immediately proved to be undiscoverable. She made inquiries about him
of all and sundry, to find that most of those she asked thought they
had seen him, and others knew him, but were not certain where he was
at the moment. The tax-collector was able to say with certainty that
Putois had chopped firewood for him between the 19th and 23rd of
October of the comet year.
The day came, however, when Madame Cornouiller was able to tell the
Bergerets that she herself had seen him--a man of fifty or thereabouts,
thin, round-shouldered, with a dirty blouse and the general appearance
of a tramp. She had called "Putois!" in a loud voice, and he had turned
round.
From this day onward Putois became ever more and more of a reality.
Three melons were stolen from Madame Cornouiller. She suspected
Putois. The police, too, believed him to be the culprit, and searched
the neighbourhood for him. The _Journal de Saint-Omer_ published a
description of him, from which it appeared that he had the face of
a habitual criminal. Ere long there was another theft on Madame
Cornouiller's premises; three small silver spoons were stolen. She
recognised Putois's handiwork. Henceforward he was the terror of the
town.
When Gudule, her cook, was discovered to be _enceinte_, Madame
Cornouiller jumped to the conclusion that she had been seduced by
Putois, and was confirmed in her belief by the fact of the woman's
weeping and refusing to answer her questions. As Gudule was ugly and
bearded, the story occasioned much amusement, and in popular fancy
Putois became a perfect satyr. Another servant in the town and a poor
hump-backed girl being brought to bed that same year with children
whose paternity was mysteriously concealed, Putois attained the
reputation of a veritable monster.
Children caught glimpses of him everywhere. They saw him passing the
door in the dusk, or climbing the garden wall; it was he who had
inked the faces of Zoé's dolls; he howled at nights with the dogs
and caterwauled with the cats; he stole into the bedroom; he became
something between a hobgoblin, a brownie, and the dustman who closes
little children's eyes. Monsieur Bergeret was interested in him as
typical of all human beliefs; and, since all Saint-Omer was firmly
convinced of Putois' existence, he, as a good citizen, would do nothing
to shake their belief.
As to Madame Bergeret, she reproached herself sometimes for the birth
of Putois; but, after all, she had done nothing worse than Shakespeare
when he created Caliban. Nevertheless she turned quite pale one day
when the maid came in and said that a man like a country labourer
wished to speak to madame. "Did he give his name?" "Yes--Putois."
"What?" "Putois, madame. He is waiting in the kitchen." "What does he
want?" "He will tell no one but yourself, madame." "Go and ask him
again." When the maid returned to the kitchen Putois was gone. But from
that day Madame Bergeret herself began to have a kind of belief in his
existence.
The story is both clever and of deep significance, it turns on the
question of what an imaginary existence is. Putois' generation is
the generation of a myth, and he exerts the influence which mythical
characters do. No one can deny the rule of mythical beings over the
minds of men, their influence on human souls. Gods and goddesses,
spirits and saints, have inspired enthusiasm and terror, have had
their altars, have counselled crimes, have, originated customs and
laws. Satyrs and Silenuses have occupied the human imagination, have
set chisels and brushes to work century after century. The Devil has
his history, extending back for thousands of years--has been terrible,
witty, foolish, cruel; has demanded human sacrifices; and has not only
been worshipped by magicians and witches, but has, up to our own days,
had his priests. France, however, has not the Devil alone in his mind;
his thoughts range higher.
And he not only throws light in a bantering way on the formation of
a myth, but also, and still more vividly, upon human verdicts. When
Madame Cornouiller suspects Madame Bergeret of wishing to keep the
vagrant gardener for herself, of not allowing other people to have any
share in Putois, the writer remarks, as it were with a smile, that many
historical conclusions which are accepted by every one are as well
founded as this conclusion of Madame Cornouillers. Here, as elsewhere,
France asserts that it is foolish to believe in the just judgment of
posterity.
He has always thought it strange that Madame Roland should have
appealed to "impartial posterity," without reflecting that if her
contemporaries, who guillotined her, were cruel apes, there was every
probability of their descendants being the same.
