CLEMENCEAU AS A WRITER
M. Clemenceau had a ready pen as well as a very bitter one, and he did
not confine himself to articles on politics and sociology. Besides _La
Mêlée Sociale_, of which I have given some account in the previous
chapter, he published the following books in order within eight years:
_Le Grand Pan_, a volume of descriptive essays; _Les Plus Forts_, a
novel; _Au Fil des Jours_, and _Les Embuscades de la Vie_, which were,
in the main, collections of sketches and tales. At the same time he
did a great deal of ordinary journalism, including his articles on the
Dreyfus case, which make in themselves four good-sized volumes.
_Le Grand Pan_ followed close upon _La Mêlée Sociale_, and came as
a delightful surprise to M. Clemenceau's readers, a piece of pure
literature. In this book he no longer writes as a citizen of Paris, a
man of the boulevards and pavements, but as one country-born and bred,
knowing the hills and the sea. Although he describes his own Vendéen
scenery with loving familiarity, making the "_Marais_," the "_Bocage_"
and the "_Plaine_" live before us, he does not cling to them with the
monotonous affection of some French writers, who are, as it were, dyed
in their own local colour. Without elaboration, without the detailed
building-up of a scene which is the careful habit of some others, he
conveys in two or three lines the _feeling_ of a countryside and that
elusive but immutable thing, the character of a landscape. This belongs
really to the poet's art, and gives, I cannot tell why, a deeper
impression, a far more lasting pleasure than all the abundance and
detail of prose. Clemenceau's neighbour, and almost fellow-countryman,
Renan, had this gift. All the grey waters of the rocky Armorican shore
seem to sweep through the first lines of his essay on the Celtic
Spirit; and the influence of Renan is marked in _Le Grand Pan_. The
first article, which gives the book its title, sets the reader's fancy
sailing among the Greek Isles, steered by poetry and tradition, in
the light of the golden and the silver age. Clemenceau, like Heine,
mourns for the overthrow of the Greek gods in the welter of quarrelling
priesthoods and fierce Asian ugliness that flooded the Mediterranean
world. "Pan, Pan is dead!" But in the Renaissance--"the tumultuous
pageant of Art hurrying to meet the classic gods reborn"--he welcomes
the magnificent restoration of the ancient and eternal Powers. And
he claims for the nineteenth century the honour of beholding another
re-birth of the gods of Nature in the development of science, and the
labour that has brought some of the secrets of earth within our ken.
But science, as we know, has revealed the horrors as well as the
wonders of earth. It troubles us; man has shed rivers of needless
blood, but we shrink from recognising Nature as she is, "red in
tooth and claw." It did not trouble the ancient Greeks; their
gods, developing from the rough deities of place or tribe into the
embodiments of the natural forces of matter or of mind, were outside
human ethic, although they were cast in human form. They might take the
shape of mortals, but only Euripides and a few other hypersensitive
moralists thought of blaming the gods when, as often happened, they
fell below the standards of human conduct. But we are creatures of
another era; and man, criticising and even condemning the Powers that
rule his little day, has, for good or ill, reached out to a level that
is above the gods, whose plaything he still remains.
And there is another change. Man--_some_ men, that is to say--have
taken the animals into their protection and fellowship: and M.
Clemenceau is truly one of these. Not only those charming, kindly
essays, _La Main et la Patte_ and _Les Parents Pauvres_, in _Le Grand
Pan_, but the history of the two pigeons in the _Embuscades de la Vie_,
and a hundred little touches and incidents throughout Clemenceau's
books show him to be a man of most generous sympathies, looking at
animal life from a far higher and finer point of view than the majority
of his countrymen.
There is much else in _Le Grand Pan_ that it would be pleasant to dwell
upon: a delicate classic spirit, a certain ironic grace, humour and
mockery, but everywhere and above all keen indignation at needless
human suffering and a sympathy which is poles apart from sentiment, for
human pain. M. Clemenceau might well be called "a soldier of pity,"
as, in one of the Near Eastern languages, the members of his first
profession, the doctors, are termed. But I must pass on. _Le Grand Pan_
is, as it deserves to be, the best known of M. Clemenceau's books,
and no one who has overlooked it can form a complete idea of this
remarkable man.
