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* * * * *
MASTERPIECES OF THE
MASTERS OF FICTION
OTHER BOOKS
BY
WILLIAM DUDLEY FOULKE
SLAV OR SAXON
LIFE OF OLIVER P. MORTON
MAYA (A Romance in Prose)
PROTEAN PAPERS
ANNOTATED TRANSLATION OF HISTORY OF THE LANGOBARDS
BY PAUL THE DEACON
MAYA (A Dramatic Poem)
DOROTHY DAY
MASTERPIECES OF THE
MASTERS OF FICTION
BY
WILLIAM DUDLEY FOULKE
NEW YORK
THE COSMOPOLITAN PRESS
1912
Copyright, 1912, by
William Dudley Foulke
MASTERPIECES OF THE
MASTERS OF FICTION
PREFACE
A short time ago I determined that instead of taking up any new works
of fiction I would go over the masterpieces which I had read long since
and see what changes time had made in my impressions of them. To do
this I chose some forty of the most distinguished authors and decided
to select one story from each,--the best one, if I could make up my
mind which that was--at all events, one which stood in the first rank
of his productions. I determined to read these in succession, one after
another, in the shortest time possible, and thus get a comprehensive
notion of the whole. Of course under such conditions exhaustive
criticism would be out of the question, but I thought that the general
perspective and the comparative merits and faults of each work would
appear more vividly in this manner than in any other way.
The productions of living authors were discarded, as well as all
fiction in verse.
Arranged chronologically, the selections I made were as follows:
1535 RABELAIS “Gargantua”
1605-1615 CERVANTES “Don Quixote”
1715-1735 LE SAGE “Gil Blas”
1719 DEFOE “Robinson Crusoe”
1726 SWIFT “Gulliver’s Travels”
1733 PRÉVOST “Manon Lescaut”
1749 FIELDING “Tom Jones”
1759 JOHNSON “Rasselas”
1759 VOLTAIRE “Candide”
1759-1767 STERNE “Tristram Shandy”
1766 GOLDSMITH “The Vicar of Wakefield”
1774 GOETHE “The Sorrows of Young Werther”
1787 SAINT PIERRE “Paul and Virginia”
1807 CHATEAUBRIAND “Atala”
1813 AUSTEN “Pride and Prejudice”
1813 FOUQUÉ “Undine”
1814 CHAMISSO “Peter Schlemihl”
1820 IRVING “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”
1820 SCOTT “Ivanhoe”
1827 MANZONI “The Betrothed”
1835 BALZAC “Eugenie Grandet”
1841 GOGOL “Dead Souls”
1845 DUMAS “The Three Guardsmen”
1847 BRONTË “Jane Eyre”
1847 MERIMÉE “Carmen”
1850 DICKENS “David Copperfield”
1850 HAWTHORNE “The Scarlet Letter”
1852 THACKERAY “Henry Esmond”
1852 STOWE “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”
1853 GASKELL “Cranford”
1856 AUERBACH “Barfüssele”
1857 VON SCHEFFEL “Ekkehard”
1857 FEUILLET “The Romance of a Poor Young Man”
1857 FLAUBERT “Madame Bovary”
1859 MEREDITH “The Ordeal of Richard Feverel”
1861 READE “The Cloister and the Hearth”
1862 HUGO “Les Misérables”
1863 ELIOT “Romola”
1866 DOSTOYEVSKY “Crime and Punishment”
1868 TURGENIEFF “Smoke”
1869 BLACKMORE “Lorna Doone”
1878 TOLSTOI “Anna Karenina”
1883 STEVENSON “Treasure Island”
I think I see many picking out here and there a name, and hear them
saying, “What a bad selection! Wilkie Collins ought to be in the list
rather than Charles Reade; ‘Vanity Fair’ ought to be in the place of
‘Henry Esmond,’ ‘Waverly’ in the place of ‘Ivanhoe’,” etc., etc. But if
we except two or three names like Manzoni and Gogol, who are not yet
estimated at their full value by English and American readers, I think
common opinion will justify, in a general way, my catalogue of authors,
and I feel sure that the works chosen, if not the masterpieces, are at
least fairly typical of each.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 5
RABELAIS “Gargantua” 11
CERVANTES “Don Quixote” 16
LE SAGE “Gil Blas” 25
DEFOE “Robinson Crusoe” 36
SWIFT “Gulliver’s Travels” 39
PRÉVOST “Manon Lescaut” 43
FIELDING “Tom Jones” 45
JOHNSON “Rasselas” 49
VOLTAIRE “Candide” 55
STERNE “Tristram Shandy” 60
GOLDSMITH “The Vicar of Wakefield” 64
GOETHE “The Sorrows of Young Werther” 72
SAINT PIERRE “Paul and Virginia” 76
CHATEAUBRIAND “Atala” 79
AUSTEN “Pride and Prejudice” 82
FOUQUÉ “Undine” 93
CHAMISSO “Peter Schlemihl” 95
IRVING “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” 99
SCOTT “Ivanhoe” 101
MANZONI “The Betrothed” 107
BALZAC “Eugenie Grandet” 125
GOGOL “Dead Souls” 130
DUMAS “The Three Guardsmen” 132
BRONTË “Jane Eyre” 134
MERIMÉE “Carmen” 138
DICKENS “David Copperfield” 141
HAWTHORNE “The Scarlet Letter” 150
THACKERAY “Henry Esmond” 158
STOWE “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” 176
GASKELL “Cranford” 180
AUERBACH “Barfüssele” 183
VON SCHEFFEL “Ekkehard” 189
FEUILLET “The Romance of a Poor Young Man” 192
FLAUBERT “Madame Bovary” 194
MEREDITH “The Ordeal of Richard Feverel” 196
READE “The Cloister and the Hearth” 200
HUGO “Les Misérables” 209
ELIOT “Romola” 215
DOSTOYEVSKY “Crime and Punishment” 228
TURGENIEFF “Smoke” 231
BLACKMORE “Lorna Doone” 237
TOLSTOI “Anna Karenina” 240
STEVENSON “Treasure Island” 267
GARGANTUA
FRANÇOIS RABELAIS
Coleridge classed Rabelais among the greatest creative minds of the
world, with Shakespeare, Dante, Cervantes, etc. Not many will be found
to-day who will agree with such an estimate. Rabelais himself would
perhaps laugh at it as heartily as he laughed at the vices and foibles
of his time.
