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shrinking more and more. The last years of Louis-Philippe had seen
the last explosions of a mind and soul still capable of being excited
by the play of the imagination; but the new novelist found himself
faced with a society absolutely worn out, worse than worn out–
brutal and greedy, whose sole horror wa'> of fiction, and sole love that
of possession.
Under such conditions, a well-stocked intellect, enthusiastic of the
beautiful, but accustomed to skillful fencing, judging what was good
and bad in the case, could only say to itself: "What is the surest way
of shaking up these old fools? They do not in reality know what they
like; they have a positive disgust only for what is great; simple, in–
tense passion, poetic abandonment hurts them .and makes them blush.
Let us then be commonplace in the choice of subject, since the choice
of too large a subject is an impertinence for the reader of the nine–
teenth century. And also be very careful not to give ourself away and
speak on our own account. We shall be like ice when relating passions
and adventures in which most people put their warmest feeling; we
shall be, as they say in the new school, objective and impersonal.
"And also, as our ears have been harassed in recent times by the
puerile spoutings of this new school, as we have heard tell of a cer–
tain literary process called
realism- a
disgusting term of abuse hurled
in
the face of all analysts, a vague and elastic word which signifies
for the herd, not a new method of creation, but a minute description
of details-we shall profit by the confusion of minds and the universal
ignorance. We shall exhibit a style which is nervous, picturesque,
subtle, and exact on a drab canvas. We shall enclose the hottest and
most seething passions within the framework of the most trivial event.
The most solemn, the most consequential speeches will slip from the
dullest mouths.
"What is the breeding place of stupidity, what atmosphere is the
most foolish, the most productive of absurdities, the most abounding
in intolerant inbeciles?
"The provinces.
"Who are the most boring of all in them?
"The little people who are busy with little jobs the performance
of which warps their ideas.
"What theme for a novel is the most worn out, most prostituted,
most like a broken-down hand organ?
"Adultery.
"I have no need," the poet tells himself, "to make my
heroine
a heroine." Provided that she be sufficiently pretty, that she have