It is said that anyone who has the power of setting down his
impressions on paper can write at least one good novel, if he
tries, for he will draw with varying degrees of truth or malice
the individuals he has met, liked, or suffered from, and the main
circumstances of his life. What a Homeric novel M. Clemenceau might
have written if he had followed these lines! But _Les Plus Forts_ is
unfortunately no such overflow of personal impressions and memories;
it is merely what used to be called "a novel with a purpose." That is
to say, it is one of the many works of fiction which not only record
the adventures of certain imaginary yet typical characters, but also
contain severe criticism of contemporary social conditions and life.
Such novels were much more common in England during the nineteenth
century than in France. In English fiction the sequence is unbroken
from _Sandford and Merton_ to the earlier works of Mrs. Humphry Ward's
venerable pen. But in 1898 there were still not many French novels
concerned with the serious discussion of social conditions, and M.
Clemenceau's early work stands out among these for sincerity and
simplicity of intent. However, in spite of the excellent irony of some
passages--notably the description of the Vicomtesse de Fourchamps'
career--_Les Plus Forts_ is to modern readers a trifle tedious and a
little naive. It is of the same calibre as Mr. Shaw's two first novels,
but less eccentric and not so amusing. M. Clemenceau himself would
probably write upon it "_Péché de jeunesse_," and pass on. Yet it
deserves more attention than that; for _Les Plus Forts_ unconsciously
reveals the central weakness of its author's criticism of modern life.
The situation is a good one, although the actors are not so much
characters as types.
Henri de Puymaufray, a ruined French gentleman, who has lost the
world and found a kind of Radicalism, and Dominique Harlé, a rich
paper manufacturer, live side by side in the country as friendly
enemies or, rather, close but inimical friends. Their views of life
are as the poles asunder, but for the purposes of the story they
must be constantly meeting in conversational intimacy; and they have
each an almost superhuman power of expressing themselves and their
attitude towards the world they live in. The chief link between them
is Harlé's supposed daughter and only child, Claude, whose real father
is Puymaufray. Both these elderly gentlemen are deeply concerned
about Claude's future; each wishing, as parents and guardians often
do, to make the child's career the completion of their own ambitions
and hopes. Here Harlé has the advantage; he knows what he wants, that
is, money and power, and he means his daughter to have plenty of
both. He is the ordinary capitalist, with a strain of politician and
Cabinet-maker, who ends by founding a popular journal that outdoes
Harmsworth in expressing the "Lowest Common Factor of the Mind."
Society, the Church, and a particularly offensive form of charity all
serve him to increase his own power and the stability of his class. All
is for the best in the best of bourgeois worlds. Such is the theory
of life which he puts before his supposed daughter, together with a
_prétendant_ who will carry out his aims. Unhappily, Puymaufray has
nothing positive to set against this very solid and prosperous creed.
He and Deschars, the young traveller whom he wishes to give Claude
for a husband, can only talk pages of Radicalism in which the words
"pity" and "love" would recur even more frequently if M. Clemenceau's
fine sense of fitness did not prevail. What do they really want Claude
to do? The best they can offer her appears to be a life of retired and
gentle philanthropy, inspired by a dim sense of human brotherhood,
which might, under very favourable circumstances, deepen into a sort of
Socialist mood.
But "mere emotional Socialism cuts no ice." This has often been said,
and means that a vague fraternal purpose and a perception of the deep
injustice of our present social system, even when sharpened with the
most destructive satire, will never change this world for the better,
unless they lead up to some theory of construction that is based on
economic facts. Pity and brotherhood may move individuals to acts of
benevolence, but they cannot alone recast the fabric of society, or
even bring about fundamental collective reforms. Besides, when young
people are asked to give up certain definite things, such as money,
pleasure and power, they must see something more than mere renouncement
ahead. They must be shown the fiery vision of an immortal city whose
foundations they may hope to build. Clemenceau's own knowledge of human
nature works against his two heroes, and he says:
"Deschars was the child of his time. He had gone about the world as
a disinterested beholder, and he returned from voyaging without any
keen desire for noble action. . . . Perhaps, if he had been living and
working for some great human object, Deschars would have carried Claude
away by the very authority of his purpose, without a word. . . ."
And Madame de Fourchamps observes:
"It is very lucky for the poor that there are rich people to give them
bread."
To which Claude replies:
"My father's factory provides these workmen with a livelihood; where
would they be without him?"
