 
 itself through his deep learning. " I admit that there 
 must of necessity be seizures, executions, prisons, and 
 
LA BRUYERE. 159 
 
 punishments ; but apart from justice, law, and necessity, 
 it is ever new to me to consider with what violence 
 men act towards each other." How many reforms have 
 been carried through, how many still unfinished, since 
 this suggestive observation ! The accents are more 
 moderate, more self-restrained, but under them throbs 
 the heart of a Fdnelon. La Bruy^re is surprised, as at 
 something ever Tiew, at that which Mme. de Sevigne 
 finds quite simple, or merely rather amusing : the 
 eighteenth century, which startles in so many ways, 
 progresses. 
 
 I cannot omit to recall that grand passage on peasants 
 in the chapter on Men :— " We see certain sullen animals 
 scattered over the country ; they are male and female, 
 dark and leaden-hued, tanned by the sun, and bound 
 to the earth, which they are always digging and turning 
 over with unconquerable obstinacy; they have voices 
 almost articulate, and when they raise themselves on 
 their feet they show human faces, and in truth they are 
 men. They retire at night into their dens, where 
 they live on black bread, water, and roots ; they save 
 other men the trouble of sowing, labouring, and reap- 
 ing for their livelihood, and thus do not deserve to lack 
 the bread which they themselves have sown." And 
 it also accords with what we know of La Bruyere, 
 to recognise him in the portrait of that philosopher, 
 always accessible, even in his deepest studies, who tells 
 you to come in, for you bring him something more 
 precious than gold or silver, if it is the opportunity of 
 obliging you. 
 
 He was religious, and his spiritual belief is founded 
 on sound reasoning, as his chapter on Unbelievers 
 testifies. Coming last, the hidden beauty of its composi- 
 tion is in accordance with the cautious prescience with 
 which he prepares for expected attacks, while at the 
 
i6o LA BRUYkRE, 
 
 same time it asserts his own deep conviction. Tlie 
 logic of this chapter is vigorous and sincere ; but the 
 author had need to write it, to make up for more than 
 one sentence which denotes the rather free and bold 
 philosophy of the time in which he lived, and especially 
 to support and cover his attacks on the false devotion 
 then prevalent. On this point La Bruyere has not 
 abandoned the heritage left by Moliere ; he has continued 
 his war on a much more exclusive stage (the former 
 one would not have been tolerated), but with no less 
 vengeful weapons. He has done more than merely 
 point his finger att he courtier who, instead of wearing 
 his own hair as formerly, now wears a wig, long stochingsy 
 and a closely buttoned coat, because he is devout; he has 
 done more than denounce, in a spirit of prediction, the 
 impious indemnities of the Kegency in one indelible 
 flash of wisdom : A devot is one who under an 
 atheist king would he an atheist ; he even addressed 
 to the Grand Monarque himself the direct counsel 
 scarcely veiled in tactful eulogy : " It is a delicate 
 thing for a religious prince to reform his court and 
 make it pious ; aware how much the courtier desires to 
 please him, and what sacrifices he has to make in order 
 to advance his fortune, the prince treats him with 
 prudence, and humours and tolerates him, even if he 
 dislikes him, for fear of plunging him into hypocrisy 
 or sacrilege ; he expects more from God and time than 
 from his own zeal and industry." 
 
 Notwithstanding his dialogues on Quietism, and a 
 few expressions we regret to read on the subject of the 
 revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and a few passages in 
 favour of witchcraft and magic, I would rather be 
 tempted to suspect La Bruyere of liberal-mindedness 
 than the contrary. " Born a Christian and a Frenchman,^' 
 he finds himself more than once, as he says, constrained 
 
LA BRUYERE. 16 1 
 
 in his satire ; for if he specially thinks of Boileau in 
 speaking thus, he must as a natural consequence think 
 a little of himself and of these "great subjects" which 
 were " forbidden " him. He probes them with one word, 
 but immediately shrinks from them. His is one of 
 those minds which would have had little, if any, 
 difficulty in extricating itself without apparent effort or 
 exertion from any accidental situation which might 
 limit his design. It is less from certain detached 
 expressions than from the general turn of his opinions 
 that he allows himself to be understood thus ; and in 
 many of his ideas, as in his style, he readily concurs 
 with Montaigne. 
 
 There are three important articles about La Bruy^re 
 which ought to be read, and nothing I here eay 
 about him is meant in any way to supersede them. 
 The first in point of date is an article by the Abb6 
 d'Olivet in his History of the Academy. We find in 
 it traces of a kind of literal judgment of the illustrious 
 author, a judgment which ought to be imbued with 
 more of the classical spirit which prevailed at the end 
 of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth 
 centuries, the development, and in my opinion the 
 elucidation, of Boileau's rather obscure expression to 
 Racine, D'Olivet finds in La Bruyere too much art; too 
 much vnt, and some abuse of metaphor. As to style^ 
 exactly speaking, M. de la Bruyere ought not to be read 
 with perfect confidence, because he has, although with 
 a certain moderation, imparted to his style an affected, 
 strained, perplexing, etc. Nicole, of whom La Bruyere 
 seems to speak in one place when he says that he does 
 not think enough^ must have discovered in his turn that 
 the new moralist thought too much, and was keenly 
 annoyed by La Bruyere's criticism. We shall consider 
 tliis again immediately. It is to be regretted that 
 
1 62 LA BRUYERE. 
 
 besides such opinions, wliicli coming from a man of 
 taste and authority are valuable, D'Olivet did not pro- 
 cure more details, that is to say, academical details, 
 about La Bruyere. The reception of La Bruy^re at the 
 Academy gave rise to quarrels, with which he himself 
 entertains us in the preface to his Discourse, and of which 
 we would like to have some explanations. He was 
 admitted the same day as M. Cherpentier, who in his 
 character of partisan of the ancients placed La Bruyere 
 much before Theophrastus. His words, said in his 
 presence, were sufficiently disagreeable : " Your portraits 
 resemble certain persons, and can frequently be guessed 
 at ; his only resemble mankind, and for this reason his 
 portraits will always be likenesses ; while it is to be 
 feared yours will lose something of the wit and brilliancy 
 which we remark in them at present, when they can 
 no longer be compared with those from whom you have 
 drawn them." 
 
 However fortunate La Bruyfere may have been at first, 
 he had, we find, to strive with obstacles in his turn, as 
 Corneille and as Moliere had also to strive in their 
 time, as indeed all have to do who are truly great. He 
 had to bring forward his chapter on Unbelievers, and 
 to advance a subtle religious design in his argument to 
 render his faith a little ambiguous. He was also 
 obliged to deny the reality of his portraits, to throw 
 " these insolent keys," as he calls them, in the faces of 
 their fabricators. Martial had already said well : 
 Improhe facit qui in alieno lihro ingeniosus est. " Of a 
 truth I do not doubt," exclaims La Bruyfere, with an 
 accent of pride forced from his modesty by the outrage, 
 "that the public is at last heedless and tired of hearing 
 for so many years old crows croaking round them, and 
 by liberal thefts with their light-feathered pens raising 
 themselves to some notoriety by their writings." Who 
 
LA BRUYERE. 163 
 
 is this croaking crow, this Th^ohalde who yawns so loudly 
 at the harangue of La Bruyere, and who, witli some 
 treacherous fellow-members of the Assembly, instigated 
 the adverse criticisms in Le Mercure Galant, which it is 
 easy to see revenged itself for having been put " immedi- 
 ately below nothing " ? Bensarade, whom the description 
 of Th^obalde would suit, was dead ; was it Boursault, 
 who, although he did not belong to the Academy, might 
 have combined with some one in it ; or was it Boyer, or 
 some one of equal power ? D'Olivet is too discreet on. 
 the subject. 
 
 The other two articles on La Bruyere which it is 
 essential to read, are an exquisite notice of Suard's, 
 written in 1782, and a very sifting eulogy by Victorin 
 Fabre (1810). "We learn from a paragraph which 
 appeared in the Esprit des Journaux (February 1782), in 
 which the anonymous writer shows a delicate apprecia- 
 tion of Suard's short notice, that La Bruyere, who was 
 not highly appreciated in D'Olivet's time, had not been 
 awarded his proper place in the eighteenth century, and 
 Voltaire in his Sikle de Louis XIV. had spoken cursorily 
 of him. "The Marquis de Vauvenargues," says the 
 anonymous writer (who is quite worthy of being 
 Fontanes or Garat), " is almost the sole person, of all 
 those who have spoken of La Bruyere, who has really 
 thoroughly understood his great and original talent. 
 But Vauvenargues himself has not the weight and 
 authority which should belong to a w'riter who, 
 with the great mind of a Locke, the originality 
 of a Montesquieu, and the fervent style of a Pascal, 
 mingles the flavour of Voltaire's prose ; he could 
 neither have made La Bruyere's reputation nor his 
 own." Fifty years more, besides crowning La Bruyere 
 with the glory of genius, have given to Vauvenargues 
 himself the gloss of the master's hand. La Bruy^-e, 
 
1 64 LA BRUYEKE. 
 
 whom tlie eighteenth century was so slow to appre- 
 ciate, has more than one point in common with this 
 century. 
 
 In the various clever and charming studies of La 
 Bruy^re, such as those of Suard and Fabre, in the midst 
 of every kind of praise, we find an expression which 
 astonishes us as applied to such an eminent writer of 
 the seventeenth century. Suard uses these words : " La 
 Bruyere had more imagination than taste." Fabre, after 
 a complete analysis of his merits, concludes by placing 
 liim among the few who may be considered perfect 
 models of the art of writing : if he had given as many 
 jjwofs of good taste as of wit and talent. It is the first 
 time that, apropos of one of the great masters of the 
 great century, such a delicate point has been mooted ; 
 and it means that, coming late, and being really the 
 inventor of his own style, he had more in common 
 with the age which followed him. He has given us a 
 short history of French prose in these words : " During 
 the last twenty years the style of composition has been 
 careful and accurate ; construction has been properly 
 attended to ; the language has been enriched by many 
 new words ; we have thrown off the yoke of Latinism, 
 and confined ourselves to a phraseology purely French. 
 We have almost recovered that harmony which Malherbe 
 and Balzac first revealed to us, but which their numerous 
 successors suflfered to be lost. Our language has now 
 all the method and distinction it is capable of, and this 
 will in the end add imagination to it." This imaginative 
 style did not exist before his time ; the only examples 
 of it La Bruyfere found are in some of the writings 
 of Bussy, Pellisson, Flechier, Bonhours, who did 
 not display sufficient originality, continuity, or consist- 
 ency, and La Bruyere determined to introduce it into 
 literature. After Pascal and La Rochefoucauld, and 
 
LA BRUYERE. 165 
 
 without resembling them, he was destined to exercise a 
 great and delicate influence. 
 
 Boileau as a moralist and critic had with a certain 
 amount of perfection expressed many truths in verse. 
 La Bruyere aimed at expressing in prose something 
 similar ; or, as he possibly thought to himself, something 
 better, and still more refined. In Boileau's writings 
 there are numerous thoughts, sound judgments, correct 
 reflections, proverbial ideas, but so ordinary, that La 
 Bruyere would never have admitted them into his choice 
 diction. He must have felt in his heart that he wrote 
 with a little more meaning, and (except for the verses 
 which enhance Boileau's style) with more originality 
 than is to be found in many of Nicole's (Boileau's) lines. 
 With him everything assumes a more novel and indirect 
 form, having a deeper meaning than can at first be 
 understood. For example, instead of this kind of 
 sentence used by the author of the Art 'poetiqiie^ " what 
 is well conceived is clearly expressed" etc.. La Bruyere tells 
 us, in that admirable chapter, TForJcs of Intellect and 
 Learning, which is to him his Art po(ftique, his classic 
 rhetoric, "among all the difi'erent modes in which a single 
 thought may be expressed, only one is correct ; it does 
 not always occur to us in speaking or in writing ; 
 nevertheless it exists, and any other is weak, and will 
 not satisfy a man of talent who wishes to be understood." 
 We feel how much this second criticism by its truth- 
 fulness and wisdom surpasses even the calm judgment 
 of the first. In support of the opinion, not a recent 
 one, on the character of innovator attributed to La 
 Bruyere, I could make use of the judgment of Vigneul 
 Merville and the quarrel he had with Coste de Brillon 
 on this subject ; but the sentiments of these men as 
 regards style is of no consequence, I keep to the 
 expression already quoted of D'Olivet. Taste was 
 
i66 LA BRUYERE. 
 
 changing then, and La Bruyere unconsciously guided 
 the change. It was quite time for the century to end ; 
 a different, more varied, rejuvenized form of language 
 has sprung into existence, emanating from a great mind ; 
 left to others, it would soon have degenerated into a 
 storm of sparkling witticisms. Lcs Lettres Persanes, 
 for which La Bruyere so well paved the way, were not 
 long in marking the second epoch. La Bruyfere does 
 not break out into any storm of words, but he is 
 already in quest of a new and eloquent attraction, and 
 here he borders on the eighteenth century more than 
 any other great writer of his age. Vauvenargues in 
 some respects belongs more to the seventeenth century 
 than he does. Yet no . . . ; La Bruyere does entirely 
 belong to his own century in this, that in the midst of 
 all his labour, containing so much that was new and 
 original, he never failed in simplicity of heart. 
 
 Although it was mankind and society which he 
 specially described. La Bruyere adapts the idea of the 
 picturesque to the things of nature more than was 
 usual in his time, as when he displays to our mind's 
 eye one " clear day " the little village which seemed to 
 him ^^like a beautiful picture on the hillside ;" and how 
 gracious and graceful is his comparison of the prince 
 and the pastor, the flock " scattered over the meadow, 
 browsing on the young and tender grass.'' And it was 
 distinctive of him to have thought of inserting in the 
 chapter on The Heart the two following ideas : " There 
 are some places we admire and others we love." ^^ It 
 seems to me that wit, humour, passion, taste, and 
 sentiment depend on the place ice live in.'* 
 
 Jean Jacques and Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, with 
 their strong love for places, would undertake one day 
 to develop all the beauty which lies dormant, so to 
 speak, in these charming thoughts. Lamartine only 
 
LA BRUYERE. 167 
 
 translates poetically La Bray^re's idea when he ex- 
 claims : 
 
 "Objets inanim^s, avez-vous done ime &me 
 Qui s'attache a notre &me et la force d'aimer?" 
 
