In our day, literature quite evidently presents three aspects; and, so
far from being a symptom of decadence, this triplicity, to use an
expression coined by M. Cousin in his dislike of the word trinity, seems
to me a natural enough effect of the abundance of literary talent: it is
a tribute to the nineteenth century, which does not offer one sole and
invariable form, like the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, which
were more or less obedient to the tyranny of a man or of a system.
These three forms, aspects or systems, by whichever name you choose to
call them, exist in nature and correspond to general sympathies which
were bound to declare themselves at a time when literature has seen,
through the spread of knowledge, the number of its appreciators increase
and the practice of reading advance with unparalleled progress.
In all generations and among all peoples there are minds that are
elegiac, meditative, contemplative, minds that attach themselves more
especially to the great imagery, the vast spectacles of nature, and
transpose these into themselves. Hence a whole school to which I should
give the name: the _Literature of Imagery_, to which belong lyrical
writing, the epic and everything that springs from that way of looking
at things.
There are, on the other hand, other active souls who like rapidity,
movement, conciseness, sudden shocks, action, drama, who avoid
discussion, who have little fondness for meditation, and take pleasure
in results. From these, another whole system from which springs what I
should call, in contrast to the former system, the _Literature of
Ideas_.
Finally, certain complete beings, certain _bifrontal_ intelligences
embrace everything, choose both lyricism and action, drama and ode, in
the belief that perfection requires a view of things as a whole. This
school, which may be called _Literary Eclecticism_, demands a
representation of the world as it is: imagery and ideas, the idea in the
image or the image in the idea, movement and meditation. Walter Scott
has entirely satisfied these eclectic natures.
Which party predominates, I do not know. I should not like anyone to
infer from this natural distinction forced consequences. Thus, I do not
mean to say that such and such a poet of the school of imagery is devoid
of ideas, or that some other poet of the school of ideas cannot invent
fine images. These three formulas apply only to the general impression
left by the poets' work, to the mould into which the writer casts his
thought, to the natural tendency of his mind. Every image corresponds to
an idea, or, more precisely, to a _sentiment_ which is a collection of
ideas, and the idea does not always end in an image. The idea demands an
effort in its development which does not come readily to every mind.
Also the image is essentially popular, it is readily understood. Suppose
that M. Hugo's _Notre-Dame de Paris_ were to appear simultaneously with
_Manon Lescaut_, _Notre-Dame_ would seize hold of the masses far more
promptly than Manon, and would seem to have outrivalled it in the eyes
of those who kneel before the _Vox populi_.
And yet, whatever be the kind from which a work proceeds, it will dwell
in the human memory only by obeying the laws of the ideal and those of
form. In literature, imagery and idea correspond nearly enough to what
in painting we call design and colour. Rubens and Raphael are two great
painters; but he would be strangely mistaken who thought that Raphael
was not a colourist; and those who would refuse to Rubens the title of
draughtsman may go and kneel before the painting with which the
illustrious Fleming has adorned the Church of the Jesuits at Genoa, as
an act of homage to design.
M. Beyle, better known by the pseudonym Stendhal, is, in my opinion, one
of the most eminent masters of the _Literature of Ideas_, a school to
which belong MM. Alfred de Musset, Mérimée, Léon Gozlan, Béranger,
Delavigne, Gustave Planche, Madame de Girardin, Alphonse Karr and
Charles Nodier. Henry Monnier belongs to it by the truth of his
proverbs, which are often lacking in a root-idea, but which are
nevertheless full of that naturalness and that accurate observation
which are characteristic of the school.
This school, to which we already owe much fine work, recommends itself
by its abundance of facts, by the sobriety of its imagery, by
conciseness, by clarity, by the _petite phrase_ of Voltaire, by a way of
relating a story which the eighteenth century possessed, and, above all,
by a sense of comedy. M. Beyle and M. Mérimée, despite their profound
seriousness, have something ironical and sly in the manner in which they
state their facts. With them the comedy is kept in reserve. It is the
spark in the flint.
M. Victor Hugo's is undoubtedly the most eminent talent in the
_Literature of Imagery_. M. Lamartine belongs to this school, which M.
de Chateaubriand held over the baptismal font, and the philosophy of
which was created by M. Ballanche. _Obermann_ is another. MM. Auguste
Barbier, Théophile Gautier, Sainte-Beuve are others, as are a number of
feeble imitators. In some of the authors whom I have just named, the
sentiment prevails sometimes over the image, as in M. de Sénancour and
M. Sainte-Beuve. By his poetry rather than by his prose, M. de Vigny is
seen to belong to this great school. All these poets have little sense
of comedy, they know nothing of dialogue, with the exception of M.