The world's history is the world's verdict, wrote Schiller. He is a
naïve man who believes this. Posterity is just only to this extent,
that the questions are of indifference to it; and as it is with the
greatest difficulty that it can examine the dead, and as, moreover, it
is itself not an impersonal thing, but an aggregate of more or less
prejudiced human beings, the verdict takes shape accordingly. Historic
justice is a Putois.
Fame is a Putois, an imaginary, impalpable being, that is pursued by
thousands, and that melts into nothing just when it should display
itself in full vigour--namely, after their death.
Everywhere we have imaginary, artificial existence, proclaimed to be
real, and accepted as such. It is not at all necessary to confine
ourselves to religion, where it is only too easy to discover Putois,
whose huge shadow darkens theology in its entirety. Let us think of the
illusions in politics, of the part played by titles in social life. Or
let us remember the place occupied by imaginary existences in our own
emotional life. Suppose that we could transfer to canvas the image of
the beloved one which forms itself in the imagination of the lover at
the moment when he sees all her supposed perfections, and afterwards
place alongside of it the image of her which remains when love has
evaporated and he has stripped her, one by one, of all the qualities
which enchanted him--the description of the first picture would not
seem less unreal than the description of Putois.
The reader who muses over the little story will feel how many ideas
it sets in motion, and will, like the inhabitants of Saint-Omer, find
traces of Putois everywhere.
The fault in most historical descriptions is that the pictures of the
past are distorted in accordance with the significance which they
have acquired for a later age. Gobineau makes Michael Angelo talk
of Raphael as people did in the nineteenth century when they named
them together. Wilde makes John the Baptist speak as he does in the
Gospels, which were written, with an aim which led to distortion, long
after his death. Wherever in modern poetry or art the figure of Jesus
is treated, no matter in what spirit--let it be by Paul Heyse, by
Sadakichi Hartmann the Japanese, or Edward Söderberg the Dane--He is
the principal figure of His day, occupying the thoughts of all.
France, in his story, _Judæas Procurator_, has, in an extremely clever
manner, indicated the place occupied by Jesus in the consciousness
of a contemporary Roman. To any one who can read, the fact that the
life and death of Jesus interested only a little band of humble people
in Jerusalem, is sufficiently established by the circumstance that
Josephus, who knows everything that happens in the Palestine of his
day, does not so much as name Him. The man who argues that such an
event as the Crucifixion must have made some impression forgets what
a common and unheeded incident a crucifixion was in troublous times.
During the Jewish war of the year 70, in the course of which 13.000
Jews were killed at Skythopolis, 50.000 in Alexandria, 40,000 at
Jotapata--1,100,000 in all--Titus crucified on an average 500 Jews
every day. When, impelled by hunger, they crept under the walls of
Jerusalem, they were captured, tortured, and crucified. At last there
was no more wood for crosses left in Palestine.
As his principal character, France has taken the Titus Ælius Lamia to
whom the seventeenth ode of Horace's Third Book is addressed--a gay
young Roman who, according to France, is banished by Tiberius for a
flagrant love-affair with a consuls wife, goes to Palestine, and meets
with a friendly reception in the house of Pontius Pilate. Forty years
pass; Ælius Lamia has long been back in Italy; he is at Baiæ, taking
the baths, and is sitting one day by a path upon a height reading
Lucretius, when, in the occupant of a litter borne past by slaves, it
seems to him that he recognises his old host, Pilate.
And it really is Pilate, who has come, accompanied by his eldest
daughter, now a widow, to take the baths. They talk of old days--of
all the trouble Pontius had with those wretched Jews, who refused to
do homage to the image of the Emperor on the banners, and allowed
themselves to be flogged to death rather than worship it. They
continually came to him, too, demanding a sentence of death on some
unfortunate creature whose crime he was unable to discover, and who
appeared to him to be as mad as his accusers. Lamia declares that
Pontius lacked appreciation of the Jews' good qualities, but confesses
that his own predilection was in favour of the Jewesses. He recalls
an evening on which he saw one of them dancing with uplifted arms
to the clang of cymbals, on a ragged carpet in a miserably lighted,
wretched drinking-booth. The dance was barbaric, the voice hoarse,
but in the motion of the limbs there was sorcery, and the eyes were
Cleopatra's. She had heavy red hair, this girl, whose charms enticed
the young Roman to follow her everywhere. "But she ran away from me," he
continued, when the young lay preacher and miracle-worker came from
Galilee to Jerusalem. She became inseparable from him, and joined the
little band of men and women who were always with him. "You remember
him, of course?" "No," replies Pilate. "His name was Jesus, I think;
he was from Nazareth" "I do not remember him," reaffirms Pilate. "You
were obliged to have him crucified." "Jesus--" mutters Pilate, "from
Nazareth--I have no recollection of it."