 La Bruyere is full of such brilliant germs. 
 
 He possessed the art of compiling a book without 
 seeming to make any effort, continuity being maintained 
 by a sort of hidden thread which appears and reappears 
 Irom place to place. At first sight it seems a collection 
 of fragments arranged in order, and we discover it 
 to be a labyrinth of unending wisdom. Each idea 
 corrected, developed, enlightened by surrounding ones, 
 then all at once the unexpected mingles with it, and 
 in an ever-moving play of wit and intellect we are 
 more than once raised to such lofty conceptions as no 
 continued discourse would admit. " Neither the troubles, 
 Z^nohie, ivhich disturb your empire," etc. A fragment of 
 a letter it may be, or of a conversation, either imagined 
 or simply inserted in that chapter on Judgments. " He 
 said that wit in that young woman was like a well-set 
 diamond," etc., is of itself a charming jewel, which all 
 the taste of an Andr^ Chdnier could not have set more 
 worthily and artistically. I say Andre Ch^nier inten- 
 tionally, in spite of their dissimilarity, because each 
 time I come to this passage in La Bruyere, the lovely air, 
 " Elle a v^cu, Myrto, la jeune Tarentine," etc., comes 
 singing into my head. 
 
 If it surprises us now that, having so much in 
 common with the eighteenth century. La Bruyere waa 
 not more often quoted, and more celebrated in it, the first 
 reply would be that he was too wise, too disinterested, 
 too unassuming for that ; attracted to, and interested in 
 mankind in general, in all sorts and conditions of men, 
 he must have seemed an inactive kinsman of the century, 
 
i68 LA BRUY^RE, 
 
 witli little fellow-feeling for its passions and hostilities ; 
 and, moreover, the piquancy and applicability of certain 
 personal portraits had disappeared ; fashion mingled 
 with the form of the book, and some special fashions 
 had gone by. Fontenelle (Cydias) opens the eighteenth 
 century in discreet silence about La Bruyere, a silence 
 justified by offended pride ; he indulged in many long 
 last words over the enemies of his youth during the 
 fifty years he remained a member of that illus- 
 trious Salon, after they had disappeared. At Sceaux 
 Voltaire might have questioned Malezieu about La 
 Bruyere ; he was one of the members of the Condc^ house- 
 hold, was associated with our philosopher in the 
 education of the Duchesse du Maine and her brothers, 
 and had read the manuscript of the Caracthes before 
 publication ; but Voltaire does not appear to have 
 troubled himself. It was in harmony with a calm and 
 delicate mind like Suard's to repair this unjust neglect 
 before time gained it authority. Now La Bruyere's rank 
 in literature is acknowledged. I admit that we may 
 now and then experience a shock when we find the 
 great repute of names both high and lowly reversed, 
 overthrown with little apparent effort ; we feel inclined 
 to shake off the yoke, but at each revolt we are again 
 enraptured by that multitude of thoughts, admirable, 
 concise, and eternally true, like so many imperishable 
 links ; we are enthralled, bound, so to speak, in Vulcan's 
 toils. 
 
 From La Bruyere we may easily choose many 
 sentences which have much in common with similar 
 ideas in our day. When he speaks of the heart and 
 passions especially, we meet with passages which respond 
 to our inner experiences. I remark one place where he 
 speaks of young people, who, he says, can bear solitude 
 better than old people, because of the passions which 
 
LA BRUYERE. 169 
 
 amuse them, and I compare this observation witli one of 
 LeiWs on the solitary walks of Stenio. I also note his 
 moan over the weakness of the human heart, too soon 
 consoled, containing no inexhaustible source of grief for 
 certain losses, and I compare this with a similar lament in 
 Atala. Then we have that day-dream by the side of 
 those we love, which comes with charming naivete from 
 the philosopher. But although, following the remark of 
 Fabre, La Bruyere has said that " a good choice of thoughts 
 is a kind of invention,^^ we must acknowledge that this 
 invention would be too facile and attractive in his work 
 to indulge in freely. 
 
 In politics, we find some brilliant hits which pierce 
 the centuries and come down to us like flashes. " Only 
 to think of self and the present time is a great source 
 of political error." 
 
 There is one important point of view on which the 
 writers of our time could not too deeply meditate, and 
 if they do not imitate him (La Bruyere), they may at 
 least respect and envy him, for he thereby was so 
 fortunate as to prove his great wisdom ; with immense 
 talent he has written only to express what he thought : 
 the most in the least, might be his motto. 
 
 Once, when speaking of Mme. Guizot, we pointed out 
 the great number of memorable thoughts which she has 
 sown in her numerous and obscure articles — thoughts 
 which it required the hand of tender regard and 
 the eye of love to discern and pick out. La Bruyfere, 
 born for perfection, in an age which favoured its 
 development, was not obliged to sow his thoughts in 
 this way ; in books of various kinds written at various 
 times, he rather set each thought apart, left it to stand 
 by itself, clear and apparent as a gorgeous butterfly 
 posed on a beautiful white leaf. " The most talented 
 man," he says, " is unequal . . . ; he begins with great 
 
170 LA BRUYERE, 
 
 spirit, but it fails liim ; then, if he is wise, he speaks 
 little and writes nothing. Does one sing with a cold ? 
 Do we not wait till the voice returns % " It is from this 
 habit, this need to sing with any kind of voice, this idea 
 that the spirit is always present, that the greater part of 
 our literary defects arise. Under so much that is lively, 
 pleasing, solemn, probe the groundwork, and you will 
 discover that the aim is to fill a page, a column, or a 
 volume. An inordinate development is the conse- 
 quence, out of keeping with the detail of the subject, 
 which is stretched, amplified, exaggerated, till nothing 
 is left for another occasion. I might say how much of 
 this I find in works of eminent talent, in exquisite 
 poems, in beautiful pages of prose. Oh yes ! there is 
 much wisdom, facility of expression, learned workman- 
 ship if you like, but there is also a something which 
 ordinary readers may not perceive, which even a man 
 of taste may pass over if he be unheeding — the vain 
 shadow, the false semblance of talent, what in painting 
 is called chique, and which is probably only a knack 
 retained although talent is gone. The amount of 
 chique to be found in the best productions of the day is 
 alarming, and I dare not mention it here, because, 
 speaking generally, the application might be laid on 
 some specially illustrious nam-e. There are passages in 
 the action of a poem or a romance which an experienced 
 author perceives to be shallow ; this shallowness will 
 find no echo in the vulgar mind. But what have I 
 said ? This is one of the secrets of the method which 
 must remain sacred among artists in order that no 
 discredit may fall on the profession. The wise and 
 facile La Bruyere was not of this kind ; he translated 
 Theophrastus at his leisure, and each thought he pro- 
 duced was essentially suited to his time. It is true 
 that his thousand ^cus of pension as man of letters in 
 
LA BRUYERE. 171 
 
 the Duke's household, and his lodgment in the Hotel 
 de Conde, procured for him a position of ease and 
 security which has no analogy in our time; but 
 granting this, and meaning no offence to our laboured 
 merits, his first little book in 12mo ought to be found 
 on the table of every modem writer ; its far-reaching 
 and original talent will help us to remember modera- 
 tion, and teach us to proportion thought to language ; it 
 would even be a step gained to be able to regret our 
 inability to do this. 
 
L'ABBfi DE CHOISY. 
 
 1851. 
 
 The Abb6 de Choisy was fond of disguising liimself. 
 During his childhood and early youth his mother 
 accustomed him to masquerade as a girl. Throughout 
 his whole life he retained this peculiar taste for 
 travesty. It has been said that even in very much 
 later years — at an age when he should have blushed 
 at this effeminate mania — ^he would still secretly don 
 the silks and laces as worn by some ancient dowager, 
 heartily regretting not to be any longer able to ex- 
 hibit himself as a coquettish marchioness or charming 
 shepherdess. 
 
 In the positions he successively held, he displayed 
 the same spirit of frivolity, the same witty, odd, and 
 graceful fancies. His life resembles a most varied and 
 improbable comedy, and it is hard to tell at what point 
 he ceases being a masquerader. From his earliest 
 childhood he wore the tonsure of priesthood, but his 
 mother appears to have principally dedicated him to 
 female finery. As vain as a nun in Vert Vert, and as 
 garrulous as a parrot, he alternately played the part 
 of the Countess de Sancy in the parish of Saint- 
 M^dard, and that of the Countess des Barres in the 
 Province of Berry. After this he repented of his 
 
VABBE DE CHOISY. 173 
 
 follies and went out to Siam, where he led the life of 
 an apostle, converting his fellow-men, though never 
 losing his peculiarly easy and happy temperament. 
 After distinguishing himself as an agreeable and even 
 subtle writer, he finally became an historian of the 
 Church, and a senior member of the French Academy. 
 His life, covering eighty years, was a complete mas- 
 querade. He entered fully into the various r6les he 
 imdertook, in each of which he acquitted himself with 
 a playfulness and adaptability all his owti. In his 
 childhood he was engaging, and as an aged man he 
 was still very interesting, and generally appreciated in 
 spite of his years. Nevertheless, he could never make 
 amends for his youthful escapades, nor conceal the 
 innate frivolity of his character. Had he lived over 
 a hundred years, he would have failed to acquire 
 either consideration or authority ; but, on the other 
 hand, he v/as the object of affection and indulgence, 
 and in these days his individuality is looked upon as 
 a pretty freak of nature, and as one of the curiosities 
 of a great century. 
 
 Francis-Timoleon de Choisy, Prior of Saint-Lo at 
 Rouen, of Saint-Benoit-du-Sault, and of Saint-Gelais, 
 and Dean of the Bayeux Cathedral, etc. etc., was born 
 in Paris in 1644. He came of one of those fine middle- 
 class families which had the privilege of providing the 
 ancient monarchy with its leading State-Secretaries, 
 and its most faithful and hardworking Ministers. 
 His father had spent his life in occupying various 
 stewardships and embassies, and last of all he became 
 the counsellor of Gaston, brother to Louis XIII. 
 His mother, a woman of great ability, a 'pr^cieuse of her 
 day (before the word was used as a term of ridicule), 
 was handsome, active, and intriguing ; she was the 
 great - granddaughter of the illustrious and sapient 
 
174 VABB& DE CHOISY. 
 
 Chancelier de VHSpital. It is strange tliat from out 
 this venerable stock there should thus proceed in the 
 person of the Abbe de Choisy such a wild and wanton 
 branch. In creating women, nature is sometimes mis- 
 taken, and produces viragos, who care for naught but 
 manly games and warlike sports. Nature was, as 
 regards the Abbe de Choisy, mistaken in the inverse 
 sense, and had given him, with the addition of a pretty 
 face, futile tastes and an innate love for the looking- 
 glass. His mother did everything in her power to 
 promote in him this weakness of nature. He received 
 the most pernicious education that can be imagined ; 
 in fact, one that only favoured the development of his 
 effeminate and puerile character. Although this idoliz- 
 ing parent strove in her conversations wdth her son, 
 and in the letters he wrote under her dictation, to 
 initiate him in the principles of an elegant style 
 while striving to endow him with well-bred manners, 
 she was, at the same time, singularly successful in 
 teaching him the worship of his own small person. 
 "M^/ mother" he remarks, ^^ fostered such a weakness for 
 me, that she was continually adorning me with fine 
 aipparel. She ardently desired to { still appear young 
 and beautiful. I was horn after her fortieth year; she 
 ivfmgined, however, that people seeing a child of eight or 
 nine years old continually at her side, would consequently 
 give her the credit of being still youthful ; for this reason 
 I accompanied her everywhere. When the little Monsieur, 
 brother of Louis XIV., visited our house, I was arrayed 
 as a girl, and he was our guest at least two or three times 
 a-week. My ears were pierced, I wore diamonds, and my 
 cheeks were embellished with patches ; in a word, I was 
 brought up in all those habits of affectation so easy to 
 adopt and so hard to abandon." 
 
 While succeeding without any great effort in imbuing 
 
VABBA DE CHOISY, 175 
 
 her child's mind witli all tlie futile ideas of a vain and 
 affected woman, De Choisy's mother was withal careful 
 in impressing on him all the principles pertaining to 
 the art of the sycophant. This is the only kind of 
 morality she appears to have taught him. " Listen, my 
 son," said this enervated granddaughter of the Chan- 
 celier de FHSpital. ^^Do not he vain-glorious, and re- 
 member that you are merely a bourgeois. . . . Do not 
 forget that in France the only nobility is that which is 
 gained by the sword. . . . So as not to become vain- 
 glorious, my son, never cultivate any one except people of 
 quality. Go and spend the afternoon with the little 
 Lesdiguieres, the Marquis of Villeroy, the Count of Guiche 
 and Louvigny : then you will early acquire a graciousness 
 of manner, and throughout your whole life you will con- 
 sequently retain an air of civility which will gain you 
 the heart of every 07ie." 
 
 Such were the precepts of this excellent mother, 
 and by which her son ingenuously assures us he 
 profited. "For it happens," he tells us, "that with 
 the exception of my relations, I do not see a single 
 gentleman of the long rohe. I must therefore either 
 spend my life at Court with my friends, or in my study 
 with my hooks." Thus, on principle, he was only 
 friendly with those who are at court. This method 
 was on entirely new lines. Mme. de Choisy failed to 
 encourage any friendship or real attachment that was 
 not founded on purely interested motives. One day 
 the little Abbe de Bouillon (he afterwards became 
 cardinal), who was a nephew of Turenne, quarrelled at 
 college with the Abbe d'Harcourt, and the fact became 
 rumoured abroad. The following day Mme. de Choisy 
 asked her son whether he had called on the Abbe 
 de Bouillon. " I told her that I had not," writes De 
 Choisy, "and that the Abbe d'Harcourt Mas a friend 
 
176 VABB& DE CHOISY. 
 
 of mine. I tlioiiglit slie would Iiave devoured me 
 in her anger. * Wliat ! ' she exclaimed, * andj he is 
 the nephew of M. de Turenne ! Hasten instantly to his 
 house, or you quit mine for ever? She was a maUresse- 
 femme who insisted upon being obeyed, and she has 
 been the means of making my fortune." Choisy, as 
 we perceive, is unable to conceal his appreciation of 
 his mother's great wisdom. In a similar manner she 
 corrected him from his childhood upwards, instruct- 
 i*tig him in the code'o/ honour as practised by an un- 
 worthy sycophant. This virtuous parent frequently 
 counselled him not to definitely adhere to either the 
 princes or any members of the royal family, but to the 
 king alone. " Cling, my son, not to the branches, but 
 to the trunh of the tree." To her mind, apart from that 
 tree there could be no salvation. 
 