Gautier, who has a keen sense of it. M. Hugo's dialogue is too much his
own speech, he does not transform himself sufficiently, he puts himself
into his character, instead of becoming that character. But this school
has, like the other, produced some fine work. It is remarkable for the
poetic fulness of its language, for the wealth of its imagery, for the
closeness of its union with nature; the other school is human, and this
one divine in the sense that it tends to raise itself by feeling towards
the very heart of creation. It prefers nature to man. The French
language is indebted to it for a strong dose of poetry which was
necessary, for it has developed the poetic feeling long resisted by the
_positivism_--pardon the word--of our language, and the dryness stamped
on it by the writers of the eighteenth century. Jean-Jacques Rousseau,
Bernardin de Saint-Pierre were the instigators of this revolution, which
I regard as fortunate.
The secret of the struggle between the Classics and the Romantics lies
entirely in this quite natural disparity of minds. For two centuries
past, the _Literature of Ideas_ has held exclusive sway, and so the
heirs of the eighteenth century naturally mistook the only system of
literature that they knew for the whole of literature. Let us not blame
them, these defenders of the classic! The Literature of Ideas, full of
facts, closely knit, is part of the genius of France. The _Profession de
foi du vicaire savoyard_, _Candide_, the _Dialogue de Sylla et
d'Eucrate_, the _Considérations sur les causes de la Grandeur et de la
Décadence des Romains_, the _Provinciales_, _Manon Lescaut_, _Gil
Blas_, are more in the French spirit than the works of the Literature of
Imagery. But we owe to this latter the poetry of which the two previous
centuries had not even a suspicion, if we set aside La Fontaine, André
Chénier and Racine. The Literature of Imagery is in its cradle, and
already includes a number of men whose genius is incontestable; but,
when I see how many the other school includes, I believe it to be at the
height rather than in the decline of its dominance over our beautiful
tongue. The struggle ended, one may say that the Romantics have not
invented new methods, that in the theatre, for instance, those who
complain of want of action have made ample use of the _tirade_ and the
soliloquy, and that we have not, so far, either heard the keen and
compact dialogue of Beaumarchais, nor seen again the comedy of Molière,
which will always be based upon reason and ideas. Comedy is the enemy of
meditation and imagery. M. Hugo has gained enormously in this contest.
But men of wide reading remember the war waged on M. de Chateaubriand,
during the Empire; it was fully as savage, and ended sooner because M.
de Chateaubriand stood alone, without the _stipante caterva_ of M. Hugo,
without the antagonism of the press, without the support furnished to
the Romantics by the men of genius of England and Germany, better known
and better appreciated.
As for the third school, which partakes of each of the other two, it has
less chance than they of exciting the masses, who have little taste for
the _mezzo termine_, for composite things, and see in eclecticism an
arrangement that runs counter to their passions in so far as it calms
them. France likes to find war in everything. In time of peace, she is
still fighting. Nevertheless, Walter Scott, Madame de Staël, Cooper,
George Sand seem to me to have distinct genius. As for myself, I take my
stand under the banner of literary eclecticism for the following reason:
I do not believe the portrayal of modern society to be possible by the
severe method of the literature of the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries. The introduction of the dramatic element, of the image, the
picture, of description, of dialogue, seems to me indispensable in
modern literature. Let us confess frankly that _Gil Blas_ is wearisome
as form: in the piling up of events and ideas there is something
sterile. The idea, personified in a character, shews a finer
intelligence. Plato cast his psychological ethics in the form of
dialogue.
_La Chartreuse de Parme_ is of our period and, up to the present, to my
mind, is the masterpiece of the Literature of Ideas, while M. Beyle has
made concessions in it to the two other schools, which are admissible by
fair minds and satisfactory to both camps.
If I have so long delayed, in spite of its importance, in speaking of
this book, you must understand that it was difficult for me to acquire a
sort of impartiality. Even now I am not certain that I can retain it, so
extraordinary, after a third, leisurely and thoughtful reading, do I
find this work.
I can imagine all the mockery which my admiration for it will provoke.
There will be an outcry, of course, at my infatuation, when I am simply
still filled with enthusiasm after the point at which enthusiasm should
have died. Men of imagination, it will be said, conceive as promptly as
they forget their affection for certain works of which the common herd
arrogantly and ironically protest that they can understand nothing.
Simple-minded, or even intelligent persons who with their proud gaze
sweep the surface of things, will say that I amuse myself with paradox,
that I have, like M. Sainte-Beuve, my _chers inconnus_. I am incapable
of compromise with the truth, that is all.
