Preface to the Last Songs
(_POSTHUMOUS POEMS_)
OF
LOUIS BOUILHET.
I]It would perhaps make criticism easier, if, beforegiving our opinion, we should make known our preferences. To omit thispreliminary distinction is a great injustice, as every book contains apeculiarity pertaining to the writer himself, which, independently ofthe execution, will charm or irritate us according to our preferences.We are never completely charmed unless a book appeals to our feelingsand our intellect at the same time.
First, let us discuss the object of the book. "Why this novel, thisdrama? Of what use is it? etc." Instead of following the author's idea,instead of pointing out to him where he failed of his aim, and how heshould have gone about to attain it, we bicker with him on a thousandthings outside of his subject, always declaring the contrary of what hemeant to express. If a critic's sphere extends beyond the author'sprovince, he should first of all look to the aesthetics and the moral.
It is impossible for me to warrant either of these concerning the poetin questions. As for writing his life, it has been linked so closelywith mine, that I shall be brief on this subject; individual memoirsbelong only to great men. Besides, has not research been exhausted?History will soon absorb all literature. In studying too closely whatmakes up the author's atmosphere, we fail to give the originality of hisgenius due consideration. In La Harpe's time, when a masterpieceappeared, we were convinced,--thanks to certain rules!--that it wasunder no obligation whatsoever; whereas now, after we have examinedeverything about it, we still wish to discover its right to exist.
I have another scruple. I do not wish to betray the modesty that myfriend constantly maintained. At an epoch when insignificant mediocrityaspired to fame, when typography was the medium of all affectations, andthe rivalry of the most insipid personalities became a public pest, hewas proud of being modest. His photograph was never displayed on theboulevards. No article, no letter, not a single line from him, was everpublished in the papers. He did not even belong to the academy of hisprovince. Yet no life is more deserving of praise than his. He livednobly and labouriously. Though poor, he remained free. He was as strongas a blacksmith, mild as a child, intellectual without beingparadoxical, noble without affectation; and those who knew him well willsay that I have not praised him enough.
Louis Hyacinthe Bouilhet was born at Cany (Seine Inferieure), the 27thday of May, 1822. His father, chief of ambulances in the campaign of1812, swam the Beresina, carrying on his head the regiment's chest, anddied quite young from wounds received. His maternal grandfather, PierreHourcastreme, dabbled in legislation, poetry, and geometry, receivedcongratulations from Voltaire, corresponded with Turgot and Condorcet,spent nearly all his money buying shells, produced _Les Aventures deMessire Anselme_, an _Essai sur la Faculte de Penser_, _Les Etrennes deMnemosyne_, etc., and after being a lawyer in Pau, a journalist inParis, administrator of the navy at Havre, and a schoolmaster atMontvilliers, died almost a centenarian, bequeathing to his grandson thememory of a strange but charming old man, who powdered his hair, woreknee-breeches and cultivated tulips.
The child was sent to Ingouville, to a boarding-school on a high cliff,and went to the college of Rouen at twelve, where he was usually at thehead of his class. He was not a model pupil, however; this term appliesto mediocre natures and a calmness of spirit which was rare in thosedays.
I do not know what students admire nowadays, but our dreams were wildlyimaginative. The most enthusiastic dreamt of violent courtships, withgondolas, and fainting ladies carried away in stagecoaches by maskedruffians. Some, more gloomily disposed (admirers of Armand Carrel, acountryman), preferred the clash of the press and the court-room, or theglory of conspiracy. A rhetorician wrote an _Apologie de Robespierre_,which reached a certain gentleman and so scandalised him that it broughton an exchange of notes, followed by a challenge to a duel, in which thesaid gentleman did not play a very creditable part. One good-naturedfellow always wore a red cap; another swore to live as a Mohican; oneof my intimate friends aspired to the honour of serving underAbd-el-Kader. Apart from being troubadours, insurgents and Orientals, wewere, above all, artists. After studies, we wrote, and read novels tilllate in the night. Bar ..., declaring he was tired of life, shothimself; and And ... hanged himself with his cravat. We certainlydeserved little praise for our follies; but we hated platitudes; ourminds soared towards noble things. How we revered the masters! How weadmired Victor Hugo!
Among this group was Bouilhet, the elegist, the poet of moonlight andruins. When he was nearly twenty, this affectation disappeared, to giveplace to a virulent democracy, so genuine that he was about to join asecret society.
He received his bachelor's degree, and was told to choose a profession.He chose medicine, settled his small income on his mother, and taughtfor a living. His life became painfully labourious; he combined theduties of poet, tutor and saw-bones. Two years later, he was appointedinterne at l'Hotel Dieu in Rouen, under my father's orders. As he couldnot attend during the day, his turn came oftener than others for nightwatch. He did not mind it, however, as he had no other time in which towrite. All his poems of love, flowers and birds were written in thosewinter nights, amidst the sick and suffering, or on Sundays in summer,while the patients walked under his window. Those years of sadness werenot useless; the contemplation of suffering humanity, the dressing ofwounds, the dissecting-table, gave him a better knowledge of mankind.Some would have given way under the strain, the disgust, the torture ofhaving to follow a vocation unsuited to him; but, thanks to his physicaland mental health, he stood it cheerfully. Some still remember meetingin the streets of his native city, this handsome though somewhat timidyouth, with flowing blond hair, who always carried a note-book, in whichhe wrote his verses as they came to him; sometimes while teaching, at afriend's house, in a cafe, during an operation, anywhere. Poor inworldly wealth, but rich in hope, he gave them away. He was a real poetin the classical sense of the word.