 The Abb6 de Choisy was always true to his mother's 
 articles of faith, and to the very end of his days he 
 worshipped the king, and was at times even indiscreet 
 in his very eagerness to become a good courtier; he 
 was, moreover, a perfect model of complaisance and 
 courtesy in his intercourse with all men. He was at 
 heart a better man, and more faithful to his friends in 
 disgrace, than might have been expected, considering 
 the kind of discipline he had undergone. 
 
 This senseless mother kept her son at home until 
 he was eighteen, and up to that age he was nearly 
 always dressed as a girl. He had attained his twenty- 
 third year at the time of her death (in 1666). In 
 taking his share of the inheritance, divided between 
 himself and his brothers, he chose by preference the 
 family jewels ; and, like unto Achilles, who instinct- 
 ively clutched the weapons of war, he instinctively 
 seized them with avidity. "We were all three satis- 
 fied," he exclaims ; " I was delighted at having such 
 
VABBi: DE CHOISY, 177 
 
 beautiful stones ; I had never possessed anything beyond 
 a few rings and earrings of no higher value than 200 
 pistoles ; and now I was in possession of pendants 
 worth 10,000 francs, a diamond cross of the value of 
 5000 francs, and three beautiful rings. With such 
 jewels as these I could adorn myself and 'pla')j the 
 beautiful ivoman." Indeed, during the few following 
 years, the Abbe de Choisy, left to his own devices, 
 and free from all restraint, played the beautiful woman 
 to his heart's content, and recklessly abandoned him- 
 self to all his mad caprices. We all know the charming 
 scene in The Marriage of Figaro, that scene where 
 Cherubin, seated at the feet of the Countess, is in the 
 liands of the frolicsome Luzanne, who is arranging his 
 collar : " Look at the child ; see how pretty he is as a 
 girl ! I am perfectly jealous of him. How dare you 
 be so pretty?" During his early youth the Abbe de 
 Choisy had often been the object of similar speeches, 
 and the occasions on which they had been uttered 
 were grafted in his memory as the most delightful he 
 could imagine. He would have liked to perpetuate 
 those blissful moments, and during his whole lifetime 
 lie endeavoured to revive this memory as frequently as 
 possible. 
 
 One day Mme. de la Fayette happened to meet him 
 wearing a garb which partook of the dress of both 
 sexes. He had donned a male costume, while his ears 
 were embellished with pendants, and his cheeks with 
 patches. This woman of wit and sense, in order to 
 shame him, remarked, undoubtedly in a tone of pleas- 
 antry, that he was not dressed in masculine fashion, and 
 that he would be much better arrayed entirely as a 
 woman. Latent passions require but a slight incentive. 
 The Abb6 de Choisy took the satirical Mme. de la 
 Fayette at her word, and on such a good authority he> 
 
 M 
 
178 VABB^ DE CHOISY, 
 
 adopted tlie feminine style of dress in its completeness. 
 It is highly amusing to hear him describe his toilettes 
 down to the most minute details ; he revels, he excels 
 in these particular descriptions. Here we perceive the 
 most striking and original feature of this vain and 
 fatuous nature, and can measure the extent of his innate 
 feminine love of finery. People have often disguised 
 themselves so as to give full scope to their licentious- 
 ness, and a change of apparel has frequently served to 
 facilitate the indulgence of a passion or to further an 
 intrigue. But the Abbe de Choisy, though not exempt 
 from guilty irregularities, seemed to like falsifying his 
 appearance for the sake of sporting himself in gaudy 
 raiment. He loved the looking-glass for itself, finery 
 because it was finery, and trinkets because they were 
 trinkets. It was his ideal of supreme happiness to be 
 seated before a mirror adorning himself, tricking his 
 face up with a patch here and there, or adding a 
 becoming curl, while a circle of friends surrounded 
 him, incessantly exclaiming, " You are as beautiful as 
 an angel ! " 
 
 M. de la Mennais, in his work entitled Affaires de 
 Borne, describes the journey he undertook in 1832. 
 He has painted in a few satirical strokes, and far 
 more subtlely than might have been expected, having 
 regard to the pen of such an energetic writer, the 
 character of the Cardinal de Eohan, who was in 
 Eome at that time. " Being of an extremely frail and 
 effeminate constitution," says M. de la Mennais, "he 
 never attained the age of virility ; nature had destined 
 him to linger through a long childhood ; he possessed 
 all the weakness, tastes, the little vanities, and innocence 
 of a child. The Eomans had given him the nickname 
 of il Bambino. Such a man as he, is always led by 
 others unworthier than himself." All those who have 
 
VABBE DE CIIOISY. 179 
 
 known, or even only casually met the Cardinal de 
 Rohan, can judge of the veracity of this lightly-sketched 
 portrait. I have chosen this illustration, because it is, 
 as M. de la Mennais has remarked, an innocent illustra- 
 tion. There was no immorality intermingled with the 
 cardinars effeminate vanity. But that innate love of 
 dress, which I have pointed out as one of the most 
 marked characteristics of the Abbe de Choisy, was 
 developed to a far higher degree in the person of the 
 Cardinal de Eohan. It was a satisfaction and a 
 triumph for him to be successful in gracefully draping 
 about his shoulders the folds of a rich lace shawl, and 
 he would stand for many minutes before the looking- 
 glass admiring the elegant reflection of his bedecked 
 person. Even at the steps of the altar his vanity did 
 not entirely forsake him. I can see him now, as he 
 appeared at Besangon on the occasion of a pontifical 
 ceremony. He was arraj^ed in all the splendour of his 
 sacerdotal robes, casting here and there smiling and 
 coquettish glances, for he had been told that several 
 people had arrived from Paris the preceding day to 
 attend this religious function. 
 
 But here ends all similitude between the abbe and 
 the cardinal. The Abbe de Choisy ventured far 
 beyond mere vanity, and I will refrain from following 
 him through the incredible episodes of his youth. In 
 those days the police must have been extremely badly 
 organized, and legal authority very indulgent, to have 
 permitted him to venture upon such escapades. We 
 cannot complain respecting the morals of the present 
 day, when we read the account of the immoralities that 
 were not absolutely prohibited to the Abbe de Choisy. 
 He was able for months, even years, to inhabit a house 
 in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, keep his carriage, have 
 a seat in the parish church, join in the public worship 
 
i8o rABBA DE CHOISY. 
 
 (lie was even requested on one cerem onions occasion to 
 enact the part of queteuse, and hand round the poor-box). 
 He was able to carry on this existence under the name 
 of the Countess de Bancy, in spite of its being generally- 
 suspected who he really was. He was not reprimanded 
 by the ecclesiastical authority until matters became 
 aggravated. After quitting the Faubourg Saint- 
 Marceau, the Abb^, though fully forewarned, still 
 insisted on retaining his favourite dress, and displaying 
 it before the public gaze, even in the theatre. One 
 evening, at the opera, he happened to be seated in the 
 box belonging to the youthful Dauphin, son of Louis 
 XIV. Suddenly M. de Montausier entered the door. 
 " I was at the very height of joy," he exclaims, "when 
 suddenly that sullen-looking man appeared," The 
 Chancelier de I'Hopital himself, perceiving his un- 
 worthy descendant in this attitude, could not have 
 experienced a greater feeling of contempt. " Madame 
 or Mademoiselle, for I am at a loss what to call you," 
 said M. de Montausier, while bowing ironically, " I 
 will admit you are beautiful, but in truth are you not 
 ashamed of wearing such habiliments, and of playing 
 the part of a woman, because you are lucky enough not 
 to be one ? Go — go, and hide yourself ; M. le Dauphin 
 does not consider you are at all nice in this disguise." 
 This last hit was not exactly in accordance with truth ; 
 for, on the contrary, the little Dauphin was not at all 
 scandalized by the Abbe's behaviour. De Choisy was 
 greatly surprised at what he termed the " oddness" of M. 
 de Montausier, but as nothing had a greater power of 
 touching him than royal disapproval, or rather, any 
 disapprobation that approached it, he deemed it wise, 
 after this occasion, to disappear from Paris. He bought 
 a castle in the province of Berry, and during two or 
 three years he lived there incognito, under the name of 
 
L'ABBJ^ DE CHOISY. l8i 
 
 the Countess des Barres. There he pursued a frivolous 
 existence, enacting a perfect comedy, dressing, un- 
 dressing, embellishing, and admiring himself the 
 whole day, surrounded by all the nobility and gentry 
 of the country, by the vicars, the intendants, the 
 bishops, and the lieutenant-general's wife. These 
 simple, unsuspecting individuals ardently admired him 
 as an elegant Parisian. He took such underhand 
 advantage of their credulity, that, had he lived during a 
 more rigid period, he might have incurred the legal 
 measures adopted by the attorney-general in cases of 
 abduction of minors. When aged, and apparently con- 
 verted, the Abb6 de Choisy still experienced unutterable 
 pleasure in relating these youthful adventures to liis 
 grave friends, such as D'Argenson, who would listen 
 with astonishment, and even to philosophical ladies, 
 such as Mme. de Lambert, who would question him 
 indulgently. 
 
 He continued leading this unworthy existence as 
 long as possible, and when he abandoned it he had 
 already attained his thirty-third year. He was still 
 beardless, for he had prevented the growth of any hair 
 by applying to his face some particular kind of 
 depilatory ; but the beauty of his countenance had 
 vanished. He remarks that one passion drives out 
 another. He journeyed through Italy, and became a 
 gambler. He ruined himself, fell deeply into debt, and 
 commenced seriously bemoaning the years of his initial 
 irregularities ; for " ridicule," he thought, " is preferable 
 to poverty." The unfortunate man, in spite of his wit 
 and his many amiable qualities, was well on the way to 
 rendering himself for ever ridiculous and despicable 
 in the eyes of society, when, strange to say, his mind 
 suddenly assumed a penitent gravity. He began to 
 ponder seriously, and th6 advent of an unexpected 
 
i82 VABB^ DE CHOISY. 
 
 grave malady favoured his contrition. The 3rd of 
 August 1683, he fell ill at the Place- Royale, where he 
 was then living. He perceived the near approach of 
 death ; he heard the doctors murmuring, " He can 
 hardly live two hours longer." The picture of his past 
 life appeared to him in its true, unvarnished colours ; 
 the thought of God's judgment terrified him. He 
 recovered, but on quitting his dying bed he immedi- 
 ately entered the "College of Foreign Missions," and 
 from this college he went forth to the Indies as a kind 
 of missionary. 
 
 The Abbe de Choisy has noted the circumstances 
 and motives of his conversion in four Dialogues on The 
 Immortality of the Soul, The Existence of God, Providence, 
 and Religion, which he published the following year 
 (1684). He certainly lost no time. One of the 
 characteristics of the Abbe de Choisy was his perfect 
 lack of self-restraint, and in good as well as in evil he 
 was prompt, unconstrained, and essentially imprudent. 
 These Dialogues are not entirely original ; they are the 
 result of serious discussions between himself and one of 
 his friends, the Abbe de Dangeau, an estimable man of 
 high distinction, who, besides being a most accurate 
 metaphysician, was both a grammarian and a philo- 
 sopher. From the very commencement he exercised 
 a most beneficial influence on the Abbe de Choisy. 
 Dangeau even discovered, after a little time, that his 
 friend, who at the commencement seemed possessed of 
 a certain frivolous incredulity, was a subject easy to 
 convert ; he found that, gifted with a lively imagina- 
 tion, De Choisy skipped the intermediate state, and 
 bounded from incredulity to thorough belief. Prove 
 to me that there is a God " as clearly as I see that it is 
 daylight ! " exclaimed the Timoleon of the Dialogues to 
 Theophilus (that is, De Choisy to Dangeau). "The 
 
VABB£ DE CHOISY. 183 
 
 moment I am convinced of the goodness of God, notliing 
 will any longer be difficult for me to believe." "I 
 have merely," replied Theophilus, " to prove to you that 
 there exists a God, and that your soul is immortal, and 
 straightway you are ready to become a Capuchin." 
 When speaking of the Abbe de Choisy's easy and 
 somewhat fragile conversion, in response to the. compli- 
 mentary remarks made to him regarding this successfully 
 performed regeneration, Dangeau remarked: "Alas! I 
 had hardly convinced this giddy creature of the 
 existence of God, than he was forthwith prepared to 
 believe in the baptism of the church-bells." 
 
 Nevertheless, we find many traits of sincere conversion 
 in the Abbe de Choisy's Diary^ which was published 
 soon after his return from Siam. Towards the year 
 1684, a message was sent to Louis XIV. from Siam, to 
 the eff'ect that it would suffice to send out to the 
 Siamese king, an ambassador and a few missionaries 
 to convert him and his subjects to Christianity. The 
 Abbe de Choisy, who was then at the Seminary, heard 
 of this projected mission to Siam ; the palm of Saint 
 Francis-Xavier immediately blossomed before his gaze, 
 and, with all the zeal of a proselyte, he deemed it an 
 excellent idea to strive to evangelize this far-off kingdom. 
 It is true he merely bore the tonsure of a priest, and 
 had not really been ordained as such. But no matter ! 
 During his journey he would enter into retreat, and on 
 landing he would go through the rites of ordination. 
 He hastened to interview M. de Seignelay, the naval 
 minister, in order to solicit the apostleship. But the 
 mission had already been entrusted to a naval officer, 
 the Chevalier de Chaumont, a man of religious and 
 virtuous principles. De Choisy was only able to obtain 
 the coadjutorship of the mission — an odd term, which 
 appeared expressly made for him. This highly original 
 
i84 VABBE DE CHOISY. 
 
 coadjutor embarked at Brest on the 3rd of March 1685. 
 Obeying the instincts of his curiosity, perhaps flying 
 from his creditors, and withal believing that he was 
 following a ray of Divine grace, he felt his heart bound 
 with overwhelming joy. He has left us an account of 
 his voyage and of his various daily impressions. He 
 addressed this description of his travels to the same 
 friend who had converted him the preceding year, the 
 Abbe de Dangeau. The Abbe de Choisy was then 
 forty-one years of age. 
 