“Gargantua,” a burlesque romance, is the biography of a good-natured
giant of that name, the son of King Grangousier, who is born in a
remarkable manner out of the left ear of Gargamelle, his mother. The
author expresses a doubt whether his readers will thoroughly believe
the truth of this strange nativity, but says that it is not impossible
with God, and that there is nothing in the Bible against it. He cites
the examples of other prodigies and declares that he is not so impudent
a liar as Pliny was in treating of strange births. Then follow many
absurd and farcical descriptions of the conduct and apparel of the
infant giant, his colors and liveries, his wooden horses, and the silly
instruction given to him by foolish sophisters. In Paris he steals the
bells of Notre Dame to adorn the neck of the hideous great mare upon
whose back he has travelled thither, and Master Janotus is sent to
him to pronounce a great oration, imploring the return of the bells.
This nonsensical speech is a laughable potpourri of French, Latin, and
gibberish. The bells are returned, and now Gargantua submits himself to
the government of his new tutor, Ponocrates, who establishes a novel
system of instruction for his big pupil.
The book gives a detailed description of the ingenious division of time
made by this wise preceptor, so that every moment of the day might be
devoted to the acquisition of some useful branch of knowledge.
A strife arises between the shepherds of the country and some
cake-bakers of the neighboring kingdom of Lerne. The cake-bakers,
being worsted, complain to Picrochole, their king, who collects an
army and invades the country of Grangousier, pillaging and ravaging
everywhere. But when the invaders come to steal the grapes of the
convent of Seville, the stout Friar John with his “staff of the cross”
lays about him energetically dealing death and destruction on every
side. Picrochole storms the rock and castle of Clermond, and news is
brought to Grangousier of the invasion. The good old king at first
tries to conciliate his neighbor, and sends him a great abundance of
cakes and other gifts, but the choleric Picrochole will not retire,
though he keeps everything that is sent to him. The Duke of Smalltrash,
the Earl of Swashbuckler, and Captain Durtaille persuade him that he
is about to conquer the world, and there is a long burlesque catalogue
of all the countries they are to subdue, after which they will return,
sit down, rest and be merry. But the wise Echephron, another of the
king’s counsellors, tells him that it will be more prudent to take
their rest and enjoyment at once and not wait till they have conquered
the world. Meanwhile Gargantua is sent forth against Picrochole. The
enemy’s artillery has so little power against him that he combs the
cannonballs out of his hair. Among other episodes, he unwittingly eats
up six pilgrims in a salad, but one of them strikes the nerve of a
hollow tooth in his mouth, upon which he takes them all out again. They
escape, and then one of them shows the others how their adventure had
been foretold by the Prophet David in the Psalms.
There is much droll conversation at a feast given by Gargantua to Friar
John. The stout friar has many adventures, and plays an important
part in the attack upon Picrochole’s army, when the poor choleric
king flees in disguise and at last becomes a porter at Lyons. Here he
is as testy and pettish as ever, and hopes for the fulfillment of a
prophecy that he should be restored to his kingdom “at the coming of
the Cocklicranes,” who it seems could never come at all.
Gargantua proclaims amnesty to the vanquished, the spoil is divided
and Friar John rewarded by the establishment of the Abbey of Theleme,
which is filled with all beautiful things and inhabited by fair knights
and ladies who keep no hours nor vigils, take no vows, but enjoy the
delights of liberty under the rule, “Do what thou wilt,” spurred by
their own instincts to virtuous actions and with no temptation to
transgress the laws.
In a very attractive prologue to this strange medley, the author
sets our curiosity agog with the simile of a philosophical dog and a
marrow bone, telling his readers to break the bone and suck out the
allegorical sense “or the things proposed to be signified by these
Pythagorical symbols.” So the world has been trying very hard ever
since to guess whether Gargantua was Francis I of France or Henry
d’Albret of Navarre; whether Friar John was Cardinal Chatillon or
Martin Luther, or both together; whether Picrochole was Charles V or
someone else; whether the cake-bakers were Popish priests or anyone
in particular; and so on to the end of a very long chapter. Certainly
the personages described in this burlesque had to be obscurely drawn
in order to protect the author from the dungeon or the stake. In one
place Rabelais intimates that he did not mean anything at all by his
absurdities. “When I did dictate them I thought thereon no more than
you who possibly were drinking the whilst I was. For in the composing
of this very lordly book I never lost nor bestowed any more nor any
other time than what was appointed to serve me for taking my bodily
refection, that is, whilst I was eating and drinking.” And indeed
“Gargantua” is a work that, like the verses of Ennius to which he
alludes, smells much more of the wine than the oil; for, with all its
drollery, and occasional wisdom, there are chapters which seem little
less than the products of inebriety. Moreover, the work is defaced,
especially the earlier part of it, by a mass of obscenity which is not
to be excused either by the manners of the time nor by the exigencies
of the story.
