Man rises early and walks through deserted roads and lanes; he fears
neither dew nor brambles, nor the action of the branches of hedges. He
gazes, listens, smells, pursues the birds, the wind, flowers, images.
Without haste, but nevertheless anxiously, for she has a delicate ear,
he seeks nature, whom he would surprise in her refuge; he finds her,
she is there; then, the twigs gently brushed away, he contemplates her
in the blue shadow of her retreat and, without having wakened her,
closing the curtain, he returns to his home. Before falling asleep, he
counts his images: "gently they are reborn at the beck of memory."
Jules Renard has given himself this name: the hunter of images. He
is a singularly fortunate and privileged hunter, for alone among his
colleagues, he only captures, beasts or little creatures, unpublished
prey. He scorns the known, or knows it not; his collection is only of
the rare and even unique heads, but which he is in no trouble to put
under lock, for they belong to him in such wise that a thief would
purloin them in vain. So penetrating and attested a personality has
something disconcerting, irritating and, according to some envious
persons, extravagant. "Do then as we do, take the old accumulated
metaphors from the common treasury; we go swiftly and it is very
convenient." But Jules Renard disbelieves in going swiftly. Though
unusually industrious, he produces little, and especially little at
a time, like those patient engravers who carve steel with geologic
slowness.
When studying a writer, one loves (it is an inveterate habit bequeathed
us by Sainte-Beuve) to discern his spiritual family, enumerate his
ancestors, establish learned connections, and note, at the very least,
the souvenirs of long readings, traces of influence and the mark of the
hand placed an instant on the shoulder. To whoever has traveled much
among books and ideas, this task is simple enough and often easy to
the point that it is necessary rather to refrain from it, not to vex
the ingenious arrangement of acquired originalities. I have not had
this scruple with Renard, but have wished to draw a sketch book; but
the odd animal is shown alone, and the leaves only contain, among the
arabesques, empty medallions.
To be begotten quite alone, to owe his mind only to himself, to write
(since it is a question of writing) with the certitude of achieving the
true new wine, of an unexpected, original and inimitable flavor, that
is what must be, to the author of _l'Écornifleur_ a legitimate motive
of joy and a very weighty reason for being less troubled than others
about posthumous reputation. Already, his _Poil-de-Carotte_, that so
curious type of the intelligent, artful, fatalistic child, has entered
into the very form of speech. The "Poil-de-Carotte, you must shut the
hens in each evening" equals the most famous words of the celebrated
como dies in burlesque truth, and he is at once Cyrano and Molière and
will not be robbed of this claim.
Originality being undeniably established, other merits of Jules Renard
are distinctness, precision, freshness; his pictures of life, Parisian
or rural, have the appearance of dry-point work, occasionally a little
thin, but well circumscribed, clear and alive. Certain fragments, more
shaded off and ample, are marvels of art, as for instance, _Une Famille
d'Arbres_.
"It is after having traversed a sun-parched plain that I
meet them.
"Because of the noise, they do not stand by the road's
edge. They inhabit the unploughed fields, near a fountain,
like lone birds.
"From afar they seem inscrutable. When I approach, their
trunks relax. They discreetly welcome me. I can repose and
refresh myself, but I divine that they observe and mistrust
me.
"They live together, the oldest in the center, and the
little ones, whose first leaves have just appeared, almost
everywhere, without ever dispersing.
"They take long to die, and they protect the standing dead
until they fall to dust.
"They caress each other with their long branches to be
assured that they are all there, like the blind. They
gesticulate with rage, if the wind puts itself out of
breath trying to uproot them. But among themselves, no
dispute. They only murmur agreement.
"I feel that they should be my real family. I will forget
the other. These trees by degrees will adopt me, and to
merit this, I understand what must be known.
"Already I know how to gaze at passing clouds.
"I know, too, how to rest in a spot.
"And I almost know how to be silent."
When the anthologies will hail this page, they will hardly have an
irony so fine and a poetry so true.