118
PARTISAN REVIEW
never said or thought that good literature is made only with bad
feelings. I could just as well have written that the best intentions
often make the worst works of art and that the artist risks de·
grading his art if he tries to make it edifying. I am careful not
to add "always": the example of Peguy deters me from that.
But, apart from the fact that I find his oft-quoted verses on Eve
very mediocre, I hold that those who admire them are leaving
the domain of art and taking up quite a different point of view:
that of the priest or the major-general is not likely to coincide,
except incidentally, with that of the artist.
For all that, a literature can be more or less virile and virili–
fying, and in recent times ours, as a whole, has not been so at
all. It had other qualities, which it stands in peril of losing
if,
perforce or at some password, it tries to make up its lacks by
artifice and forces out sounds that are utterly against its nature.
No reason of the movement will lead me to prefer (for example)
Zola's
Travail
or
Recondite
to his
Pot-Bouille.
It
is possible that
for a time the art of Clodion or Carpeaux may be less popular
than that of Rude or Barie, but to try to assess art on its moral
output is a perversion of judgment.
Indulgence. Indulgences.... That puritan rigor for which
the protestants, those hinderers of dancing, have often made them–
selves so detestable: those conscientious scruples, that intransigent
integrity, that unbending punctuality.... This is what we lacked
most. Softness, casualness, relaxation in charm and ease--and
as many likeable qualities, which were to lead us blindfolded
to defeat.
And, most frequently, mere ignoble slackness, flabbiness.
Les Ronds de Cuir,
which I have just tried to reread, has
plunged me into unspeakable dumps. "It's like Daumier," people
tell me. No, no! Daumier was satire. Daumier castigated what
Courteline seems to be pleased with, to have fun with. He delights
in abjectness, takes sides with the swindler, the pickpocket. What
can one expect of so mediocre a humanity-alas, only too accu–
rately painted!
An
approving, indulgent portrait, in which so
many Frenchmen recognize themselves-or, at least, one recognizes
so many Frenchmen.
Melancholy reign of indulgence, indulgences....