DON QUIXOTE
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES
Among works of prose fiction “Don Quixote” has undoubtedly the most
universal reputation. Mr. Henry Edward Watts, the latest and best
translator, considers it “the finest book,” and Justin McCarthy, the
recent editor of Shelton’s version, calls it “the noblest novel” in the
world. Probably this would be the verdict of a majority of the best
literary critics.
The Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance is more widely known and
recognized among mankind everywhere than any other single character
in fiction. And indeed there has never been any other character more
elaborately developed.
In the matter of plot, as well as personages, the scope of this work
is rather narrow. It is merely a series of adventures, and while the
priest, the barber, the bachelor, the duke, the duchess, and many other
persons appear incidentally, and while all of these are well sketched,
the work would be nothing except for the wonderful sayings and doings
of the mad knight and his squire. And the contrast between the two sets
forth in the strongest possible relief the characteristics of each.
Don Quixote, solemn, tall, lank, “with cheeks that kissed each other
on the inside,” and Sancho, short, fat, round-bellied,--the knight
filled with fine spiritual fire, his madness enhanced by endless fasts
and vigils; the squire sleeping, eating, thinking of nothing but the
facts of physical existence,--Don Quixote, the dreamer, the idealist,
the gentleman--for there is no one trait which shines through all his
madness as unmistakably as his gentility; Sancho, a coarse, sensuous
clod, an odd mixture of simplicity and shrewdness, garrulous, full
of proverbs, with a rustic and very fleshly philosophy of his own, a
squire who sometimes cheats his master with false tales.
Don Quixote goes forth upon his battered Rocinante, to redress
all wrongs, actual or imaginary, to fight windmills, to engage in
desperate battles with flocks of sheep; to sail upon enchanted barks;
to fly through the air on a wooden horse; and perform a thousand
extravagances, travesties of the impossible prodigies recorded in books
of chivalry and enchantment.
The description of Don Quixote’s madness is masterly. His inability
to separate actual occurrences from the figments of his imagination
appears with wonderful power; for instance, in the scene of the
puppets, where he demolishes the apparatus of the show, and then
agrees to pay for the damage, and again refuses when the lady for whom
compensation is demanded has been already rescued, fact and fancy
contending with each other inextricably in his soul. As a study in
psychology, no character of fiction or drama outside of Shakespeare
is at all comparable to “Don Quixote.” Yet through all his grotesque
hallucinations appears his essential nobility. As Sancho says of him,
“He has a soul as clean as a pitcher. He can do no harm to anyone, but
good to all. He has no malice at all. A child might persuade him it
is night at noonday. And it is for this simplicity I love him like my
heartstrings, and cannot be handy at leaving him for all the pranks he
plays.” Thus do we love the simple-minded, even in madness.
One of the clearest evidences of Cervantes’ genius is his power to
make even the vagaries of a madman so laughable. In any other hands
the adventures of Don Quixote would not be funny. I remember once
seeing a dramatic representation of the story, in which Henry Irving
impersonated the hero. It was well done, but it was not amusing. The
poor knight was so utterly wrapped in his hallucinations that he was
an object of pity rather than of laughter. But in the novel itself the
humor of Cervantes overcomes even our sympathy. The wild reasoning
of Don Quixote is often so irresistibly absurd that his madness is
forgotten. For instance, he does penance in the Sierra Morena in honor
of his Dulcinea, and proposes to imitate Amadis and Orlando, who tore
up trees by the roots, slew shepherds, demolished houses, and performed
a thousand other extravagances. Sancho remarks that these knights of
old had a reason for their follies and penances, but that Don Quixote
had none, to which his master replies, “In this consists the refinement
of my plan. A knight errant that runs mad with cause deserves no
thanks, but to do so without reason is the point, giving my lady to
understand what I should perform in the wet, if I do this in the dry.”
The Spaniards say that “Don Quixote” is untranslatable. Of course a
masterpiece of this kind can not be enjoyed to the full, with all its
delicate aroma, in any other tongue, and in one sense it can not be
fully understood by any one who is not himself a Spaniard, who has not
the feelings, the surroundings, and perhaps the prejudices to which
the great book was addressed. But, judged by such a standard, what
masterpiece of past times can any of us fully enjoy? In another sense,
however, a foreigner can enjoy “Don Quixote” better than a Spaniard;
for some of its most characteristic features are those which to one who
lives amid the same surroundings will pass unobserved. No one can judge
of the perspective of a great work unless he be far enough away to see
it in its relations to the rest of the world. In this larger sense, I
think that Don Quixote can be understood by an American of our century
as well as by a Spaniard of the time in which it was written. Something
of the details will escape him, but the beauty of the whole may be even
more apparent. The things that we lose in translation,--for instance,
the sonorous solemnity of the magniloquent diction of Don Quixote,--are
atoned for by the fact that Don Quixote himself is a more distinctive
type to us than he could have been to the people of his own age and
country.