 In this Diary it is a little too frequently a question 
 of the wind and tides ; but the letters in which the 
 author speaks of himself are extremely natural and 
 diverting. The Abbe de Choisy is the most sweet- 
 tempered passenger imaginable ; never wearied, never 
 for a single moment regretting having joined the 
 enterprise, never failing to see the favourable side of 
 everything. He is in the company of missionaries 
 and Jesuits, some of whom are great mathematicians. 
 He converses with them, with a view to gleaning 
 knowledge. He has scarcely recovered from the throes 
 of sea-sickness than he applies himself to the study of 
 Portuguese and astronomy ; he expatiates on naval 
 matters, and prattles on the subject of longitude and 
 latitude. After the first few days he knows all the 
 terms that are used on shipboard. " One cannot help 
 becoming accustomed to nautical expressions ; I say to 
 my valet. Anchor my collar." Sermons are given, and 
 he finds all the preachers eloquent. " There is not a 
 single cabin-boy on our vessel who does not wish to go 
 to Paradise, thus proving that the sermons cannot be 
 otherwise than good." "Oh, how easily everything 
 leads us to thoughts of God ! " he exclaims, with strong 
 and sincere feeling, "when we find ourselves on the 
 ocean- wave, on five or six planks of wood, continually 
 
vabb£ DE CHOISY. I 8s 
 
 between life and death ! How toucliing are our reflec- 
 tions when evil temptations are removed from our 
 path ! . . . I consider there can he no better Seminary 
 than a vessel." On calm days, when the sea appears 
 to him "like a vast pond ruffled by the zephyrs," 
 dances are given on board ship by way of amusement, 
 and on these occasions there are wrestling matches 
 between the Brittany sailors and the Provincials. 
 The ambassador, with the help of the missionaries, 
 enacts the part of arbiter. There are shouts of Lonrj 
 live the King ! De Choisy has not failed to remember 
 that after God, and at the side'of God, to the King is 
 due all honour. " His Majesty is highly respected on 
 land, but on the sea we love him," he adds, with a 
 certain heart-felt tenderness. Concerts are also given 
 on the vessel, and choruses are sung. The adaptable 
 De Choisy enjoys everything, admires everything. On 
 land he only found one Dangeau, one Theophilus (as he 
 designates him in his Dialogues) ; at sea he discovers 
 half-a-dozen ITieophiluses : — 
 
 ^^ I discuss the Portuguese language with Father Visdelou; 
 M. Basset teaches me the meaning of Sacred Orders ; I peer 
 into the moon with Father de Fontenei ; I converse on the 
 question of pilotage with our ensign^ who possesses consider- 
 able knowledge on this subject ; / converse on all these points 
 without any exertion whatever, while strolling upon deck. 
 When I wish to procure myself a great pleasure, I fetch 
 M. Manuel, one of our missionaries, who has an un- 
 commonly beautiful voice, and who understands music as 
 well as Lully. You know my love of music; and the 
 exercise of this fine art is not forbidden at the Seminary. 
 What is Paradise but eternal music ?" 
 
 In this short quotation we already discover the 
 vivacious, playful, inquiring, and elegant nature of the 
 Abbe's mind. On becoming more nearly acquainted 
 
iS6 VABB& DE CHOISY, 
 
 with the fascination of his intellect, we cannot refrain 
 from forgiving him many of his errors. The mode of 
 his career does not appear to have corrupted him so 
 greatly as might have been expected; it is evident 
 his actions were rather the outcome of mere frivolity 
 than of a deeply-rooted desire for debauchery. He 
 remained for ever extremely natural and capable of 
 receiving good impressions ; his nature was eminently 
 j)lastic; it sufficed him to be surrounded by good 
 examples for him to imitate them. His was one of 
 those natures that are but the echoes, the faithful and 
 varied reflections, of their times and their surroundings. 
 The writings of such men form excellent testimonies 
 of the language current in their day. 
 
 The Abbe de Choisy's style is bright, light, and 
 invested with some of the graces of childhood. His 
 mind and his pen appear to have retained the youth of 
 Cherubin. He possessed all the facility of a child in 
 acquiring languages. After learning Portuguese with 
 such facility, he took up the study of Siamese. He 
 soon mastered this tongue, and was able to freely 
 converse in both languages. He acknowledges that the 
 principal defect of his mind consisted in a lack of 
 concentration and of the power of bringing his know- 
 ledge to a point of perfection. " I always wish to 
 write and never to read ; I admit this is not the right 
 means of becoming well-informed. Every one has his 
 weakness. I can hardly help scribbling, for when I 
 hold a pen I am as joyous as the prince who wields his 
 sword. Oh, happy posterity ! could these two weapons, 
 in their respective spheres, be as equally well em- 
 ployed ! " The Abbe is a charming babbler, finding 
 pretty phrases that are sometimes precursory to a 
 felicitous thought, though oftener they are merely based 
 on some flying fancy. His mind was an admixture of 
 
L'ABB^ DE CHOISY. 187 
 
 subtlety and credulity. He appears capable of fathom- 
 ing tlie trutli concerning men and affairs, but at the 
 same time his natural mobility disposes him rather to 
 remain on the surface than to dive deeply into the 
 spirit of things. He is prepared on every occasion to 
 believe in appearances and to acknowledge the existence 
 of the miraculous. One day, M. Basset was preaching 
 on the vessel, and his eloquence struck De Choisy as 
 resembling that of Bourdaloue. "There is something 
 miraculous about this man," observed the Abbe ; " as 
 he approaches the land of his mission, God grants him 
 proportionately increased grace and fresh inspiration ; 
 for, indeed, we all know how differently he spoke in 
 the conferences at the Seminary ; he even experienced 
 some difficulty in giving expression to his ideas. 
 Here, on the other hand, he is a perfect torrent of 
 eloquence." 
 
 Had De Choisy and his fellow- workers been about to 
 perform a real apostolic mission, I should think twice 
 before contesting the fact of this sudden acquisition of 
 Divine eloquence by M. Basset ; but, in this particular 
 case, the voyage to Siam turned out to be nothing save 
 a sham affair, and we can clearly perceive that 'De 
 Choisy, in describing a miracle, draws largely on his 
 imagination. 
 
 The same man who is so credulous as regards M, 
 Basset, depicts, a little later on, with keen penetration 
 and in a charming manner, the cunning displayed by 
 the Jesuits. They had hardly landed at Batavia among 
 the Dutch Protestants, when they hastened to establish 
 their Observatory, in order to gain a good welcome by 
 placing their astronomical instruments at the disposal 
 of the inquiring inhabitants. " They are erecting their 
 apparatuses," says De Choisy, "in order to pay their 
 host with a little Jupiter and Mercury." He adds, by 
 
1 88 VABBE DE CHOISY. 
 
 way of a moral : " Cleverness is a grand thing in every 
 country." 
 
 However, De Choisy, with his subtle and impression- 
 able mind, caught at times the true spirit of apostolic 
 inspiration. In speaking of a saintly priest whom he 
 met at Batavia, he paints him by one simple and felicit- 
 ous phrase: "He is a venerable man, who has been 
 nearly thirty years in Cochinchina and Tonkin : M^ 
 past life has imprinted a perpetual brightness on his 
 countenance." 
 
 De Choisy is modest ; he does not attempt to impress 
 on others the importance of his own mind, and he is 
 sufficiently gracious not to pretend to be greater than 
 he really is. While the Jesuits on board ship were 
 applying themselves to the study of astronomy, the 
 other missionaries were holding debates ; De Choisy 
 was merely a looker-on. " ^s for myself, I tamper with 
 nearly every subject" he observes in writing to Dangeau, 
 " and if I fail to become a savant — a condition it is now 
 impossible for me to attain, considering I have not grown 
 into a learned man even under your tuition — I shall at 
 least possess a slight smattering of everything. I am an 
 auditor at all the debates, and I often adopt your method — 
 I assume a strictly modest demeanour, and refrain from 
 talking much. When I am really conversant with the subject 
 in question, then I allow myself to speak in an undertone, 
 being as equally modest in the sound of my voice as 
 in the words I utter. This makes an admirable effect, and 
 often when I am perfectly silent, my confreres imagine I 
 have no desire to speak, never suspecting that the true reason 
 of my silence lies in my profound ignorance, which I deem 
 it wise to conceal from the eyes of m£n." 
 
 At one moment the Abbe thought of studying Euclid. 
 When the ship arrived at the Cape, the longitude had 
 to be rectified. He describes this proceeding, and adds : 
 
VABB^ DE CHOISY, 189 
 
 " I proved myself to be not utterly useless ; while 
 Fatlier de Fontenei was at his telescope, and the others 
 attending to the clocks, I occasionally counted 0?^e, 
 two^ three, four^ to mark the seconds." How could we 
 bear any ill-will against so amiable a man, who in this 
 way glories in his own acquirements ? 
 
 The whole tone of his Diary is bright. His style 
 is sprightly, and overflowing with life and fun, but 
 utterly devoid of anything like depth or gravity. He 
 prattles gaily about the west wind, and even speaks 
 triflingly regarding the storms. As the vessel approaches 
 the Cape of Good Hope, we might fancy he were 
 attempting to proportion his thoughts to the majesty of 
 the horizon : " The sea begins to be extremely hollow ; 
 by that I mean we frequently discover ourselves in a 
 valley between two mountains whitened with foam. 
 At first this appears to be somewhat amusing ; but when, 
 a moment later, we are hurled on the summit of the 
 mountain, and the horizon fades into insignificance, 
 we hold our peace, mirahiles elationes maris." This de- 
 scription exhibits a certain attempt at profundity of 
 thought ; but do not, my readers, for one moment 
 expect that he will sustain this gravity of style. When, 
 after having doubled the Cape, the crew are exposed to 
 a violent tempest, and the vessel is wrapped in the fury 
 of the elements, he finds no more apjjosite expression 
 than that the sea now wears a diff'erent phiz to that of 
 the preceding days. He who can employ the word 
 phiz in the presence of so solemn a spectacle, may be 
 fairly well judged by his very use of this term. The 
 Abbe de Choisy contemplates the ocean through the 
 wrong end of the telescope. 
 
 Those who have undertaken long sea voyages, assert 
 that nothing can equal the weariness that in time they 
 begin to feel in their own society and in that of their 
 
190 VABB^ DE CHOISY. 
 
 companions. Every man becomes insupportable to the 
 other ; little failings become magnified, and these in- 
 dividuals need divorcing for a long time before they are 
 able to meet again with any degree of pleasure. But 
 our Abbe was an exception to the rule ; and in this 
 exception he demonstrated the adaptable, benevolent, 
 and essentially social qualities of his character. He 
 not only failed to find that the time lingered wearily 
 in its course, but he never once complained of his 
 companions ; the longer he was in their society the 
 more enchanted he became. When they were discour- 
 aged, he was the first to inspire them with hope. 
 " Everything will succeed," he would remark ; " we 
 have begun too well not to finish in the same way. If 
 we do not reach Siam, we will spend the winter at 
 Surat and at Bantam, in the midst of a beautiful 
 country. We all like each other so much ! We shall he 
 all the longer together ! " He uttered these words after 
 he had been on the sea for three months ; he repeated 
 them after five months ; he could not sufiiciently con- 
 gratulate himself in having undertaken this journey. 
 He seemed to perceive in this undertaking the hand of 
 God, who had wished to remove him from the path of 
 danger. Happen what may, he thought to himself, " I 
 shall anyway have accomplished an interesting expedi- 
 tion ; I shall have learned many little things. I shall 
 scarcely in any way have offended the Almighty during 
 two years. Alas! as regards this, they will be the 
 two best years of my life. Moreover, what could we do 
 on this vessel to off'end God % We only speak of what 
 is good ; there are none other than excellent examples. 
 Temptations are three or four thousand leagues from 
 here." He thus continues to see the beautiful side of 
 everything, and to demonstrate to his friend in France 
 how the days glide away like seconds, and how on board 
 
VABBE DE CHOISY. 191 
 
 sliip he is tlie happiest of men. He says : " We have 
 the prayers and debates ; we read the Holy Scriptures ; 
 we converse in Portuguese and Siamese ; we study 
 the globe ; we play chess ; while, to crown everything, 
 we have excellent living, and gaiety of heart — what 
 more could we desire ? " 
 
 We are commencing, are we not, to learn something 
 of the character, the lightness, and the graceful wit of 
 the Abbe de Choisy, and are, perhaps, also beginning 
 to forgive him for his past errors. Duclos has aptly 
 defined him as an agreeable writer, whose style has the 
 negligent graces of a woman. 
 
 De Choisy possesses, moreover, that peculiarly daring 
 wit which blends well with his lightness of style. 
 Under his apostolic mien he has quite the nature of 
 the old race of Frenchmen, who never hesitated, but 
 who would wander forth to the end of the world, care- 
 less of harm, and ready for adventure, sustained in 
 every vicissitude by their gaiety of heart, abandoning 
 their welfare to the guidance of God, their Star, or the 
 inspiration of the moment. " We are undertaking this 
 journey d la Frangaise,^ he justly remarks in one 
 portion of his Diary, implying thereby that he and 
 his companions had, without forethought, entered upon 
 this expedition. 
 