Then, instead of a few plain words on labour-value, Puymaufray can only
reply:
"Well, they give him something in exchange, don't they?"
The old capitalist fallacies here uttered in their crudest form
cannot be refuted by mere injunctions to pity and goodwill; and even
the magnificent words Liberty, Equality, Fraternity are no adequate
reply. To the successful profiteer and all who acquiesce in his
domination they mean: Liberty of Enterprise, Equality of Opportunity,
and Fraternity among Exploiters. Facts and the march of events alone
can persuade Dominique Harlé and his like to use their ingenuity in
serving their fellow-creatures, and not in profiting by them. And only
collective action, guided by some knowledge of the direction in which
our civilisation is tending, can hasten the march of events.
It is remarkable how greatly the "novel with a purpose" has developed
during the last twenty years in England and, to a less extent, in
France. The characters are creatures of their conditions; and it
is these conditions, not the characters, that do the talking. Some
novels to-day are such careful and withal highly interesting guides
to the sociology of England towards the end of the black Industrial
Age that we cannot wonder if their authors take themselves too
seriously as politicians and reformers. Yet these works show, after
all, the same defect as _Les Plus Forts_, they have no constructive
theory of life to set against the very well-defined, solid, and still
apparently effective system which they criticise. All their most ironic
descriptions, their most penetrating satire are negative, and, in the
end, the utterances of men "wandering between two worlds, one dead, one
powerless to be born."
_Au Fil des Jours_ is an interesting collection of pieces in which the
author has not made up his mind whether he will write short stories or
articles upon social conditions. There is no harm in that; some people
may even say that M. Clemenceau has produced a new variety of readable
matter; but, curiously enough, the substance of the story is often
so telling that one quarrels with the writer for not having put it
into the best shape. Take one of the pieces in _Au Fil des Jours_--_La
Roulotte_. Briefly, a weary old gipsy drives in a covered donkey-cart
into a country hamlet, and stops by the riverside, where all the
gossips are washing. He is received with hostile and watchful silence,
because gipsies are always the scapegoats in a peasant district, and
anything and everything that may be lost, stolen or strayed--even if
it turns up again--is always laid to their account. In the night he
dies, unnoticed; and, after some further time has passed, the villagers
inspect his cart. Finding him there, dead, with a very small grandson
living, they fetch the local constable and the mayor. The arm of
the Law begins to function, the child is sent to the workhouse, the
moribund donkey is "taken care of" by one of the villagers, and the
dilapidated old cart, which only contained a few rags, is left by the
riverside.
But the French peasant knows how to turn every little thing to profit:
nothing is useless in his eyes. Gradually handy fragments of the
donkey-cart begin to disappear. Bits of the iron fittings vanish, the
tilt-props go, a shaft follows, one wheel after another slips away and
is no more seen. In fact, the donkey-cart, as such, disappears from
mortal sight. Then, one fine day, a gipsy-woman comes swinging along
the road, where she had followed the traces of the donkey-cart, and
asks for news of her old father and her little boy. The authorities of
the village tell her of the old gipsy's death and burial: they do not
require her to pay for his obsequies only because they see it would
be no use. She goes to fetch the child from the workhouse, and then
asks for the donkey and cart. The former, they tell her, died in the
hands of the villager who "took care of him" (and sold his skin for a
fair sum). She accepts this loss with resignation; but the cart, as
she says, cannot have died: where is her father's "_roulotte_"?--Ah,
well, nobody in the village knows anything about _that_! It _was_ here,
no doubt, since the old gipsy died in it--but since then----The Law,
once more represented by mayor and constables, can only shrug its
shoulders in the finest French manner and disclaim all responsibility
for a vagabond's goods. But the gipsy-woman persists: she begins even
to clamour for her rights. "_Rights, indeed!_" The village, hitherto
indifferent, becomes hostile; and the old cry that meets the gipsy
everywhere is raised, for someone on the edge of the crowd calls
out, "Thief!" It is a mere expression of disapproval, not a direct
accusation, but the whole village takes it up joyfully: "Thief! Thief!"
So the gipsy-woman, who, as it chanced, has stolen nothing, is hounded
out of the commune with sticks and stones and objurgations by those who
had themselves appropriated her old donkey-cart piecemeal. "A bit of
rusty iron whizzed past her as she crossed the bridge. It may once have
served as her donkey's shoe."