I am not sure but that the Englishman or the American can grasp the
sum total of his qualities better through a good translation than even
in the original. The Spanish of “Don Quixote” is somewhat archaic, and
in places a little obscure, even to the most proficient in the living
tongue. So elusive is the pleasure which comes with the dry humor of
such a book that it must offer itself spontaneously, it must fit the
mood of the reader, it must be the luxury of an idle hour, or much
of the charm of it will escape. Therefore it is that I have found in
Shelton’s translation, and still more in the recent rendering of Mr.
Watts, a keener pleasure than I have ever been able to dig out of the
original mine.
“Don Quixote” is not without great faults. It was written carelessly.
This indeed often adds to the naturalness of the descriptions and the
situations, but the blemishes are sometimes self-evident and glaring.
For instance, after Sancho’s ass has been stolen by Ginés de Pasamonte,
the squire is represented, sometimes as walking, sometimes as riding
on the very animal he has lost. Some of Cervantes’s commentators,
like Clemencin, who are mathematical rather than artistic in their
criticisms, call our attention to the numerous incongruities of
this sort. But the greatest masters of literature, even Homer and
Shakespeare--have been guilty in the same way.
Indeed, there is a good deal in “Don Quixote” which reminds one of
Shakespeare. Take for instance the following discourse between Don
Quixote and Sancho Panza:
“Prithee, tell me, hast thou not seen some comedy played wherein
are introduced kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies and
divers other personages? One plays the bully, another the knave;
one the merchant, one the soldier; others the witty fool and the
foolish lover; and, the comedy ended and their apparel put off,
all the players remain equal.”
“Yes, marry have I,” answered Sancho.
“But the same,” pursued Don Quixote, “happens in the comedy and
commerce of this world, wherein some play the emperors, others
the pontiffs; in short all the parts that can be introduced into
a drama; but on reaching the end, which is when life is done,
Death strips all of the robes which distinguished them, and they
remain equal in the grave.”
“A brave comparison!” cried Sancho, “though not so new but that
I have heard it many and divers times, like that of the game
of chess,--how, so long as the game lasts, each piece has its
particular office, and the game being finished, they are all
mixed, shuffled, and jumbled, and put away into a bag, which is
much like putting away life in the grave.”
“Every day, Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, “thou becomest less
simple and more wise.”
The passages in “Macbeth,” “Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of
care,” and “The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures,” find their
counterparts in the following dialogue, in which Sancho says to his
master:
“I only know that while I sleep I have no fear, nor hope, nor
trouble, nor glory; and good luck to him who invented sleep, a
cloak which covers all a man’s thoughts, the meat which takes
away hunger, the water which quenches thirst, the fire which
warms the cold, the cold which tempers the heat; to end up, the
general coin with which all things are bought, the balance and
weight which levels the shepherd with the king and the fool with
the wise man. There is only one thing, as I have heard say, is
bad about sleep, and it is that it looks like death, for between
the sleeping and the dead there is very little difference.”
The great fault of “Don Quixote” is its excessive prolixity. Provided
the best parts might be selected, it would be a better novel if it
filled only half the space. The same moralizing by the knight and his
squire is too often repeated; the same proverbs come forth again and
again. This is the reason why the work is read far less at the present
time than it used to be. In these busy days there is not much place for
the four volume novel.
Then, too, the long episodes, the story of Cardenio, the tale of the
captive and of Impertinent Curiosity, would be better told as separate
narratives rather than as parts of a book with which they have no
proper connection. The introduction of such stories was one of the
tricks of the time, but it is an artistic blemish. On the other hand,
Cervantes’s use of the Moorish historian, Ben Engeli, is a literary
device admirably employed, and the point at which he first introduces
Ben Engeli’s narrative is a delicious satire upon a literary trick
common to novelists even of the present time. For it will be remembered
that the terrible conflict between Don Quixote and the Biscayan was
left suspended, as it were, in mid-air, each of the mighty combatants
having raised his sword and being prepared to dash at the other, at
which point the narrative was interrupted, the author being unable to
learn anything of the outcome of the fray until he discovered in the
Alcazar of Toledo the manuscript of the Arabian historiographer.
“Don Quixote” has been the model upon which many of the best works of
fiction have been based. One can see distinct traces of Cervantes’s
methods in “Pickwick Papers.” There are undoubtedly many points of
difference between Mr. Pickwick and Don Quixote, yet the points of
resemblance are very clear; and Sam Weller corresponds more nearly to
Sancho than any character in modern fiction. The lugubrious episodes
in the “Pickwick Papers” are not wholly unlike those in “Don Quixote,”
and the solemnity of these episodes furnishes the same contrast to the
merry absurdities of the narrative itself.
Ichabod Crane is in some respects a Yankee “Knight of the Sorrowful
Figure,” though devoid of the madness and of the high spiritual aims of
his Castilian prototype.
