Literature of the Revolutionary School.--Its low estimation
in France.
Among many proofs of attentive kindness which I have received from my
Paris friends, their care to furnish me with a variety of modern
publications is not the least agreeable.
One fancies everywhere, that it is easy, by the help of a circulating
library, to know tolerably well what is going on at Paris: but this is
a mighty fond delusion; though sometimes, perhaps, our state may be
the more gracious from our ignorance.
One gentleman, to whom I owe much gratitude for the active good-nature
with which he seems willing to assist me in all my researches, has
given me much curious information respecting the present state of
literature and literary men in France.
In this department of human greatness, at least, those of the party
which has lost power and place have a most decided pre-eminence. Would
it be a pun to say that there is poetical justice in this?
The active, busy, bustling politicians of the hour have succeeded in
thrusting everything else out of place, and themselves into it. One
dynasty has been overthrown, and another established; old laws have
been abrogated, and hundreds of new ones framed; hereditary nobles
have been disinherited, and little men made great;--but amidst this
plenitude of destructiveness, they have not yet contrived to make any
one of the puny literary reputations of the day weigh down the renown
of those who have never lent their voices to the cause of treason,
regicide, rebellion, or obscenity. The literary reputations both of
Châteaubriand and Lamartine stand higher, beyond all comparison, than
those of any other living French authors: yet the first, with all his
genius, has often suffered his imagination to run riot, and the last
has only given to the public the leisure of his literary life. But
both of them are men of honour and principle, as well as men of
genius; and it comforts one's human nature to see that these qualities
will keep themselves aloft, despite whatever squally winds may blow,
or blustering floods assail them. That both Châteaubriand and
Lamartine belong rather to the imaginative than to the _positif_
class, cannot be denied; but they are renowned throughout the world,
and France is proud of them.
The most curious literary speculations, however, suggested by the
present state of letters in this country, are not respecting authors
such as these: they speak for themselves, and all the world knows
them and their position. The circumstance decidedly the most worthy of
remark in the literature of France at the present time, is the effect
which the last revolution appears to have produced. With the exception
of history, to which both Thiers and Mignet have added something that
may live, notwithstanding their very defective philosophy, no single
work has appeared since the revolution of 1830 which has obtained a
substantial, elevated, and generally acknowledged reputation for any
author unknown before that period: not even among all the unbridled
ebullitions of imagination, though restrained neither by decorum,
principle, nor taste,--not even here (excepting from one female[2]
pen, which might become, were it the pleasure of the hand that wields
it, the first now extant in the world of fiction,) has anything
appeared likely to survive its author; nor is there any writer who
during the same period has raised himself to that station in society,
by means of his literary productions, which is so universally accorded
to all who have acquired high literary celebrity in any country.
The name of M. Guizot was too well known before the revolution for
these observations to have any reference to him; and however much he
may have distinguished himself since July 1830, his reputation was
made before. There are, however, little writers in prodigious
abundance; and though as perfectly sure of the truth of what I have
here stated as that I am alive to write it, I should expect a terrible
riot about my ears, could such words be heard by the swarm of tiny
geniuses that settle in clusters, some on the newspapers, some on the
theatres, and some on the busy little printing-press of the
tale-tellers--could they catch me, I am sure I should be stung to
death.
How well I can fancy the clamour!... "Infamous libeller!" cries one;
"have not I achieved a reputation? Do I not receive yearly some
hundreds of francs for my sublime familiarity with sin and misery? and
are not my works read by 'Young France' with ecstasy? Is not this
fame?" "And I," says another,--"is it of such as I and my cotemporary
fellow-labourers in the vast field of new-ploughed speculation that
you speak?" "What call you reputation, woman?" says a third: "do not
the theatres overflow when I send murder, lust, and incest on the
stage, to witch the world with wondrous wickedness?" "And, I too,"
groans another,--"am I not famous? Are not my delicious tales of
unschooled nature in the hands of every free-born youth and tender
maid in this our regenerated Athens? Is not this fame, infamous
slanderer?"
Were I obliged to answer all this, I could only say, "_Arrangez-vous,
canaille!_ If you call this fame, take it, try it, make the most of
it, and see where you will be some dozen years hence."
Notwithstanding this extraordinary lack of great ability, however,
there never, I believe, was any period in which the printing-presses
of France worked so hard as at present. The revolution of 1830 seems
to have set all the minor spirits in motion. There is scarcely a boy
so insignificant, or a workman so unlearned, as to doubt his having
the power and the right to instruct the world. "Every breathing soul
in Paris took a part in this glorious struggle," says the recording
newspaper;--"Yes, all!" echoes the smutched mechanic, snorting and
snuffing the air with the intoxicating consciousness of imputed
power;--"Yes!" answer the _galopins_ one and all, "it is we, it is
we!" And then, like the restless witches on the barren heath that
their breath has blasted, the great reformers rouse themselves again,
and looking from the mischief they have done to the still worse that
remains behind, they mutter prophetically, "We'll do--we'll do--we'll
do!"
To me, I confess, it is perfectly astonishing that any one can be
found to class the writers of this restless _clique_ as "the literary
men of France." Yet it has been done; and it is not till the effects
of the popular commotion which brought them into existence has fully
subsided, that the actual state of French literature can be fairly
ascertained.
Béranger was not the production of that whirlwind: but, in truth, let
him sing what or when he will, the fire of genuine poetic inspiration
must perforce flash across the thickest mist that false principles can
raise around him. He is but a meteor perhaps, but a very bright one,
and must shine, though his path lie amongst unwholesome exhalations
and most dangerous pitfalls. But he cannot in any way be quoted as one
of the new-born race whose claim to genuine fame I have presumed to
doubt.
That flashes of talent, sparkles of wit, and bursts of florid
eloquence are occasionally heard, seen, and felt even from these, is,
however, certain: it could hardly be otherwise. But they blaze, and go
out. The oil which feeds the lamp of revolutionary genius is foul, and
such noxious vapours rise with the flame as must needs check its
brightness.
Do not, however, believe me guilty of such presumption as to give you
my own unsupported judgment as to the position which this "new school"
(as the _décousu_ folks always call themselves) hold in the public
esteem. Such a judgment could be little worth if unsupported; but my
opinion on this subject is, on the contrary, the result of careful
inquiry among those who are most competent to give information
respecting it.
When the names of such as are best known among this class of authors
are mentioned in society, let the politics of the circle be what they
may, they are constantly spoken of as a Paria caste that must be kept
apart.
"Do you know ---- ----?" has been a question I have repeatedly asked
respecting a person whose name is cited in England as the most
esteemed French writer of the age,--and so cited, moreover, to prove
the low standard of French taste and principle.
"No, madam," has been invariably the cold reply.
"Or ----?"
"No. He is not in society."
"Or ----?"
"Oh no! His works live an hour (too long!) and are forgotten."
Should I therefore, my friend, return from France with an higher idea
of its good taste and morality than I had when I entered it, think not
that my own standard of what is right has been lowered, but only that
I have had the pleasure of finding it differed much less than I
expected from that of our agreeable and hardly-judged neighbours on
this side the water. But I shall probably recur to this subject again;
and so, for the present, farewell!