Here we have a characteristic example of Frances manner of producing
his effects, and of his art in its profound truth.
So far is he from seeing Pilate's connection with Jesus in the light
of later times that he represents him as completely forgetting the
whole occurrence, which was an everyday one to him--whilst Lamia only
remembers it because of Magdalene.
France has drawn Magdalene again in the tale of _Læta Acilia_, one of
those composing the volume entitled _Balthasar_. Here he represents her
as driven from Judæa, and arriving by ship at Marseilles, where she
tries to convert her protectress, a Roman knight's wife. The Roman lady
desires a child. Magdalene promises to pray for her. The next time she
comes to the house _Læta Acilia_ is pregnant. And now Magdalene tells
her that she herself was a sinner when she first beheld the fairest of
men, the Son of Man; that He drove seven devils out of her; and that
she fell on her knees before Him in the house of one Simon and poured
precious ointment from an alabaster box over His sacred feet. She
repeats the words which the gentle Rabbi uttered in her defence when
His disciples, with coarse taunts, would have driven her away. Since
then she has lived in the shadow of the Master as in a new Paradise.
And to her it was that He appeared first after His resurrection.
It seems to the Roman lady that Magdalene is endeavouring to impart to
her a distaste for the pleasures of her placid life. Until now she has
had no idea of there being any other happiness in the world except that
which she knows.
"I have no desire to know your God. You have loved him too supremely.
To please him one is to fall at his feet with unloosened hair! That is
no posture for the wife of a Roman knight. Go, Jewess! Your God can
never be mine. I have not lived the life of a sinner, and I have not
been possessed with seven devils. I have not wandered in ways of error;
I am a woman deserving of respect. Go!"
What attracts France in these characters is the contrast between the
emotional life of the two women, between the religiously erotic
rapture of the Asiatic and the tradition-sanctioned conjugal love of
the Roman matron.
It is always as the creative writer that he touches history.
Among the many things in which France does not believe is history as
a science. History, he says, is a representation of the events of the
past. But what is an event? A remarkable fact. Who decides whether
a fact is remarkable or not? The historian decides it, arbitrarily,
according to his taste. A fact is, moreover, an exceedingly composite
thing. Does the historian represent it in all its compositeness? That
would be impossible. Hence he gives us it cropped and pruned. And yet
again, the historic fact is the final consequence of unhistoric or
unknown facts. How can the historian demonstrate their concatenation?
This line of argument appeals so forcibly to France that he sets it
forth no fewer than three times--in the preface to _La Vie Littéraire_,
in _Les Opinions de M. Jérôme Coignard_, and in _Le Jardin d'Épicure_.
As the creative writer he chills the ardour of the investigator by his
scepticism. It is, he says, impossible to know the past; no one is able
to read everything that would require to be read. Twice he relates the
same fable in illustration of his argument:
When young Prince Zemire succeeded his father on the throne of Persia,
he summoned a convocation of all the learned men of his kingdom, and
addressed them thus:
"My revered teacher has impressed upon me that kings would be less
liable to error if they were acquainted with the history of the past.
Write me a history of the world, and make certain that it is complete."
After the lapse of twenty years the learned men reappeared before the
king, followed by a caravan composed of twelve camels, each bearing 500
volumes.
The secretary of the society made a short speech and presented the 6000
volumes.
The king, whose time was fully occupied with the affairs of the State,
expressed his gratitude for the trouble taken, but added: "I am now
middle-aged, and even if I live to be old I shall not have time to
read such a long history. Abridge it!" After labouring twenty years
longer the learned men returned, followed by three camels bearing 1500
volumes, and said: "Here is our new work; we believe that nothing
essential is omitted."