Such is the tale: a sample of many in _Au Fil des Jours_. Irony and
realism are not wanting, nor yet the grimly picturesque, but the
reader is left thinking: "What a little gem this would be if it were
told by Maupassant, or some other master of the _conte_!" Certainly
M. Clemenceau has something else to do than tell _contes_! But his
literary material is so fine that it is his own fault if we expect
the very best of him. As it is, he does not take the trouble to cut
the story out clearly from the matrix of thought and memories which
enfolded it in his own mind. The effect on the reader is, one might
say, a little vague and murmurous, like some tale half-heard in a crowd.
It is a strange thing that the countryside, Nature, the pure and
never-failing spring of inspiration for poetry and human delight,
should turn so different a countenance towards those who live with her,
year out and year in, winning sustenance for us all from her broad
and often ungenial breast. Our Mother Earth is an iron taskmaster to
the tillers of the soil grinding out their youth and strength, bowing
their eyes to their labour, so that all her beauty passes them by
unseen. Either Nature keeps her charms jealously for the untroubled
mind and the leisured eye, or else all the beauty that we see in her is
borrowed, a glamour lent by some immaterial force--not ours, perhaps,
but certainly not her own. Be this as it may, in the _Embuscades de la
Vie_ M. Clemenceau beholds and describes the careless, endless, natural
beauty amid which the peasant-lives that he sketches for us are set;
but these themselves are often as ugly as bare stone, and the men and
women are hard and close-fisted with one another mainly because the
earth is so grudging to them. These stories are the most clear-cut of
all Clemenceau's essays in fiction. They are not exactly _contes_,
either: they are the discoveries, one might say, of Clemenceau in
his ancestral character as the descendant of a line of doctors and
landowners who worked for generations among the small bourgeois and the
tillers of the soil. How he knows them! and--if French fiction is to
be believed--how unchangeable they are! Since the bourgeois gained his
freedom in the great Revolution by using the arm of the sans-culotte,
what a grip he has kept upon his possession! and how much dearer to him
his property is than anything else in the world! Clemenceau does but
take up the theme of Balzac and others when he describes provincial
France and its twin gods, money and the land--money which compels
loveless marriages, envy, fawning, bitterness, perpetual small cheating
or endless insect-like toil; and the land, in whose service men work
themselves and their kindred to the bone, and grudge a pittance to old
age.
The bourgeoisie and their customs vary with their nationality, but
peasant life is much the same all over Europe. Clemenceau found similar
traits of life and character in Galicia to those of La Vendée; and
others will tell us that from Ireland to Russia, from the Baltic to
the Black Sea, the peasant and the small farmer conduct their lives
upon the same lines: hard work, dependence upon the seasons, family
authority, tribal feuds, and a meticulous social system of comment and
convention, under which the individual finds himself far less free than
in the unhampered, unnoticed life of the towns.
Yet many of the "ambushes of life" are to be found in the cities; and
about a third of these tales are laid in the towns and among the
well-to-do middle class. M. Clemenceau's satire plays freely upon
the "marriage of convention," by which two families agree, after a
certain amount of haggling and mutual sharp practice, to bind two young
strangers together in the closest of relationship, for time, and also,
we are told, for eternity, in the interest of property alone. Still,
human nature adapts itself to anything, and even such marriages have
their compensations, as our author lightly and ironically points out.
Being a genuine sociologist, he does not handle these tales of the
bourgeoisie and their vagaries within what is, after all, an artificial
and exclusive form of existence, as seriously as he does the great
plain outlines of peasant life.
Whether he writes of town or country, of _Fleur de Froment_ and _Six
Sous_, or of a _ménage à trois_; whether he calls up a Greek courtesan
to theorise about her profession, or describes a long-standing bitter,
and motiveless peasant feud, his style is always fluent and charming,
vivid with irony, and graceful with poetic thought. Yet the defect as
well as the merit of M. Clemenceau's fiction and essay-writing is just
this admirable, unvarying ease and fluency. One feels that he writes
with perfect unconsciousness, as the thoughts come into his head.
And, after a while, the ungrateful reader is inclined to ask for some
kind of selection in the feast before him, where all is good, very
good, even, but nothing is _excellent_. Like a far greater writer,
Clemenceau--on paper at least--"has no peaks in him." His literature
was an admirable "by-product" of his almost limitless capacities; his
actions and not his writings are the achievements of his life.