“Don Quixote,” like many other masterpieces, like the “Odyssey,”
“Hamlet,” “Paradise Lost,” and the “Divine Comedy,” falters a little
at the end. Cervantes was evidently in a hurry to finish it, and the
conversion of the knight upon his death-bed is somewhat sudden. But
the defects in this great work are (to use a very hackneyed simile)
like the spots upon the sun. It will always remain one of the world’s
greatest masterpieces.
GIL BLAS
ALAIN RENÉ LE SAGE
If, as some say, the object of fiction is simply to amuse, no work
of fiction has better attained that object than “Gil Blas.” It is the
greatest and the most celebrated of that class of novels called the
_novela picaresca_, or rogue story, and consists of a succession of
the liveliest and merriest incidents, slenderly connected as parts of
the autobiography of a Spanish lackey, and narrated in a style that is
a model of luminous simplicity. The hero encounters every variety of
good and evil fortune, each following the other like the figures of
a kaleidoscope. From the moment when, as a simple youth, he is sent
forth into the world with a mule and forty ducats, he plunges into
the midst of ludicrous adventures. At the first town he entertains at
supper a parasite who calls him “the ornament of Oviedo,” “the torch
of philosophy,” “the eighth wonder of the world,” and who, after
gorging himself at the expense of the young student, laughs in his
face at his credulity. He is next decoyed into a cave of robbers,
where he is locked in and made to serve as the Ganymede of the band,
but before long he escapes and rescues a fair lady, Doña Mencia, who
gratefully gives him a thousand ducats and a valuable ring. But he
tells of his good fortune, and is fleeced of his money and his ring in
a confidence game skillfully played by one Camilla and by Don Rafael,
her pretended brother, acting in concert with his own valet, Ambrose.
In his misfortune he meets Fabricio, an old schoolmate, who advises
him to become a lackey rather than a tutor, since the former calling
opens a better career than teaching to a man of shrewd wit. Gil Blas is
convinced, and seeks a situation.
His first place is with the fat licentiate, Sedillo, where he serves
faithfully and leads a dog’s life in hopes of a legacy, as soon as
his master shall be carried off with the gout. He gets as the legacy
his master’s library, consisting of three books, “The Perfect Cook,”
a work on indigestion, and a breviary. Then he takes a situation with
Dr. Sangrado, the physician who has hastened Sedillo’s departure from
the world, from whom he learns in a word the whole art of healing, to
wit, bleeding profusely and administering vast quantities of hot water,
a system which Gil Blas puts into practice as Sangrado’s deputy, kills
most of his patients, and has to flee from Valladolid in the night.
After many adventures he arrives at Madrid, becomes the servant of Don
Mathias de Silva, a dissolute young nobleman, and learns much of the
ways of the world. Dressed in his master’s clothes, he makes love to
a great lady, as he supposes, but finds that she is Laura, the maid
of the actress Arsenia, whom his master visits. Don Mathias is killed
in a duel, whereupon our hero takes service with the actress, and has
fine times with his dear Laura, but at last leaves the place because
he is unwilling “to live any longer with the seven mortal sins.” Next
he takes a situation with Don Vincent de Guzman, fancies that his
master’s daughter Aurora is in love with him, and makes a great fool
of himself at a midnight interview, where she seeks his aid in behalf
of her passion for Don Luis Pacheco. A very pretty story follows of
her efforts in the guise of a man to inspire Pacheco’s love, efforts
which are not unlike those of Rosalind with Orlando, and which in
like manner are crowned with success. Gil Blas then goes to live with
Pacheco’s uncle, an asthmatic old man, who looks “like the resurrection
of Lazarus,” but who loves the young and beautiful Euphrasia. Gil Blas
finds another gallant hidden in her room, and tells his master, but he
is dismissed for his pains.
Our hero now renders a service to a young nobleman, Don Alphonso de
Leyva, who is a fugitive from justice, and goes with him to a cave,
where Don Raphael and Ambrose are found disguised as hermits, and the
former gives a graphic account of his past life and rogueries. At first
Gil Blas and Don Alphonso join them in their rascally enterprises.
They all array themselves as inquisitors, and proceed to appropriate
the property of Samuel Simon, a converted Jew, whom they charge with
relapsing into heresy. The questions propounded in behalf of the Holy
Office are highly grotesque. But neither Gil Blas nor Don Alphonso are
willing to continue such a life, so they part from their companions,
and Don Alphonso, who is soon after happily married to Seraphina (quite
a long love story hangs thereby), makes Gil Blas the intendant of his
castle. But Gil Blas quarrels with Seraphina’s maid, whereupon he
leaves the service of his friend and betakes himself to Granada, where
he obtains a place as secretary of the archbishop. The description of
the learned prelate, short, fat, and very vain of his oratorical gifts,
is extremely lifelike, and the following scene, where he requires
Gil Blas to give him a warning of his failing powers, is deservedly
celebrated:
One evening he repeated before me with enthusiasm a homily which
he intended to pronounce next day in the cathedral. He was not
contented with asking me what I thought of it in a general way;
he obliged me to single out the particular places which I most
admired. I had the good luck to mention his favorite passages,
those which he looked upon as the best. By this means I passed
in his judgment for a man who had a delicate knowledge of the
true beauties of a work. “That,” he cried, “is what you call
having taste and sentiment! Go to, my friend, I assure you, you
have not got Boeotian ears.” In a word, he was so well satisfied
with me that he said to me, with some vivacity, “Gil Blas, give
thyself no uneasiness about thy fortune. I undertake to make it
agreeable. I love thee, and as a proof of my affection, make thee
my confidant.... Listen with attention to what I am going to say
to thee. My chief pleasure consists in preaching. The Lord gives
a blessing to my homilies. They touch the hearts of sinners and
make them seriously reflect and have recourse to penitence. I
have the satisfaction of seeing a miser, terrified by the images
which I represent to his avarice, open his treasures and squander
them with a prodigal hand. I have also turned a voluptuary
from his pleasures, filled hermitages with the ambitious, and
strengthened in her duty a wife who had been shaken by the
allurements of a lover. These conversions, which are frequent,
ought of themselves to arouse me to work. Nevertheless, I will
confess my weakness, I propose to myself another reward, a reward
which the delicacy of my virtue reproaches me with in vain; I
mean the esteem of the world for fine polished writing. The honor
of being regarded a perfect orator has many charms for me. My
works are found equally strong and delicate, but I would like to
avoid the fault of good authors who write too long, and I would
retire with all my reputation. Therefore, my dear Gil Blas,”
continued the prelate, “I exact one thing of thy zeal. When thou
shalt perceive that my pen smacks of old age, when thou shalt see
my genius flagging, don’t fail to advise me of it. I do not trust
my own judgment upon that point. My self-love may deceive me.