 In regard to the kingdom of Siam, where he had 
 dreamt of gaining a wonderful conquest, and whicli 
 other travellers have proved to be anything but a 
 splendid country, De Choisy becomes an extremely 
 superficial and inaccurate guide. He now merely con- 
 siders the outside of men and things, — the eidolons, as 
 Plato would say,— and is amused with the details of the 
 various pageants, ceremonies, and orations. His onjy 
 serious performance is his entry into the Seminary, where, 
 in four days, he receives Holy Orders from the hands of 
 
192 VABB& DE CHOISY, 
 
 a bishop in partihus. The King of Siam was governed 
 by a fa\'ourite adventurer,— a Greek by birth, of the 
 name of Constance. He was a man of skill and jcunning, 
 who, feeling he was hated by the natives, had, nnder 
 the pretext of religion, induced the Europeans to enter 
 Siam with a view of gaining their support. After 
 speaking of this M. Constance, who used his utmost 
 efforts to attract and dazzle him, De Choisy sums him 
 lip very prettily : " In short, he is a queer fellow, who 
 would be witty if he were at Versailles." There, again, 
 is a ti'ait a la Frangaise. On his return to his own 
 country, De Choisy discovered he had only played a 
 sham part at Siam, and that Father Tachard, a Jesuit, 
 had been in league with Constance in this secret 
 negotiation. De Choisy even found he had been dis- 
 honestly treated by this same Jesuit, who had robbed 
 him of a certain handsome present, which should, by 
 rights, have been handed over to the Abbe. " I did 
 not know the exact details of the case,'"' he remarks, 
 " till after I had returned to France ; but I was so 
 delighted on finding myself again in my own country, 
 that I bore no feeling of malice towards any single 
 human being." De Choisy emphasizes more than once 
 the fact that he is devoid of spite, and that he has no 
 enemies. " If I knew of any one who wished me evil, 
 I should instantly run to him, and display so much 
 politeness and such friendly attention, that he would 
 forthwith become my friend in spite of himself." 
 There, again, we notice his kind and complaisant dis- 
 position ; he might seek in vain for the power of hatred. 
 In everything he was exactly the reverse of Alceste 
 and M. de Montausier. 
 
 De Choisy's exjDedition to Siam rehabilitated him up 
 to a certain point in the public opinion, and conspired 
 to gain him the reputation for singularity — a notoriety 
 
I 
 
 VABB& DE CHOISY, 193 
 
 far less compromising than the one he had gained in 
 his youth. On his return to court, however, he 
 endured at first some degree of mortification, failing to 
 receive the compliments he had anticipated. At the 
 time he left France, his friend the Cardinal de Bouillon, 
 the graiid-awmMier, was in favour, and De Choisy 
 deemed it appropriate to send him several presents as 
 coming from the King of Siam. Unfortunately, during 
 the Abbe's absence, the Cardinal had incurred the 
 disgrace of Louis XIV., and these offerings arrived at 
 Versailles addressed to an exile. This mishap caused 
 a scandal. De Choisy was compelled to offer his ex- 
 cuses to the King, who thereupon merely remarked, 
 " That is sufficient" and turned his back brusquely on 
 him. " I thought it best to let the storm blow over," 
 adds the unfortunate and mortified man, " so I hastened 
 to Paris to seek seclusion in my Seminary, where half 
 an hour spent in prayer before the Holy Sacrament 
 enabled me soon to forget all that had occurred." 
 Nothing less than this prayer before the Holy Sacra- 
 ment could suffice to relieve the Abbe's sorrow in having 
 for one instant displeased his terrestrial master. 
 
 A few months later, the Abbe de Choisy, in order 
 to conciliate Louis XIV., dedicated and offered to him 
 his Life of David, then his Life of Solomon, — works 
 containing all kinds of flattering allusions to this 
 monarch ; indeed, most of the histories he wrote at 
 that time, be it that of the Church or that of the 
 various kings of France, appeared invariably with 
 dedications to Louis XIV., conceived in terms of 
 the most idolatrous adulation. In 1687 the French 
 Academy named De Choisy one of its members. M. 
 Bergeret, who received him, ventured, after mentioning 
 the Abba's great - great - grandfather, the Chandelier de 
 VHdpital, to compare Mme. de Choisy, who had 
 
 N 
 
194 VABBE DE CHOISY, 
 
 80 strangely educated her son, with the illustrions 
 Cornelias of Eome. Where could there exist greater 
 dissimilitude than between Cornelia, mother of the 
 Gracchi, and the Abbe de Choisy's frivolous parent 1 
 
 During the remaining thirty-seven years of his life 
 (1687-1724) the Abbe de Choisy incessantly wielded 
 his pen on every kind of subject. He wrote AAdthout 
 pretension, in a manner which savoured of no pedantry, 
 though it suggested a certain degree of research. His 
 four historical volumes on Saint Louis, Philip do 
 Valois, and Charles V., etc., met with great success at 
 that time. These works were chielly to be found on 
 ladies' toilet-tables, being more particularly written for 
 the perusal of the fair sex. They were books that, 
 according to Madame de Sevigne, were able to he very 
 tvell read. De Choisy's talent consisted in his power 
 of introducing into every subject a certain familiar ease 
 and rapidity, which charmed and carried away the 
 reader. No matter whether it were sacred or profane 
 history, moral or saintly tales, his pen was ever ready 
 for the treatment of any subject. Had you proposed 
 to him that he should write on the question of moral 
 action, or on the Golden Legend, and told him to create 
 on this starting-point matter that would vie with the 
 fairy tales of Madame d'Aulnoi or Perrault, he would 
 have risen to the occasion. He relates the most serious 
 narratives with the same careless grace he would have 
 adopted in writing a story similar to the Peau d'Ane. 
 The last words in his History of the Church are singularly 
 characteristic of his mode of treatment : " Thank God, 
 my history is finished, I will now begin to learn it." » 
 
 From among his numberless writings 1 should not 
 think of enumerating, there is only one that can com- 
 mend itself to the reading public of to-day — that is, 
 the book containing his "Memoirs." They comprise 
 
VABBE DE CHOISY, 195 
 
 difFerent sections, some of which are incomplete. The 
 Abbe de Choisy writes as he speaks, and as he hears 
 others speak. He likes to introduce parenthetical 
 sentences ; and when a fresh idea suddenly suggests 
 itself to his mind and arouses his interest, he interrupts 
 the subject he has commenced. He announces that he 
 is about to say many things in relation to the King, but 
 speaks greatly about himself. " With my pen in hand 
 I am somewhat of a chatter-box," he remarks ; " as you 
 may well perceive, I am perfectly unceremonious, and 
 hardly premeditating all that I tell you. i seriously 
 promise you, however, to entertain you nearly all the 
 time on the subject of the King ; he will constitute my 
 sustained keynote. If from time to time you find me 
 in some corner, pass over me." On the whole, these 
 Memoirs are extremely lively and amusing, and, with 
 the exception of certain inaccuracies in relation to facts 
 and dates, they are a faithful record as regards the spirit 
 of the people and things therein described. De Choisy 
 possessed the art of extracting conversation from well- 
 informed individuals — those men whom he named old 
 repertories. He did not mention the fact of writing his 
 Memoirs ; so, as he was only supposed to be confining 
 his attention to the history of the Church and early 
 French history, even cautious men did not hesitate in 
 expressing their opinions before him. He would ask 
 questions, he tells us, "without any appearance of 
 eagerness, but with an air of ordinary curiosity. I 
 make M. Eoze talk of the time of Mazarin ; I converse 
 with M. Brienne . . . ; I let that gossip, Du Plessis- 
 Belliere chatter to his heart's content, for he never rants. 
 ... I sometimes extract a word from old Bontemps ; 
 I extract twelve from Joyeuse, and twenty from Chamar- 
 ante, who is delighted to have some one with whom he 
 can converse, for there is nothing that loosens the 
 
196 VABB^ DE CHOISY, 
 
 tongue so effectually as gout in tlie hands and feet." 
 Memoirs that are thus written, soon after the actual 
 conversations have taken place, are likely to be true 
 testimonies as regards the ensemhley although the details 
 may he inaccurate. 
 
 De Choisy's Journal abounds in anecdotes, witty 
 remarks, and amusing things that have been said in 
 society. Like the generality of writers of that period, 
 the Abbe excels in his portraits. Those of Fouquet, Le 
 Tellier, of Lyonne, and of Colbert— these four men who 
 rose to eminence after Mazarin's death — are admirably 
 sketched, and display a more than ordinary capacity. 
 De Choisy had conversed with these able speakers on 
 the days he painted them with such firmness of touch. 
 As soon as Mazarin was dead, these four men, who had 
 restrained themselves under his sway, and who had 
 disguised their pretensions and their weaknesses so as 
 to further their own interests, believed they need no 
 longer observe the same policy, and forthwith each one 
 revealed his real nature. " The ambitious man (Fouquet) 
 burst out into forming plans, and had the insolence to 
 remark, ' To what height am I not able to climb V The 
 miser (Le Tellier) amassed piles of money ; the proud 
 man (Colbert) knit his brow; while the sensualist 
 (Lyonne) hid his evil ways no longer in the darkness." 
 Then follow the detailed portraits of Fouquet, Le 
 Tellier, and Lyonne. Here is the beginning of Colbert's 
 picture : " Jean Baptiste Colbert had a naturally sullen 
 expression of face. His deeply sunken eyes and his thick 
 black eyebrows conspired to give him an expression of 
 austerity f and at first sight an appearance of unsociability 
 and contrariness; but afterwards, on closer acquaintance^ 
 one discovered he was fairly complaisant, obliging, and of 
 an unflinching reliability. He was convinced that fair 
 dealing is the only sf^lid foundation in all transactions. 
 
VABB^ DE CHOISY. 197 
 
 Great application and an unsatidble desire to learn, supplied 
 his lack of knowledge ; the more ignorant he was, the more 
 he affected to he learned, sometimes quoting mal-^-propos 
 Latin phrases which he had learned by heart, and that his 
 salaried professors had expounded to him. He had not a 
 single passion since he had given up wine. He was faithful 
 in the execution of his duties, involved by the controllership 
 he occupied — an office which had hitherto been held by men 
 who failed to count and render account of the monies they 
 had received : he was rich solely through the donations of 
 the King, which he did not spend lavishly, foreseeing full 
 well, as he remarked to his intimate friends, the prodigality of 
 his eldest son. . . . His mind being solid and ponderous, 
 and more especially fitted for calculation, he was able 
 to unravel the complications that the controllers and 
 treasurers of the King had expressly brought about in 
 the affairs of the treasury, in order that they might fish 
 in troubled waters." . . . The rest of this description 
 must be read in the original. In this portrayal we see 
 that De Choisy was not altogether lacking in energy of 
 mind, or rather, that his essentially plastic brain was 
 capable of sometimes receiving strong impressions. If 
 the Abbe draws with so able a hand the portraits of 
 men, still more does he excel in his sketches of women. 
 He has drafted a delightful picture of Mme. de la 
 Valliere, which is worthy of being placed in face of the 
 one of Colbert, whom we have just quitted, with his 
 frowning brow : — 
 
 "She had an admirable complexion, fair tresses, an 
 agreeable smile, blue eyes, and an expression so tender and 
 vnthal so modest, that it gained her at the same moment 
 both affection and esteem. As for the rest, she only possessed 
 a modicum of mind, which she daily strove to improve by 
 continual reading. She lacked ambition and strong opinions, 
 being more assiduous in thinking of the man she loved than 
 
198 VABBE DE CHOISY. 
 
 in pleasing him. Wrapped up in herself and her passion^ 
 which had been the only one in her life, she preferred 
 honour to all else, having courted death more than once, 
 rather than allow her frailty to he suspected. She was 
 liberal-minded, timid, and of a sweet and even temper. 
 Never forgetting that she was acting wrongfully, she ever 
 hoped she would return to the path of righteousness. These 
 Gliristian feelings procured her all the blessings of God^s 
 mercy, and she spent a long life in steadfast and even great 
 joy, withal in austere penitence. I speak of her with plea- 
 sure, for I spent my childhood in her company." 
 
 This portrait has been taken from life ; here De 
 Choisy had seen and felt for himself, and needed no one 
 to inspire him. All the writers in the time of Louis 
 XIV. wrote in a manner similar to that of the Abbe, 
 though at that period they were hardly considered more 
 than mediocre in their literary efforts. How agreeable, 
 familiar, delicate, and light is their style, overflowing 
 with those unfinished periods and graceful negligences 
 that represent the genius of conversation, and which, 
 so to speak, mirror more fully the various shades of 
 thought. 
 
 De Choisy, as a writer of memoirs, can in many ways 
 be compared to Mme. de Caylus, though perhaps of 
 the two she wields the firmer and the more accurate 
 pen, and possesses greater self-command. It is he who 
 betrays the more womanly qualities. 
 
 I might expatiate for ever if I mentioned all there is to 
 mention in relation to this proMc writer. It suffices to 
 have made him known in the principal phases of his 
 talent. D'Alembert in his Elogiums, and the Marquis 
 d'Argenson in his Memoirs, have both written perfect 
 criticisms on De Choisy. As to-day is a general holiday,* 
 do not let me evince too great a severity. De Choisy 
 
 * This article was written on the Shrove-Tuesday of 1851. 
 
VABB& DE CHOISY, 199 
 
 is entitled to some indulgence; he was more frivolous 
 than corrupt ; he was always natural in the midst of 
 his strangest caprices ; he experienced at one time 
 sincere feelings of pity — those feelings he endeavoured 
 to cultivate ; he at least strove with might and main, 
 during the last thirty years of his life, to become a 
 serious man, though he never succeeded in being other- 
 wise than amiable and amusing. In short, he spoke 
 and wrote daily in excellent language, and from among 
 the multitude of his works there is at least one which 
 is deserving of posterity, and of ranking among the 
 notable series of historical testimonies. His Life itself 
 has its place in history as one of the most singulSir 
 anecdotal Memoirs of the Great Century. 
 
FONTENELLE* 
 
 1851. 
 