"That may be; but I am an old man now. Abridge still further, and with
all possible speed!"
After the lapse of only ten years they reappeared, followed by a young
elephant, bearing only 500 volumes. "This time we have been exceedingly
brief."
"Not yet sufficiently so," replied the king. "My life is almost over.
Abridge again!"
Five years passed, and the secretary returned alone, walking with
crutches, and leading a small ass, whose load was one large book.
"Hurry!" called an officer. "The king is at the point of death."
"I die," said the king, "without knowing the history of mankind."
"Not so, sire," answered the aged man of learning; "I can compress it
for you into three words: They were born, suffered, and died."
We see how it is that France, in spite of his great gifts as an
investigator, has not become a historian, but a novelist and
story-writer.
He is not, however, so pessimistic as we might conclude from the
closing words of his fable. The human beings whom he describes have
pleasures as well as pains, and he invariably advocates pleasure as
superior to every kind of abnegation of nature, and combats the theory
that there is good in suffering.
But this scepticism with regard to history is typical of his sceptical
spirit generally.
The danger of extreme intellectual refinement is that it disposes to
doubt. The interest in humanity of the man who sees the many-sidedness
of everything is apt to be swallowed up in contempt for humanity. And
once this has happened he is quite likely, from sheer pessimistic
reasonableness, to become the supporter of high-handed tyranny.
France has run this danger. Ten years ago it seemed as if the course
of his development were quite as likely to lead him, practically, to
reaction as to Radicalism.
When Abel Herman's book, _Le Cavalier Miserey_, a military novel of
some ability which criticised the army, was forbidden to soldiers,
France wrote: "I know only a few lines of the famous order of the
day published by the colonel of the Twelfth Regiment of Chasseurs at
Rouen. They are as follows: 'Every copy of _Le Cavalier Miserey_ which
is confiscated shall be burned on the dunghill, and every soldier in
whose possession a copy is found shall be punished with imprisonment.'
It is not a particularly elegant sentence, and yet I would rather have
written it than the four hundred pages of the novel."
It was a crime in those days to utter a word against the army. Those
who know what France has written about it since, know what a change
has taken place in his views.
When the crisis came, it showed that in this man dwelt not merely,
as in certain others, intellect and ability, but a determined will,
and that in his inmost soul he was not such a doubter but that he had
preserved one belief and one enthusiasm--belief in the justification of
the great spiritual revolt of the eighteenth century, and enthusiasm
for it.
As author he owns two main elements of effectiveness. The first is the
ingenuousness which prevents his characters ever being--what Voltaire's
often are--marionettes; they move freely on their own legs, and lead a
life independent of their author and undisturbed by him. Their naïveté
makes them natural.
[Illustration: manuscript of a letter.]
The second element is art. France has what he himself calls the French
writer's three great qualities--in the first place, lucidity; in the
second, lucidity; in the third and last, lucidity. But this is only
one fundamental quality of his art. He has proved himself possessed
of moderation and tact, in which for him, as the true Frenchman (and
to use his own words), "all art consists." His detestation of Zola as
a novelist was due to that Italian's utter lack of moderation as an
artist. He himself as narrator is always subdued.
He lacks passion, and he is never wanton; his eroticism is only
Epicureanism. There is sensuality in his writing, and there is
intellectuality--a good deal of the former, an overpowering amount of
the latter.
He is, taken all in all, more the artistic and philosophic than the
creative author. Delacroix has said that art is exaggeration in the
right place. France's exaggeration lies in the wealth of ideas with
which he endows his characters, a wealth which the books can hardly
contain (_vide Thaïs_ and _Balthasar_), and for which place must be
made in whole additional volumes, such as _Les Opinions de M. Jérôme
Coignard, Le Jardin d'Épicure_, and a part of _Pierre Nozière_. He has
more ideas than feelings. He has ideas upon every subject, criticises
everything--not only human prejudices and institutions, but nature
herself.