That observation requires a disinterested mind, and I make choice
of thine, which I know is good. I will rely upon thy judgment....
Do not fear to be frank and sincere, for I shall receive thy
advice as a mark of thy affection for me. Besides, thy own
interest is concerned; if, unfortunately for thee, it should come
to my ears that they say in the city my discourses have no longer
their wonted force and it is high time for me to rest, I declare
to thee plainly that thou shalt lose my friendship as well as the
fortune I have promised. Such will be the fruit of thy foolish
discretion.”
After the bishop has had an attack of apoplexy, and the time comes for
Gil Blas to perform his duty, this is what happens:
The only thing that embarrassed me now was how to break the ice.
Luckily the orator himself extricated me from that difficulty,
by asking what people said of him, and if they were satisfied
with his last discourse. I answered that his homilies were always
admired, but in my opinion the last had not succeeded so well
as the rest, in affecting the audience. “How, friend!” replied
he, with astonishment, “has it met with any Aristarchus?” “No,
sir,” said I, “by no means; such works as yours are not to be
criticised; everybody is charmed with them. Nevertheless, since
you have laid your injunctions upon me to be free and sincere,
I will take the liberty to tell you that your last discourse,
in my judgment, has not altogether the energy of your other
performances. Are you not of the same opinion?”
My master grew pale at these words; and said, with a forced
smile, “So then, Mr. Gil Blas, this piece is not to your taste?”
“I don’t say so, sir,” cried I, quite disconcerted; “I think it
excellent, although a little inferior to your other productions.”
“I understand you,” he replied, “you think I am failing, don’t
you? Come, be plain; you believe it is time for me to think of
retiring.” “I should not have been so bold,” said I, “as to
speak so freely, if your grace had not commanded me; I do no
more, therefore, than obey you; and I most humbly beg that you
will not be offended at my freedom.” “God forbid,” cried he with
precipitation, “God forbid that I should find fault with it. In
so doing, I should be very unjust. I don’t at all take it ill
that you speak your sentiment; it is your sentiment only that I
find bad. I have been most egregiously deceived in your narrow
understanding.”
Though I was disconcerted, I endeavored to find some mitigation,
in order to set things to rights again; but how is it possible
to appease an incensed author, one especially who has been
accustomed to hear himself praised? “Say no more, my child,”
said he, “you are yet too raw to distinguish the true from the
false. Know that I never composed a better homily than that which
you disapprove; for my genius, thank Heaven, hath as yet lost
nothing of its vigor. Henceforth I will make a better choice of
a confidant, and keep one of greater ability than you. Go,” he
added (pushing me by the shoulders out of the room), “go tell my
treasurer to give you a hundred ducats, and may Heaven conduct
you with that sum. Adieu, Mr. Gil Blas, I wish you all manner of
prosperity, with a little more taste.”
And so the comedy goes on. One new face after another appears on
the scene, among them Captain Hannibal Chinchilla, with monstrous
moustache, who has left an eye in Naples, an arm in Lombardy, and a leg
in the Low Country; then Count Galiano, who is fonder of his monkey
than of his servants. Our hero becomes one of the secretaries of the
prime minister, the Duke of Lerma, where he acquires great honor, but
for a long time, no pay. Finally he sells his influence, gets into
court intrigues, rises step by step, until he is about to marry the
daughter of a rich jeweller, when he is arrested and thrown into the
tower of Segovia. Here he is found by his faithful valet Scipio, who
gets him released. He now determines to renounce the court forever,
and his old friend Don Alphonso gives him a small estate at Lirias.
But when the new king comes in, Gil Blas is tempted back again, rises
rapidly under Count Olivares, and when this minister falls, follows
him into retirement. Upon the death of the count, Gil Blas returns to
Lirias, where his marriage and his happy life with his wife, Dorothea,
close the story.
Many of the personages of the tale reappear at the most unlooked for
places and in the most unexpected characters. For instance, the two
rascals, Don Raphael and Ambrose, turn up as monks in a convent, where
they have led a life of great piety and penitence for over a year.