 M. Flourens, one of the two permanent secretaries of 
 the Academy of Sciences, has had the felicitous idea 
 of writing a more or less detailed history of his pre- 
 decessors, — not their biography, but rather the history 
 of their works and opinions. During these last few 
 years he has published on George Cuvier, Fontenelle, 
 and Buffon, a succession of studies as remarkable for 
 their clearness of exposition as for their elegant sim- 
 plicity of style. The last-mentioned writer was not 
 a permanent secretary, though he fully deserved to 
 occupy that place of honour. M. Flourens promises 
 to continue this series, devoted to the demonstration 
 of the methods adopted by these celebrated savants. 
 This work, taking us back to the most prominent 
 names, affords an apt completion to the Eulogiums he 
 has been accustomed to write yearly on the deceased 
 contemporary members of the Academy. We shall 
 have the pleasure on this occasion, of accepting him as 
 a guide to the path we propose to pursue in relation 
 to our remarks concerning Fontenelle. 
 
 In the one Fontenelle there are two distinct men, 
 although, after an attentive study, we always find it 
 
 * Fontenelle. By M. Flourens. 
 200 ^ 
 
FONTENELLE, 201 
 
 easy to detect the one individuality in the other. 
 There is Fontenelle the hel-e^it, the foppish, fastidious 
 spark, who was the insipid writer of operas and pastoral 
 poems, the editor of the Mercure Galant, and who was 
 continually at war with Racine, Despr^aux, and La 
 Fontaine, — that Fontenelle appraised by DeVize and 
 scourged by La Bruyere. In the depths of this 
 primitive Fontenelle, with his small mind and hateful 
 taste, another Fontenelle early revealed himself, and 
 slowly but surely blossomed forth into developed 
 perfection. This other Fontenelle was the disciple 
 of Descartes, — untrammelled in mind and broad of 
 view, — a man utterly devoid of any prepossessed ideas 
 or opinions. Fully understanding the modem world 
 and its scientific methods, — in part new, — he com- 
 manded the accurate reasoning powers necessary for the 
 expounding of science. His logic was characterized by 
 subtlety and discretion; he introduced into his illus- 
 trations a certain charm, which conduced to soften 
 the rigid outlines of science, and conciliate those 
 readers who are the least severe. In short, here was 
 the Fontenelle no longer of the Opera, but he of the 
 Academy of Sciences, he who was the first and most 
 worthy organ of this scientific body, a body he himself 
 conceived in all its grandeur and universality when 
 naming it the States-General of literature and intel- 
 ligence. It is this last Fontenelle whom M. Flourens 
 has exposed to our gaze, enlightened and cleansed from 
 all his false taste. Our honoured contemporary has, so 
 to speak, unveiled the statue of Fontenelle, and only 
 dwelt upon the noble qualities of his mind. We will 
 go back to the early career of this scientific man. 
 
 Fontenelle, who was born at Rouen, in February, 
 1657, was, as we know, nephew, on his mother's side, 
 of the two celebrate(J Comeilles. At the first glance, 
 
202 FONTENELLE. 
 
 it seems an irony on the part of nature to have made 
 him nephew of the man who created the heroic souls 
 of Polyeudus, of the aged Horace^ and so many other 
 sublime and impetuous-hearted characters ; for Fonten- 
 elle's soul was singularly even and entirely exempt 
 from passion and flame. Nevertheless, he greatly 
 resembled his mother, the Corneilles' own sister. He 
 remarked, with his characteristic indifference, which 
 was not even influenced by feelings of filial delicacy : 
 "My father was a fool, but my mother was clever ; she 
 belonged to the sect of the Quietists ; she was a gentle, 
 sweet woman, who would often say to me. My son, 
 you will he damned; but the idea did not appear to 
 cause her any sorrow." 
 
 In order to point out a certain existing degree of 
 resemblance between Fontenelle and his illustrious 
 uncle, I deem one remark essential, and I address it 
 to those who find a pleasure in pondering over these 
 subtle shades of similarity. The great Corneille 
 possessed, with all his high qualities, one I should 
 not exactly designate as wit in abundance, but rather 
 explain it as copiousness of hel-esprit. When his 
 dramatis personce cease to be lofty and passionate, or 
 rather, the moment they have uttered their sublime 
 words, they continue to reason beyond measure ; they 
 speak from their head, not from their heart ; in their 
 case the brain takes the place of the heart ; they dissect 
 ideas, and reduce them to the quintessence of thought. 
 Let us for an instant picture to ourselves a Corneille 
 stripped of his warmth, his inspiration of heart and 
 soul, and then ask of ourselves what he would be if 
 reduced to the mere cold and sapless condition of an 
 accurate and astute reasoner. There existed in Thomas 
 Corneille the secondary and purely mental qualities 
 of his illustrious brother. In his case, however, they 
 
FONTENELLE, 203 
 
 were more emphasized, so to speak, in the first draft; 
 in him they were not held in check, or rather, as we 
 might suggest, not gathered together under the shadow 
 of genius. Thomas was, nevertheless, not quite lacking 
 in fervour and poetical fire. In Fontenelle, however, 
 this purely mental quality alone composed the whole 
 man. He was all brain ; Nature, who had doubly 
 gifted his noble uncle, entirely forgot the heart in his 
 case. 
 
 Already in early youth, Fontenelle evinced all the 
 qualities of an exact and attentive mind. He first of 
 all composed ingenious and subtle lines in Latin ; then 
 he wrote elegant French verses, merely displaying taste 
 for that which pertains to intelligence and thought. 
 He possessed a singular faculty of analysis, and was 
 gifted with a rare and delicate power of expression.* 
 He visited Paris when he was quite young, and 
 after he was eighteen he frequently journeyed to the 
 capital. He did not, however, take up his abode there 
 imtil towards 1687, at the age of thirty years. The 
 tone of his first literary efforts bore the unmistakeable 
 stamp of the provinces. Since the time of Villon, 
 Molifere, Voltaire, and Beaumarchais, the Parisians have 
 ceased to express themselves in a manner similar to 
 his. Born in a romantic middle-class family, dating 
 from a period prior to that of Louis XIV., Fontenelle 
 remained somewhat backward as regards the literary 
 style of the day, though later on he was singularly in 
 advance of the times in relation to philosophy. 
 
 His uncle and god-father, Thomas Corneille, directed 
 his first literary steps in the paper entitled Le Mer- 
 cure Galant, and guided him in his early attempts in 
 
 * There are some new and accurate details to be found in the 
 Biography of Fontenelle by M. Charma (1846), in relation to 
 Fontenelle'a family and his early literary ventures. 
 
204 FONTENELLE. 
 
 histrionic writing. Eacine and Boileau ridiculed this 
 fledgling, this finical, backward Normandy provincial, 
 who arrived by coach in Paris in the nick of time to 
 find himself hissed in a musical tragedy, and applauded 
 in his sonnet on Orontes. However, in Fontenelle's 
 first work in prose {TIm New Dialogues of the Dead, 
 published in 1683), his philosophical tendency began 
 to make ' itself manifest, foreshadowing the heights 
 he might some day attain. This production contains, 
 under a somewhat cold but ingenious and elegant style, 
 liberal and unconstrained thoughts in relation to human 
 folly. With a cool sagacity, he discourses on the 
 foolishness of humanity, as exemplified throughout all 
 ages in the different beliefs and the diverse modes of 
 apparel. The famous discussion on the Superiority of 
 Ancient to Modern Times, was on the eve of breaking 
 out. Fontenelle, in his Dialogue between Socrates and 
 Montaigne, touched on this point with a few telling 
 strokes, worthy of the pen of a Saint-Evremond. But 
 Boileau was neither sufficiently patient nor philo- 
 sophical to seek to enjoy a healthy thought if expressed 
 in a style essentially unhealthy ; and in his first works, 
 Fontenelle presented to his readers truth enclosed, so 
 to speak, in a bonhonnih'e, absolutely as if he were 
 offering them sugar-plums or pastils. Or, if another 
 illustration is preferred, his philosophy was arranged as 
 a minuet on the melodies of M. de Benserade. 
 
 The Diverse Letters of M. the Chevalier cP Her 
 
 which Fontenelle published in 1683, at the same time 
 as his Dialogues^ are all couched in an equally arti- 
 ficial language, and were written in such a way as to 
 give the vantage to his enemies. We cannot glean a 
 thorough knowledge of the primitive Fontenelle, of his 
 instinctive and early taste, until we have read these 
 Letters, bearing the impress of the most consummate 
 
FONTENELLE. 205 
 
 and nauseous affectation of wit. There we find tlie 
 ideal of Fontenelle's imagination, the flowers of his 
 spring ; and what a spring ! Everything appears to 
 be decorated, painted, and perfumed with musk. They 
 are letters in the style of Voiture, addressed to various 
 people on chosen subjects, some of which have relation 
 to sentiment, while others are written in a tone of 
 raillery. Fontenelle has a singular way of discussing 
 love-making, of dissecting it thread by thread, while 
 he explains its economy and its hushandiy (this is 
 really the word he uses). "I will wait fifteen or 
 twenty years, if you wish it," writes the Chevalier to 
 the lovely ladies who correspond with him. "Time 
 costs me nothing as regards such beautiful creatures as 
 yourselves. Must it be years ? "Well, let it be years. 
 I have nothing more agreeable to do. ... 7 will arouse 
 you from your languor." Fontenelle feels that he has a 
 long life before him, and he tells himself he can wait 
 for the fruits of the conquests he undertakes. Against 
 a few really pretty subtle passages to be found in these 
 Letters, there are, on the other hand, dozens which 
 are simply strokes of affectation ; for instance : " Love is 
 the income of beauty, and he who sees beauty without 
 experiencing love, withholds its income in a manner that 
 cries out for vengeance." 
 
 After this expatiation on love, which he considers to 
 be the income of beauty, Fontenelle enters, with the 
 business-like air of an attorney, into all the details 
 relating to acquittance : " You know that when any one 
 has paid off a debt, he is anxious to secure a release, 
 or rather, obtain a receipt to that effect. I discharge the 
 debt of love I owe to you, but I declare at the same 
 time the fact that I have acquitted myself." We must 
 bear in mind the fact that, throughout Fontenelle's 
 love-making, it is again the Normandy element which 
 
2o6 FONTENELLE. 
 
 predominates — that essentially provincial element of 
 materialism and calculation. In fact, in these Letters, 
 love is treated as a matter of addition and subtraction ; he 
 introduces, as we have just seen, the question of legal acts 
 and acquittances ; and in one place he also keeps account 
 of the deficits. But wherefore take any heed of these 
 defects? One might perhaps remark: Wherefore? 
 Fontenelle surely retrieved them through his later pro- 
 ductions — those productions bearing the impress of a 
 vast and noble mind ;— but no. Take him, for instance, 
 in his most lofty and majestic moments ; take him 
 writing the Eulogium on Newton — that splendid work, 
 the principal portions of which M. Flourens has so aptly 
 pointed out. After a lucid illustration of scientific 
 systems, after manifold simple and affecting biographical 
 touches, how does Fontenelle conclude his criticism? 
 *' He " (Newton) " left at his death," he observes, " about 
 thirty- two thousand pounds sterling in moveable goods, 
 being something like seven hundred thousand pounds 
 in our money. M. Leibniz, his rival, died rich also, 
 though considerably less so than Newton. Leibniz left 
 a tolerably large sum of reserve funds. These rare 
 examples deserve to be remembered." This material 
 conclusion, which crowns in such a peculiar manner the 
 homage rendered to the greatest scientific genius of 
 modern times, will not astonish those who have already 
 
 noticed, in the Letters from the Chevalier d'Her , 
 
 all the calculation and financial similes which Fontenelle, 
 even when young, brought into questions of sentiment 
 and love. 
 
 He frankly introduced this spirit of calculation into 
 every subject. In his little treatise On Happiness, he 
 advocates, before all else, the importance of looking to 
 the material things of this life ; and after we have justly 
 estimated the amount of pleasure or trouble they may 
 
FONTENELLE, 207 
 
 bring us, he further exhorts us to merely cling to 
 those objects on which we can depend, and in which we 
 find the greatest hope and the least uncertainty. " It is 
 merely a question of calculation," he remarks, "and 
 Wisdom should always hold counters in her hand." 
 Counters for counting the points — that was his ideal of 
 philosophy. We could never more appropriately quote 
 the following words of Vauvenargues than after reading 
 Fontenelle's early works : " We require soul in order to 
 possess taste." Despite his abundant mental qualities, 
 Fontenelle is lacking in taste, for in him the heart and 
 soul are absent ; for the pectus and the affectus (as the 
 ancient authors would say) never appeal to him. 
 Taste — that is, a species of taste — only developed itself 
 in him later on, after years of astute thought and 
 reflection. 
 
 The three or four Letters of the Chevalier d'Her 
 
 which revolve on the question of the clandestine mar- 
 riage of a supposed cousin, offer another trait character- 
 istic of Fontenelle's youth. He assumes that a cousin 
 of the Chevalier's is compelled for some time to conceal 
 the fact of her marriage with a certain gallant gentleman, 
 BO as not to vex an old aunt of the latter from whom he 
 expects a large inheritance (it is again a question of 
 money). One should see how the Chevalier (that is to 
 say, Fontenelle) jokes about this clandestine marriage, 
 which obliges this virtuous cousin to study the arts of 
 dissimulation, and to hypocritically endeavour to pre- 
 serve her maidenly appearance : " You will still belong 
 to the amiable troop of girls who will appear as your 
 equals, and who will perhaps be so." She will have to 
 receive her husband in secret, and to treat him with 
 ceremonious reserve before other people. "These are 
 the pleasures of virtue that I propose to you," observes 
 the Chevalier, in writing to his cousin. He persistently 
 
2o8 FONTENELLE, 
 
 pursues a tone of pleasantry, and is occasionally even 
 indelicate in discussing this equivocal position. A few 
 light, malicious strokes of wit might be pardonable, 
 but four letters overflowing with loose suggestions tend 
 somewhat to exhaust our stock of indulgence. It has 
 been aptly remarked that these Letters on the clandestine 
 marriage are imbued with all the spirit of the Gallic 
 gaudriole (obscene joke) ; but here the gaudriole is 
 singularly devoid of anything like verve.* 
 
 It were unjustly severe to dwell longer on the subject 
 of his first works. Nevertheless, after reading these 
 Letters, how well we can understand the epigrams of 
 Kacine, Boileau, and Jean-Baptiste Kousseau, written 
 in relation to Fontenelle. We are bound to perceive 
 the truth of the picture, in which La Bruyere has 
 represented him in the flower of his youth. 
 