He reproaches her, for instance, with giving us youth so early, and
letting us live the rest of our life without it; it ought to come last,
as the crown of life, like the butterfly stage, which in insects comes
after the larva and cocoon stage, and ought, as the last, highest phase
of development, to be directly followed by death.
France's own highest stage of development has come last. For in his
latest phase, as combatant, he is far from having lost any of his
satirical power, or of the artistic superiority which it confers.
Never has his irony been so effective as in his most distinctly
polemical work, _L'Anneau d'Améthyste_, where the most immoral actions,
one breach of the Seventh Commandment after the other, become links
in the cleverly woven chain of intrigues which, aiming at gratifying
an ambitious young _parvenu_ baron's desire to become member of an
ultra-Conservative aristocrat's hunt, result in procuring the episcopal
ring for a crafty, submissive priest. This priest has cringed to every
one, and by his humility has prevailed on men and women to act. Hardly
is he appointed before he reveals himself as the most warlike son of
the Church, the irreconcilable enemy of the State.
As an artist, France, even when he is most combative, is Olympian and
passionless.
That he is not lacking in passion, behind his art and apart from it,
was revealed on the day when the serene sceptic suddenly faced round
and as polemist adopted a party, as popular orator proclaimed himself a
radical Socialist.
He was no born orator; according to French custom, he read his
speeches. But his greatness as a writer stood him in good stead. He
generally began by riveting the attention of the crowd by something
graphic and tangible--perhaps some old fairy-tale. One day he told
the story of the wonderful wrestler who could transform himself into
a fire-breathing dragon, and when the dragon was overcome, into an
inoffensive duck. "I could not help thinking of this wrestler the other
day," he said, "when I read the programme which the Nationalists have
affixed to the walls. We have seen them on our streets and boulevards
ejecting fire from their eyes, their mouths, and their nostrils. Like
the most frightful dragons, they flapped their wings and showed their
terror-inspiring claws. They were, nevertheless, overcome; and now they
have come to life again, to make a fresh trial of strength, with smooth
feathers, with an appearance of belonging to our household, with a
domestic animal's mild voice. What a remarkable transformation!"
The introduction was so amusing and popular that the audience, bursting
into prolonged laughter and merry acclamation, was won at once.
One November evening in Paris, in the year 1904, when the delegates of
the Scandinavian Parliaments were invited to an entertainment at the
residence of M. Delcassé, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, where an
opportunity was given them to see something of upper-class society,
including the Diplomatic Corps, with its elegant and beautifully
dressed ladies, I went, instead of accompanying them to this attractive
sight, to the Trocadéro, where on the same evening, at the invitation
of the Socialist party, three of the foremost men of France were to
address a large meeting.
The hall had long been filled; but a seat had been kindly reserved for
me, which, being on the platform beside the speakers, enabled me at
a glance to view the 6000 human beings who crowded the floor of the
enormous and beautiful building, and its galleries to the very roof.
The hall is built like a huge theatre with the stage on a level with
the dress circle. The audience, which had arrived early, sat in eager
expectation.
The three speakers were Francis de Pressensé, Jean Jaurès, and Anatole
France--the most strictly upright politician, the most eloquent orator,
and the greatest writer of the France of to-day.
Francis de Pressensé's speech was distinguished by its simple, noble
power. It was Huguenot oratory. He holds himself straight and still,
speaks without a gesture, without an appeal to his audience, except
that of his assertions to their sense of right. He communicates fact
after fact and explains them. His command of language is so great
that he has never to search for words, however quickly he speaks, and
never mutilates a sentence, however hurriedly he flings it from him.
In contrast to the usual custom of French orators, he makes not the
slightest pause when he has said something particularly effective and
applause breaks forth. He allows no time for the applause, but speaks
on without a movement or a break, seemingly unconscious of it.
When the time came for Jaurès to speak, part of the platform was
cleared, because he required its full length. The eloquence of the
great Socialist is genuine Catholic eloquence. He recalls the most
remarkable of the preachers in the churches of Naples. He, like them,
is a Southern. And like them he requires a roomy stage, on which,
whilst speaking, he can walk up and down, halt, and turn in all
directions.