But Don Raphael is the treasurer and Ambrose is the porter of the
monastery, and soon these worthy brothers disappear with all the funds.
They come to their deserts, however, for the last that is seen of them
they are walking with other culprits to an _auto da fe_, their heads
decorated with the _carochas_ or pasteboard caps upon which are painted
the flames and devils of eternal punishment.
Another interesting character who comes in at different parts of the
story is the schoolmate of Gil Blas, Fabricio, the son of the barber
Nunez. At first a valet, he next turns up as a poet, having composed
a worthless comedy which was a great success, from which he judged
the public was a good milch cow. Some amusing descriptions follow of
Fabricio’s opinion as to what constitutes a fine style. He reads a
sonnet which Gil Blas cannot understand, but the son of the barber
Nunez insists that this shows its excellence--that obscurity is the
charm of all works that aim to be sublime, and that it is quite enough
if the poet thinks they have a meaning. There are amusing portraits
of Fabricio’s friends, who imagine themselves great authors and who
dispute and fight at their host’s table over the comparative merits of
their wretched productions. Next Fabricio is found in the hospital;
he has abandoned the Muses and written an ode to bid them an eternal
adieu. But as soon as he is well he is back at his old occupation, and
gets a place with a liberal patron, Gómez de Ribera. He writes a play,
which, being fortunately hissed and hooted by the populace, gets him
a good pension from his patron, who obstinately admires it and says,
“_Victrix causa Diis placuit sed victa Catoni._” There is an amusing
account of a dinner which Fabricio gives to his literary friends, where
they discuss the question what constitutes the chief interest in the
Iphigenia of Euripides, one of the guests solemnly maintaining that
it was not the peril of the heroine, but the wind. “I take the part
of the Greeks,” says Melchior de Villegas. “I espouse their purpose.
I only wish for the departure of their fleet, and I look with an
indifferent eye upon Iphigenia in her peril, since her death is a means
of obtaining from the gods a favorable wind.”
Le Sage is almost as hard upon the doctors as Molière. Dr. Sangrado
has become a type. He was so expeditious that he did not often give
time for any of his patients to call a notary in order to make a will.
After they had been bled to death, he always insisted that they died
because they had not been bled enough and had not taken enough hot
water. The doctor admitted to Gil Blas that he did not often cure his
patients, and that if he were not so sure of his principles he might
have been tempted to think that his bleeding and hot water had really
injured them, but that he could not change his methods because he had
published a book! In his last interview with Gil Blas, the good doctor
(now retired from practice) deplores the decadence of medicine, but is
caught by his own pupil drinking wine in violation of his own precepts.
All through the book stories of the events of their own lives are told
by the principal characters. The robbers in the cave, Doña Mencia, Don
Alphonso, Don Raphael, Scipio, and others, all give us their histories,
which resemble in miniature the principal narrative. The novel is a
very long one, and although it is well written everywhere, the latter
part contains some incidents which seem like repetitions, and the
interest is not held quite up to the standard of the earlier books.
“Gil Blas” is an admirable prose satire, a satire written with the
light raillery of Horace rather than the invective of Juvenal. It
sparkles everywhere with French wit, and though the scene is laid
in Spain (the model for that kind of story being the early Spanish
tales like “Lazarillo de Tormes”), yet the style and the characters
are essentially French, and many of the latter are taken from the
acquaintance of the author himself. The illusion, however, is well
maintained, and it is only upon rare occasions (such as the raillery
of the _petits maîtres_) that one notices characteristics which do not
seem quite at home in Spain. Near the close of the book there are a
number of historical characters (Spanish, of course), but these are by
no means the liveliest or best. Indeed, it may well be doubted whether
“Gil Blas” has not rather suffered than gained by the introduction of
its historical features.
I have noticed that while I can enjoy “Don Quixote” perhaps better
in the translation than the original, “Gil Blas,” on the other hand,
sounds more natural to me in a Spanish version than in the original
French. This may be mere fancy, or perhaps it may be attributed to
this, that “Gil Blas,” being a foreign production, seems more natural
after having been acclimated, as it were, by translation into the
language of the country in which its scenes are laid. “Don Quixote,”
on the other hand, being thoroughly Spanish does not lose its
national characteristics, no matter what the language in which it is
communicated to the reader.
ROBINSON CRUSOE
DANIEL DEFOE
The main feature of this story--an account of the efforts of a
castaway to live comfortably without human aid,--is extremely
attractive to the young. Many of the scenes are very vivid,--the
shipwreck, the lonely island, the birds startled at the sound of the
gun, the wildcat that observes the new intruder; his efforts to provide
for himself food, clothing, and shelter; the construction of his
strange dwelling, the planting of his crops, the care of his goats,
the building of his canoe, and most of all, the account of the wild
man Friday, whom he secures for his servant,--all these things are
ingeniously and attractively described. But the repetitions which occur
throughout the book make it in places very tedious. Crusoe tells us in
his diary the same story which he has already related in the preceding
narrative; he moralizes again and again upon his folly in disregarding
the advice of his good father; he computes over and over the evils and
the blessings that have befallen him; and tells many times and at great
length the story of how he became a Christian and learned to pray.
Much of the book is a sermon of Puritan dimensions. This is one of the
works where the abridgement is better than the original. The homilies
are commonplace, there are few striking passages and the style, though
occasionally picturesque, is often dry and involved.