M. Beyle has written a book in which sublimity glows from chapter after
chapter. He has produced, at an age when men rarely find monumental
subjects and after having written a score of extremely intelligent
volumes, a work which can be appreciated only by minds and men that are
truly superior. In short, he has written _The Prince up to date_, the
novel that Machiavelli would write if he were living banished from Italy
in the nineteenth century.
And so the chief obstacle to the renown which M. Beyle deserves lies in
the fact that _La Chartreuse de Parme_ can find readers fitted to enjoy
it only among diplomats, ministers, observers, the leaders of society,
the most distinguished artists; in a word, among the twelve or fifteen
hundred persons who are at the head of things in Europe. Do not be
surprised, therefore, if, in the ten months since this surprising work
was published, there has not been a single journalist who has either
read, or understood, or studied it, who has announced, analysed and
praised it, who has even alluded to it. I, who, I think, have some
understanding of the matter, I have read it for the third time in the
last few days: I have found the book finer even than before, and have
felt in my heart the kind of happiness that comes from the opportunity
of doing a good action.
Is it not doing a good action to try to do justice to a man of immense
talent, who will appear to have genius only in the eyes of a few
privileged beings and whom the transcendency of his ideas deprives of
that immediate but fleeting popularity which the courtiers of the public
seek and which great souls despise? If the mediocre knew that they had a
chance of raising themselves to the level of the sublime by
understanding them, _La Chartreuse de Parme_ would have as many readers
as _Clarissa Harlowe_ had on its first appearance.
There are in admiration that is made legitimate by conscience ineffable
delights. Therefore all that I am going to say here I address to the
pure and noble hearts which, in spite of certain pessimistic
declamations, exist in every country, like undiscovered pleiads, among
the families of minds devoted to the worship of art. Has not humanity,
from generation to generation, has it not here below its constellations
of souls, its heaven, its angels, to use the favourite expression of the
great Swedish prophet, Swedenborg, a chosen people for whom true artists
work and whose judgments make them ready to accept privation, the
insolence of upstarts and the indifference of governments?
You will pardon me, I hope, what malevolent persons will call
_longueurs_. In the first place, I am firmly convinced, the analysis of
so curious and so interesting a work as this will give more pleasure to
the most fastidious reader than he would derive from the unpublished
novel whose place it fills. Besides, any other critic would require at
least three articles of the length of this, if he sought to give an
adequate explanation of this novel, which often contains a whole book in
a single page, and which cannot be explained save by a man to whom the
North of Italy is fairly familiar. Finally, let me assure you that, with
the help of M. Beyle, I am going to try to make myself instructive
enough to be read with pleasure to the end.
A sister of the Marchese del Dongo, named Gina, the abbreviation of
Angelina, whose early character, as a young girl, would have a certain
similarity, could an Italian woman ever resemble a Frenchwoman, to the
character of Madame de Lignolle in _Faublas_, marries at Milan, against
the will of her brother, who wishes to marry her to an old man, noble,
rich and Milanese, a certain Conte Pietranera, poor and without a penny.
The Conte and Contessa support the French party, and are the ornament of
the Court of Prince Eugène. We are in the days of the Kingdom of Italy,
when the story begins.
The Marchese del Dongo, a Milanese attached to Austria and her spy,
spends fourteen years waiting for the fall of the Emperor Napoleon.
Moreover, this Marchese, the brother of Gina Pietranera, does not live
at Milan: he occupies his castle of Grianta, on the Lake of Como: he
there brings up his elder son in the love of Austria and on sound
principles; but he has a younger son, named Fabrizio, to whom Signora
Pietranera is passionately devoted: Fabrizio is a cadet of the family;
like her, he will be left without a penny in the world. Who is not
familiar with the fondness of noble hearts for the disinherited? Also,
she wishes to make something of him. Then, fortunately, Fabrizio is a
charming boy; she obtains leave to put him to school at Milan, where,
playing truant, she makes him see something of the viceregal court.
Napoleon falls for the first time. While he is on the Island of Elba, in
the course of the reaction at Milan, which the Austrians have
reoccupied, an insult offered to the Armies of Italy in the presence of
Pietranera, who takes it up, is the cause of his death: he is killed in
a duel.
A lover of the Contessa refuses to avenge her husband, Gina humiliates
him by one of those acts of vengeance, magnificent south of the Alps,
which would be thought stupid in Paris. This is her revenge:
Although she despises, in _petto_, this lover who has been adoring her
at a distance and without reward for the last six years, she pays
certain attentions to the wretch, and, when he is in a paroxysm of
suspense, writes to him:
"Will you act for once like a man of spirit? Please to imagine that you
have never known me. I am, with a touch of contempt, your servant,