 " Ascagne is a sculptor, Hegion a founder, Eschine a 
 fuller, and Cydias {that is to say, Fontenelle) a bel-esprit ; 
 it is his profession. He has a sign, a workshop, bespoken 
 work, and companions, who work under him. . . . No 
 matter whether you require prose or verse, he is equally 
 successful in the one as in the other. If you ask him to 
 write letters of condolence, or letters on the occasion of an 
 absence, he will undertake them without hesitation ; if you 
 require them ready-made, you have only to enter his shop 
 and take your choice. He has a friend, whose only 
 function on earth appears to have been that of extolling him 
 for a long time to a certain set of friends into whose 
 houses he has at last introduced him, as a man of rare 
 and exquisite conversation ; and there, similar to the vocalist 
 who sings and the musician who plays his lute before those 
 
 * In volume xx. p. 58, of the Works of Frederick the Great 
 (1852), in the correspondence between Darget and the King, 
 there exists a gaudriole in verse, written by Fontenelle at the 
 age of ninety-five years. 
 
FONTENELLE. 209 
 
 to whom this performance has been promised, Cydias, after 
 having coughed, raised his cuff, stretched out his hand, and 
 opened his fingers, gravely gives utterance to his quint- 
 essential thoughts and sopJdsticated arguments" 
 
 Eead the whole of this portrait, follow the conversa- 
 tion of Cydias — Fontenelle — whom La Bruyere so 
 graphically depicts. Contemplate him as he appeared 
 in society in the first flush of youth, with all the lustre 
 of his natural ability, and already perfect as regards 
 tact and tone. We see him exhibiting no imdue haste 
 to speak, waiting quietly till every one has uttered his 
 word, then, with a half-smile, gracefully delivering 
 his contradictions and his paradoxes, the which La 
 Bruyere esteems impertinences. The latter fails to add 
 that these impertinences might often have been truth 
 in disguise, or at least a near approach to truth. La 
 Bruyere's portrait of Fontenelle conveys to our mind 
 a great lesson ; it shows us how an able painter, an 
 astute critic, can sometimes be mistaken through 
 trilling the truth without mentioning everything, and 
 by failing to remember that in our strange and complex 
 human organism, the most strongly-marked faults and 
 most ridiculous characteristics are never incompatible 
 \vitli some superior quality. 
 
 However, before pronouncing a verdict against 
 La Bruyere, I would fain draw the attention of my 
 • readers to the first volume of the Nouveaux Melanges, 
 by Mme. Necker, in which there exists the extract 
 of a conversation of Mme. Geoff lin in reference 
 to Fontenelle. Certainly nobody possessed a more 
 thorough knowledge of the real Fontenelle than 
 Mme. de Geoffrin, she who had spent her life 
 with him, ultimately acting as his executrix. The 
 principal peculiarities she accords to this exceptional 
 character, are, in measure, exactly the same as 
 o 
 
2IO FONTENELLE. 
 
 those we have seen engraved by La Bruyere. "He 
 never laughed,'"' says Mme. GeofFrin. "One day I said 
 to him, 'Monsieur de Fontenelle, you have never 
 laughed.' * No,' he replied, ' I have never emitted an 
 Ah ! ah ! ah ! ' That is the idea he held in regard to 
 laughter : he merely smiled at anything witty ; but 
 he never experienced any strong feeling." Following 
 the tone of the subject, I will allow myself to add, 
 that if he had never emitted an Ah/ ah I with far 
 greater reason had he never emitted an Oh ! oh ! oh / — 
 that is to say, he never admired anything. " He had 
 never wept," continues Mme. Geoffrin ; " he had never 
 been in a rage ; he had never run ; and, as he never 
 aqted from motives of sentiment, he never received 
 impressions from other men. He had never interrupted 
 any one; he would listen to his interlocutor to the very 
 end, without losing anything ; he was n^ver in a hurry 
 to speak ; and if you had brought any accusation against 
 him, he would have listened the whole day to your 
 impeachments without uttering a single word." We 
 can hardly fail to perceive that this Fontenelle of 
 ninety years, and La Bruyere's Fontenelle of thirty, 
 the one painted by an enemy, the other by a friend, 
 are yet the very same man. I will not continue the 
 ([notation of this striking description given on genuine 
 authority. In Mme. Geoffrin's portrayal, Fontenelle's 
 character is laid bare before us. His purely intel- 
 lectual nature appeared to be deprived of the greater 
 portion of the feelings and impressions that have fallen 
 to the share of ordinary men, and from an early age 
 he governed his life on the principle that it is best to 
 avoid action as far as it lies in our power. " He who 
 wishes to be happy," he observed, "reduces and con- 
 iines himself as much as possible. He has these two 
 characteristics : he seldom changes his habitation, and 
 
FONTENELLE. 211 
 
 dms not care in particular for amj haUtation" Mme. 
 Geoffrin shows ns Fontenelle according to his own 
 avowal : " When he took possession of any new quarters, 
 he let the things remain as he found them ; he would 
 never have thought of either removing or adding a 
 single nail." He remained unaffected by all that 
 pleases and amuses other men ; he neither cared for 
 beautiful music nor fine pictures. Everything, with 
 the exception of some new thought, a witty sally, or 
 epigram uttered in the course of conversation, failed to 
 interest him. In conversing, he always seemed to be 
 expecting another epigram in response to those he 
 uttered ; no man has ever made wittier remarks than 
 he. His whole person seemed in harmony with the 
 tone of his mind. His very maladies bore the impress 
 of indolence and tranquillity : " He had the gout 
 without suffering any pain; his foot merely turned 
 into cotton; he would rest it on an arm-chair, and 
 that wa^ all." Neither his body nor his soul had ever 
 felt a sting. 
 
 This portrait of Fontenelle by Mme. Geoffrin 
 might be appositely annexed to an excellent criticism 
 by Grimm ("Correspondence," February 1757), which, 
 severe as it may appear, is based on the jDrecej^ts of 
 good taste. All these various estimates of Fontenelle 
 agree with each other, and in their entirety form a 
 harmonious whole. Even the religious historiographer, 
 the Abb6 Trublet, confirms by his writings these 
 opinions, though he may in his own heart have believed 
 otherwise. The Abbe admits that his hero had never 
 loved but once, that his only kind of tenderness had 
 been the affection he fostered for his friend and com- 
 panion in childhood, M. Brunei, who had been his 
 second self. Fontenelle was seen to shed tears of deep 
 sorrow at the death of his comrade. This loss occu- 
 
212 FONTENELLE, 
 
 sioned him the one grief of his long life, when his 
 philosophy for the first and only time forsook him,— his 
 friend's death humanized him for one day. . This 
 friendship had somehow found means of creeping into 
 his heart from his tenderest childhood. Only this once 
 were the counters of Wisdom found faulty. 
 
 La Bruyfere's censorious sketch has led us far away, 
 and we shall be compelled to retrace our footsteps, in 
 order to extricate from its covering of insipidity and 
 frivolity, Fontenelle's philosophic and more serious 
 frame of mind. At an early age, Fontenelle displayed 
 all the faults of a nature without an ideal and without 
 passion ; but he had all the qualities compatible with 
 these kind of purely intellectual organizations. He 
 was a follower of the philosophy of ^Descartes, but no 
 blind disciple, as he enjoyed the liberty of judging his 
 master ; he believed there existed an intermediate r6le 
 between that of the savant and that of the thorougli 
 man of the world ; that our intellect, which on the one 
 hand serves us for the purpose of gleaning knowledge, 
 might on the other be of use for the expression of this 
 very knowledge. He therefore struck the golden mean, 
 concluding it was quite feasible to combine his natural 
 disposition for the exact sciences with his taste for 
 an agreeable and elegant mode of expression. He 
 solved this problem in his work entitled Interviews 
 on the Plurality of Worlds, which, appearing in 1686, 
 met with overwhelming success. In this singular book, 
 which unites instruction with pleasure, he introduces 
 the truths of Copernicus enveloped in a style d la 
 Scudery. Despite this unclassical mode of treatment, 
 truth gains the victory, and renders us oblivious to all 
 defects. Let Boileau and La Bruyere ridicule as often 
 as they please the finical Fontenelle, he nevertheless 
 is more philosophical than they. In his Interviews, 
 
FONTENELLE. 213 
 
 Fontenelle, as we all know, pretends to be in tlie 
 country, strolling after siij)per through the park in the 
 company of a beautiful marquise. The conversation 
 happens to turn on the subject of the stars ; the lady 
 requesting a few explanations in astronomy, Fontenelle 
 pretends that he wishes to discuss some other question. 
 "No," he replied, "I will not allow myself to be 
 reproached for having discoursed on philosophy in a 
 wood at ten o'clock at night, with the most charming 
 person I know. Seek your philosophers elsewhere." 
 Nevertheless, he would have been vexed had he been 
 taken at his word, for it is precisely in this admixture 
 of philosophy, natural science, and gallantry, that he 
 excels. In addressing his lovely marquise, he appeals 
 to t}ie minds of all ignorant people, at the same time 
 taking a delight in picturing them under her coquet- 
 tish form, and he thereby sustains a tone of elegant 
 banter, which necessitates his putting into play all the 
 subtleties of his plastic intellect. In thus concealing 
 numerous truths under the cloak of frivolity, he failed 
 to incur the wrath of the theologians of the period, 
 who were still uninitiated in many things. Fontenelle 
 frequently disguises truth in the garb of an amorous 
 poem, thereby securing it a surer passport. 
 
 From the very first evening he endeavours to explain 
 to the marquise the secret bf the natural laws of evolu- 
 tion and compensation, and finds nothing easier than to 
 compare the grand spectacle unfolded before his gaze, 
 to the scenery of the opera. The philosopher who is 
 in search of natural causes is similar to the mechanic 
 seated in the pit of the Opera - house, who strives to 
 discover the mainspring of certain scenic effects of light 
 and atmosphere. With the help of this simple com- 
 parison, Fontenelle finds means to pass on to the 
 principal physical systems that have alternately been 
 
214 FONTENELLE. 
 
 suggested by the different pliilosopliers. Notliing could 
 be more keenly interesting. Nothing could be clearer. 
 In following Fontenelle's provisionary illustrations, 
 and his expositions in reference to the natural suc- 
 cession of errors that have been committed in the 
 research of scientific truth, we begin to understand how 
 easily men must, from the very first, have yielded 
 to the belief in these erroneous theories. When he 
 comes to the question whether it is the earth that is 
 the centre round which the whole universe revolves, or 
 whether, on the contrary, it is the earth that describes 
 a revolution in the firmament, he draws those moral 
 and tangible comparisons that enable the reader to grasp 
 the pith of the argument : — " You must have noticed, 
 if you please, that we are by nature all constructed 
 like a certain Athenian madman of whom you have 
 already heard. He believed all the ships that landed 
 at the port of Piraeus belonged to him. Our mad- 
 ness consists in believing that the whole of nature, 
 without exception, is destined for our use ; and when 
 our philosophers are asked the reason of the existence 
 of such numberless fixed stars, of which a small quantity 
 would suffice to perform the same function they all 
 perform, they coolly reply that the stars serve to rejoice 
 their sight." So as to avoid resembling this maniac of 
 Piraeus, we are already tempted to abandon the theory of 
 Ptolemseus, and to embrace the doctrines of Copernicus. 
 I can only convey a slight idea of Fontenelle's art of 
 instilling science. He possesses this faculty to the 
 highest degree. As regards astronomy and natural 
 science, you have only to let him follow his own course, 
 and, as it has been aptly remarked, he will caple you 
 into truth. 
 