Of course in such a work there can be little portraiture of character.
Robinson Crusoe himself is not a specially interesting person. His
ingenuity is all that attracts us. In one or two places his jumbled
motives are described with unconscious _naïveté_. For instance,
he says, when he saw Friday escaping from the two savages who had
intended to make a meal of him: “It came very firmly upon my thoughts,
and indeed irresistibly, that now was the time to get me a servant
and perhaps a companion or assistant, and that I was called plainly
by Providence to save this poor creature’s life.” So he killed the
pursuers and appropriated Friday.
The description of Friday is well conceived. This interesting
barbarian worships his master’s gun and talks to it, desiring it not
to kill him. He says of Benamuckee, the creator, “All things say ‘Oh!’
to him,” and the objections of this child of nature to his master’s
theology are very lifelike. “If God much stronger than the devil, why
God no kill the devil, so make him no more do wicked?” And after Crusoe
had replied, “God will at last punish him severely; he is reserved for
the judgment and is to be cast into the bottomless pit, to dwell with
everlasting fire,” Friday’s rejoinder has never yet, I think, been
successfully answered,--“Why not kill the devil _now_, not kill great
ago?” It was natural that Crusoe should say, “Here I was run down again
by him to the last degree.”
GULLIVER’S TRAVELS
JONATHAN SWIFT
I suppose the human mind is naturally inclined to a belief in dwarfs
and giants. There are legends about them in the folk-lore of nearly
every people. It requires only an exaggeration of the things we know
to believe in larger men and smaller men than we have ever seen. In
“Gulliver’s Travels” Swift has worked out the details of comparative
size with great particularity, and the book is an illustration of the
principle that even a palpable fiction may be made so definite and
circumstantial that it will almost command belief.
The figure of the great Man-Mountain dragging the tiny fleet of
Lilliput is vivid and lifelike, and when in Brobdignag the same giant
becomes a helpless dwarf, is carried like a mouse in the mouth of a
dog, and has fierce struggles with a frog and a rat, the scenes do not
seem at all impossible. The art of the story-teller gives probability
to the wildest fancies, and you can hardly doubt, as you read, that the
kingdoms of the big people and the little people must have existed, so
plain are the scenes before your eyes.
But Swift’s description of the physical characteristics of these
peoples is not more vivid than his account of their customs and social
peculiarities.
Much of his satire was meant to set off certain follies of his own
time, but to us the most valuable part of it is that which portrays the
general frailties of humanity. He holds up to nature a mirror which,
while it distorts the features a little, still makes the caricature
extremely lifelike. Even where the Lilliputians are most absurd we
recognize their similarity to ourselves. The quarrels between the
partisans of low and high heeled shoes, the revolution and obstinate
war concerning the proper manner of opening an egg, are not a whit more
nonsensical than some of our own social and theological controversies.
The Lilliputians bury their dead with the head down in order that the
body may be in the right position for the resurrection, just as the
Mahometan faces Mecca in his prayers, the Christian builds his church
according to certain points of the compass, and the ritualist makes his
genuflexions in carefully prescribed forms, for reasons quite as cogent
and unanswerable.
The “little people” well knew there were no other regions of the earth
than Lilliput and Blefuscu, and here, too, we are like them. Most of us
consider that all there is of importance in the universe is that which
falls within our own spheres of observation.
No one can read Swift’s story without reflecting that our own little
world must seem much like Lilliput to the great eye which looks upon
this planet as only one among the islands of the firmament.
In Laputa we see ourselves even more clearly. We can find counterparts
of the great lord of wide attainments and eminent services, who was
accounted ignorant and stupid because he had so ill an ear for music
that he beat time in the wrong place. The philosophers who moved about
the earth with one eye turned inward and the other upward toward the
zenith, and who constantly required a flapper to bring them to their
senses, are old and familiar acquaintances.
The proposition to impose a tax upon men’s vices has been put into
practice many a time, and the scheme of a general raffle to secure the
prizes of patronage would seem to be a tolerable refuge from our former
system of political appointments.
But all through “Gulliver’s Travels” the folly and wickedness of
men is greatly overdrawn, and in the final voyage to the country of
the Houyhnhnms the colors are quite too dark to be truthful. This
part of the book is not a mere satire, but a malignant invective
against humanity, so bitter that it ceases to be either attractive or
convincing. The lawyers sell out to the highest bidder, the doctors
kill their patients to justify their own prognostications; all mankind
is vile--worse than the beasts,--until we begin to feel an aversion
for an author whose judgment has been so greatly distorted by his own
malevolence. We can not help inferring that he who attributes such
qualities to his fellow-creatures must himself have a large share
of them; and it is not surprising to find great irregularities and
scandals in the life of Swift, nor to learn that at last his mind
flickered out in imbecility.
MANON LESCAUT
THE ABBÉ PRÉVOST
What is the subtle charm of “Manon Lescaut” which has given it the
place of a classic in French fiction, and which causes it to be read
at the present time with the same delight as when it was written? It
does not sparkle with wit, nor is it filled with wisdom. The heroine
is far from being an estimable character, and the poor hero, the
Chevalier des Grieux, is admirable only in one thing--in his constant
and self-sacrificing devotion to the unworthy object of his passion.