 In what a diff"erent manner did Pascal study nature 
 and the heavens ! We are unconsciously reminded of 
 
FONTENELLE, 215 
 
 the glorious commencement of his Thoughts: "Let 
 man contemplate Nature in its entirety, in its grand 
 and lofty majesty. Let him cast from his sight the 
 mean objects that surround him.; let him contemplate 
 that dazzling light, placed like an eternal lamp to 
 illuminate the universe ; let the earth appear to him as 
 a mere speck as compared with the vast circle that 
 planet describes. . . ." Instead of these noble and 
 truly august expressions, Fontenelle, in referring to 
 the celestial laws, purposely makes use of contracted 
 similes. In speaking of the essential law of Nature, — 
 Nature who performs all her operations at the least 
 possible expense, and displays an extraordinary 
 economy in her great household, — he will tell you it 
 is only through these laws that we can catch the plan 
 on which she has based her operations. Pascal felt, in 
 trembling and in fear, the majesty and the infinity of 
 Nature, while Fontenelle only appears to spy out her 
 skill. This man is utterly devoid of the instinctive 
 knowledge of celestial magnitude — that knowledge pos- 
 sessed by Pascal, Dante, Milton, and even BufFon. He is 
 fully aware that he lacks this faculty ; he contracts the 
 firmament in endeavouring to explain it. Yet, on one 
 point, Fontenelle is even superior to Pascal himself ; 
 for in his description of the vast spectacle, which he 
 has so admirably gauged both in its moral and physical 
 sjiirit, Pascal has, in one place, corrected his own 
 phrase, contracted and altered his own words, in order 
 to represent the sun as revolving round the earth, and 
 not the earth as revolving round the sun. His great 
 mind, fostering the remains of superstition, recoils 
 before the truth of Copernicus, and lets himself remain 
 in doubt. Incomparably inferior to Pascal in soul and 
 imagination, Fontenelle, by right of his liberal, un- 
 prejudiced, accurate, and impartial mind, slowly gains 
 
2i6 FONTENELLE. 
 
 the advantage, and at the close of that century of 
 grandeur — a century of illusions and majestic rever- 
 ence — he dares to perceive the reality, and express in 
 pleasant words the natural truths such as they are. 
 Therein lies his originality, therein lies his glory. In 
 spite of his lightness and his amusing mannerisms, 
 in spite of his affected familiarity of expression, which 
 at times appears like a carping against the majesty of 
 Nature, Fontenelle differs vastly from the frivolous 
 writers who treat serious subjects without first seeking 
 the truth itself. From the year 1686, he undoubtedly 
 belonged to the family of strong, positive, and serious 
 minds, whatever be the garb enveloping his thoughts. 
 He was an enemy of ignorance, not an armed enemy, 
 but one who was cool, patient, scornful in his gentle- 
 ness, and, in his peculiar way, more irreconcilable 
 than he himself believed. He is so given to believe 
 that ignorance and stupidity are natural and universal, 
 that nothing under these heads ever astonishes or 
 irritates him. Nevertheless, he renders full justice to 
 the progress of modern science, of which he was, in 
 his way, an organ and an instrument. "In truth, I 
 believe more and more," he observes, " that a certain 
 kind of genius has never been away from Europe, or 
 at least has never ventured very far beyond its limits." 
 This European genius, which represents method, cor- 
 rectness, and analysis, and which, according to him, 
 adapts itself to every kind of subject, owes, he believes, 
 its discovery and its application to the illustrious 
 Descartes ; but he also believes it could have been 
 better applied than he (Descartes) ever applied it. 
 According to M. Flourens, Fontenelle has, historically 
 speaking, rendered the same service to Descartes as 
 Voltaire has rendered to Newton. He has contributed 
 to popularizing him, and his efforts have tended 
 
FONTENELLE. 217 
 
 to the introduction of his works to the clubs 
 and the salons. Fontenelle's book of the Worlds^ 
 offers, in a certain way, two diflferent aspects. He 
 appears to be writing under the influence of two 
 perfectly dissimilar orders of mind. He has given us 
 the first model of such works, a science adorned, 
 embellished, and expounded in so lucid a manner that 
 it can be easily comprehended by women ; he has 
 bequeathed to us, so to speak, the prototype of those 
 hybrid writings, such as have, on diverse subjects, 
 proceeded from the pen of a Pougens and an Aime- 
 Martin — those rivals of Demoustier rather than of 
 Fontenelle. But apart from this frivolous feature in 
 Fontenelle's writings, we cannot fail to perceive in 
 them the strong influence of utility and wisdom — an 
 influence prelusive to that which the greatest minds 
 have not since disdained to exercise. Employing a 
 less agreeable and ornamental mode of treatment, 
 though none the less bent upon adhering to a thorough 
 clearness of exposition, Buff'on, Cuvier, and even 
 Humboldt himself in French, have not hesitated to 
 write certain portions of their works for the perusal of 
 the ignorant, and to publish them with a view to their 
 being read by every class of reader. The first model 
 of this style of lucid and agreeable illustration has been 
 given by Fontenelle in his Worlds and elsewhere. 
 
 Even were we to criticise Fontenelle in the works 
 he produced towards the age of thirty, at that period 
 when La Bruyere both lashed him with all justice 
 and misconstrued him with injustice, even then we 
 should find him thoroughly formed as regards his ideas 
 and his opinions. In his History of the Oracles, so 
 highly appreciated by Bayle (1687), he wages war 
 against the remains of that idea of the Middle Ages 
 still anchored in many minds, which consisted in 
 
2i8 FONTENELLE. 
 
 believing that the ancient heathen oracles were de- 
 livered by demons. He proves that this supernatural 
 explanation is not at all necessary, and that before 
 seeking the cause of an effect, we should first of all 
 study the effect itself. "I am not so convinced of 
 our ignorance," he observes, " through the things that 
 exist, and the cause of which is unknown to us, but 
 through those that do not exist, and of which we find 
 the cause" Then he relates the famous story of the 
 golden tooth, which had grown, in the year 1593, in 
 the mouth of a Silesian child. All the erudites 
 commenced discussing this question of the golden 
 tooth, and several tales were written in relation to 
 it. "Nothing was lacking in such beautiful works," 
 says Fontenelle, "except the fact of the tooth being 
 really in gold. When a goldsmith tested it, he dis- 
 covered it was merely a gold-leaf that had been 
 applied to the tooth with considerable skill ; but the 
 erudites began by writing their books ; only afterwards 
 did they consult the goldsmith." In everything the 
 operations of Fontenelle resemble those of this gold- 
 smith ; he endeavours to strip everything of its 
 deceptive mantle. 
 
 In his Digression on the Ancients and the Moderns 
 (1688), he is right on nearly every point excepting that 
 of eloquence, and above all, on the question of poetry 
 — poetry which, in fact, he utterly fails to be moved 
 by, but whose spirit   he believes he is animated by and 
 possesses. Entirely denuded of the spirit of poetry 
 and idealism, and that fertility of emotion which 
 generally accompanies the poetical faculty, Fontenelle 
 on every occasion speaks of poetry like his friend La 
 Motte, that is to say, in the manner of a man who 
 is colour-blind. He cannot imagine that in bygone 
 days, at a certain period in the world's existence, 
 
FONTENELLE, 2 1 9 
 
 under a particular climate, and under natural and 
 social conditions that can never exist again, there 
 could have lived a happy race, blooming in its fullest 
 flower — a race that we modern people surpass in every- 
 thing excepting in that early delicate development 
 of mind, in that first Divine charm of poesy. Fon- 
 tenelle is unable to fully appreciate ancient Greece ; he 
 fails to realize it is pervaded by a spring-like, sacred 
 breath. In all else he is at the fount of truth, and 
 has an eye to the future. "Nature," he remarks, 
 " holds in her hand a certain substance always of the 
 same consistency, which she incessantly moulds and 
 remoulds, creating from this substance men, animals, 
 and plants." He concludes by observing, that as she 
 has not broken her mould, there is no reason why she 
 should not produce from the same form, illustrious 
 modern men, as grand in their way as those of ancient 
 times. The erudites were horrified at thus seeing a 
 literary question reduced to a question of physics and 
 natural history. Fontenelle grasps with his mind 
 even those things he has never felt. We can hardly 
 refrain from smiling, in seeing him arguing against 
 the idolatrous admirers of the ancients, in favour of the 
 powerful modern organizations, so perfectly dissimilar 
 to his own ; he pleads for Moliere, whom he knows, 
 and for Shakespeare, whom he does not know. He 
 calmly surmises the future occurrence of extraordinary 
 events. " Some day we shall ourselves be considered 
 as people of former times," he remarks, "and let us 
 hope that, by virtue of the same superstition which we 
 foster as regards the ancients, we shall in our turn he 
 admired to excess in centuries to come : God only knows 
 with what contempt the beaux-esprits of that future 
 period will be treated in comparison to ourselves, 
 though they may perhaps be Americans" It is thus 
 
22C FONTENELLE. 
 
 tliat Fontenelle, the man of the broadest mind, who 
 heeds not time nor place, suggests the views and 
 changes of the future, and amuses himself in thus 
 coolly considering them. As he is purely indifferent to 
 the feelings of others, he adheres to his own opinions 
 not only in all good faith, hut with a kind of audacity 
 and deliberate wantonness. His marked tone of in- 
 difference appeared to the upholders of antiquity the 
 height of insolence, and Boileau in his anger furiously 
 denounced him. " It is a pity," he remarked one day 
 in relation to La Motte, " that he should have become 
 contaminated by that little Fontenelle ! " 
 
 Fontenelle was forty years of age when he was 
 named permanent Secretary of the Academy of Sciences 
 (1697). He had now published all the youthful pro- 
 ductions of his pen, and during the sixty years of his 
 secretaryship he continued to draw on the resources of 
 his able mind in the writing of purer, more serious, 
 and more powerful works. Henceforth his great mind 
 held his bel-esprit in check. There are times when 
 this second Fontenelle, so intellectual, so impartial, 
 and so emotionless, appears to me like Goethe, but 
 a Goethe contracted and somewhat less majestic. A 
 French refugee from Berlin, of the name of Jordan, who 
 visited Fontenelle in 1733, speaks of him in terms that 
 give us a glimpse of him under his universally respected 
 aspect : " M. de Fontenelle has a magnificent domicile ; 
 he appears very well off, and to possess a rich share of 
 the favours of Dame Fortune. Though he has already 
 attained a considerable age, there is still great vivacity 
 and penetration in the expression of his eye. We can 
 see that Nature has taken a pleasure in shaping this 
 man." 
 
 M. Flourens has delineated with great perspicuity 
 this latter Fontenelle ; not only has he divested him 
 
FONTENELLE. 221 
 
 of his peculiarities, but also of his pettiness. He has 
 shown him on the threshold of the sanctuary, invested 
 with the dignity of science, as its first exponent in the 
 eyes of all men, withal devoid of solemnity, yet never 
 lowering science except with a noble and decent famili- 
 arity. Fontenelle has worked up to perfection his 
 succession of Eulogiums. They are ingenious, veridical, 
 and concise. Everything that is obscure is therein 
 elucidated, all technicalities are stated in general terms, 
 while each savant is only appraised for the lasting and 
 important services he has rendered at the shrine of 
 scientific knowledge. M. Flourens has remarked that 
 ^^ He praises by facts that depict character.'' 
 
 Fontenelle was the first man who, as permanent 
 Secretary of the Academy of Sciences, ever wrote in 
 French. His predecessor, Du Hamel, still wrote in 
 Latin. Fontenelle was therefore the innovator of the 
 elegant and worldly mode of expounding science. His 
 work was divided into two sections ; he compiled the 
 Extracts and wrote the analyses of the Academical 
 works, and composed the Eulogiums of the members of 
 the Academy. In the Extracts, he endeavours, before 
 all else, to explain all he expounds. He bore in mind 
 the principle that, in the teaching science, even the 
 certainty of results should not allow the exponent 
 to dispense with perspicuity, and that common reason 
 has the right at any moment to intervene and require 
 an explanation of the facts hidden from the uninitiated 
 by technical methods. In the Eulogiums on the Acade- 
 micians, he still retained his old ingenious and subtle 
 manner of treatment ; but his love of accuracy induced 
 him more and more to adopt a simplicity of style. 
 The simplicity of Fontenelle possesses, as the reader 
 may well imagine, a certain turn which prevents it 
 resembling that of any other writer. 
 
222 FONTENELLE. 
 
 It lias been justly remarked that his early writings 
 were characterized by a kind of contradiction, or rather 
 antithesis, between the tone, which was trivial and 
 precise, and the substance of the thoughts, which was 
 true and solid. This resulted in a disproportion and 
 lack of harmony, that made his style appear like a 
 continual epigram. At last, this affectation (for we 
 can call it by no other name) became, by dint of his 
 softening and curtailing it, his natural habit of thought. 
 It has been said that, as a writer, Fontenelle amhled 
 along where others ran, exerting all their strength 
 and gravity. This easy pace is especially agreeable to 
 women, and men of fastidious taste. His reasoning, 
 too, is unaggressive, and adapted without weakness to 
 the mundane mind. In the two prefaces of TJie History 
 of the Academy of Sciences (the History of 1699, and that 
 of 1666), his style has attained the height of perfection. 
 
 It is thus that his enlightened and healthy mind 
 ended by triumphing over his own early unhealthy 
 taste. Voltaire's behaviour may, in some way, have 
 helped to correct Fontenelle's style. Grimm has aptly 
 remarked, Voltaire had all the qualities of taste 
 precisely opposed to the defects of Fontenelle — un- 
 affectedness, sincerity, vivacity, frank and prompt 
 repartee, and spontaneity. Fontenelle, in company 
 with La Motte, was on the point of taking the sceptre 
 under the Eegency, and of giving the tone to the litera- 
 ture of the day, when Voltaire appeared, in the 7iick of 
 time, to neutralize in the public mind the effect of this 
 somewhat questionable influence, and, young as he was, 
 he insensibly warned the ultra- refined Academician, by 
 his example, that the time had come for him to court 
 a greater simplicity. Fontenelle, physically worn out 
 by old age, but as intellectual as ever, died on the 
 11th of January 1757, at the age of a hundred years 
 
FONTENELLE. 223 
 
 minus a month. The century had already entered 
 into the second and more tempestuous moiety of its 
 course. But do you not admire the opposition of 
 minds % The other day I spoke of Diderot. Fontenelle 
 and Diderot — where coukl we find a more striking 
 contrast ? Fontenelle, who indicates better than any 
 definition (as Fontanes has so ably remarked) the limits 
 of intellect and genius, and Diderot, on the other 
 hand, a kind of ebullient and extra vasated genius, who 
 could not restrict his powers within any confines ; the 
 other, who opens discreetly the portals of the century, 
 holding in his half-closed hand more truths than he 
 allows to escape, and who seems to murmur Husk at 
 every noise and every outbreak ; the other, who pro- 
 claims and preaches his doctrines in a loud voice, 
 generously scattering the seeds to the wind while he 
 ai)ostrophizes the future ; Fontenelle, who yet clings to 
 the theories of Descartes and to some of the correct 
 minds of the preceding century ; and Diderot, who in 
 tlie excess and vehemence of his speech seems already 
 to appeal to the ardent generations, headed by Mirabeau 
 and Danton. I bequeath to my readers the task of 
 completing the parallel, which every added detail 
 would render the more striking. Ag regards Fontenelle, 
 my conclusion will be brief. He remains unequalled 
 as regards his mental grasp, his longevity, his number- 
 less aptitudes, and as regards his union of rare qualities 
 with defects that ended by seasoning his very qualities. 
 He is far beyond the pale of ordinary writers, and 
 though not exactly a genius, he belongs to the order 
 of infinitely distinguished minds. In the natural 
 history of literature, he is entitled to be looked upon 
 as a singular individual and unique of his kind. 
 
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SAPPHO: 
 
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 Crowjt Svo. Price 6s, 
 
 Odes from the Greek Dramatists. 
 
 ^ransflateu into JL^ri'c ^etttfi bp Cnglijslj 
 Poet0 ano ^cl|)oIar)S. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 ALFRED POLLARD. 
 
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