When we met again after four years' separation, he read to me three ofhis plays. The first, entitled _Le Deluge_, described a lover clingingto his beloved, while he watched with anguish the ruins of the fastdisappearing world: "Hark to the crashing of the palm-trees on theheights, and to the agonizing cries of Earth!" It was somewhat prolix,and too emphatic, but was replete with force and passion. The second, asatire against the Jesuits, was more resolute and in an entirelydifferent style: "Smile, priests of the boudoir and gather poor femininesouls in your golden nets!" "Charming ministers in the confessional,inflicting penance with love-words on their lips! Heroes of the Gospel,impleading the Lord with flowery language, and treading each day, holymartyrs! on soft carpets the _via crucis_!" "These merchants, at thefoot of the cross, casting lots and dividing, piece by piece, O Lord,Thy robe and Thy cloak! These fakirs of holy relics, selling, oh,wonder! Thy heart as amulets, and phials of Thy blood."
We must not forget the disturbances of the times, and must remember thatthe author was only twenty-two. The play was dated 1844.
The third was an invective to "An author who sold his poems":
Why seek a famished passion to revive? After thy rustic love through green fields strive On flowery banks beside the rosy stream Archangel, drink to drunkenness the sunny beam, Under the willows chant etotic dreams, Though Brutus' sins upon thy shoulders weigh Doubtless thy simple soul and heart inveigh Against the Destiny that took from thee.
"'Tis the greedy Plutus, with his purse full, who quotes smiling, humanhonesty!"
"Destiny is the bag full of gold into which we plunge our greedy handswith rapture! It is corruption which flaunts before our eyes itsalluring breast! It is fear, the silent spectre that disturbs the cowardin the hour of danger!"
"Your prudent Apollo, no doubt, passed through the stock exchange toreach the Parnassus? We often see, in the political sky, the morning sundie out before night. Look through your telescope, do you not see Guizotwaning and Thiers coming to light? Do you base you
r changeable faith andyour flexible probity on the mobility of the weather?"
"Avaunt! Greek, whose servile words lauded Xerxes the night beforeThermopylae!" He continued in the same rough tone against theadministration. He sent his play to the _Reforme_, hoping they wouldprint it; but they refused peremptorily, not wishing to exposethemselves to a law suit--for mere literature.
It was near the end of 1845, when my father died, that Bouilhet gave upthe practice of medicine. But he continued to teach, and, with the aidof a partner, obtained bachelorships for their pupils. The events of1848 disturbed his republican faith. He now became a confirmed_litterateur_, fond of metaphors and comparisons, but indifferent to allelse.
His thorough knowledge of Latin (he wrote as fluently in Latin as inFrench) inspired the few Roman sketches, as in _Festons et Astragales_and the poem _Meloenis_, published in the _Revue de Paris_, on the eveof a political crisis. The moment was badly chosen. The public's fancyand courage were considerably cooled, and it was not disposed, neitherwere the powers, to accept independent genius; besides, individual stylealways seems insurrectionary to governments and immoral to commoners.The exaltation of vulgarism, the banishment of poetry, became more thanever the rage. Wishing to show good judgment, they rushed headlong intostupidity; anything above the ordinary bored them.
As a protest, he took refuge in forgotten places and in the far East;and thence came the _Fossiles_ and different Chinese plays.
However, the provincial atmosphere stifled him; he needed a vasterfield; and severing his connections, he came to Paris; but at a certainage one can no longer acquire the Parisian judgment; the things thatseem simple to a native of the boulevards, are impracticable to a man ofthirty-three arriving in the great city, having few acquaintances and noincome, and unaccustomed to solitude. Then his bad days began.
His first book, _Madame de Montarcy_, received on approval at theTheatre Francais, and refused at the second reading, lingered for twoyears and was only accepted at the Odeon in November, 1856. The firstperformance was a rousing success. The applause often interrupted theaction of the play; a whiff of youth permeated the atmosphere; it was areminiscence of 1830. That night he became known; his success wasassured. He could have collaborated, and made money with his name; buthe preferred the quietness of Mantes, and went to live in a little housenear an old tower, at the turn of the bridge, where his friends visitedhim on Sundays.
As soon as his plays were written, he took them to Paris; but the whimsand fancies of the managers, the critics, the belated appointments, andthe loss of time, caused him much weariness. He did not know that art,in a question of art, held such a trifling place! When he joined acommittee against the unfair dealings at the Theatre Francais, he wasthe only member that did not complain of the rates of authors'royalties.
With what pleasure he returned to his daily distraction, the study ofChinese! He pursued it ten years, merely as a study of the race,intending to write a grand poem on the Celestial Empire. Days when hisheart was too full, he relieved himself by writing lyrical verses on therestrictions of the stage. His luck had turned, but with the_Conjuration d'Ambroise_ it returned, and it lasted all winter.
Six months later he was appointed conservator of the municipal libraryof Rouen; and his old dream of leisure and fortune was realized at last!But soon afterward a dullness seized him--the exhaustion from too long astruggle. To counteract this he resumed the Greek tragic style andrapidly composed his last play, _Mademoiselle Aisse_, which he nevercorrected. An incurable disease, long neglected, was the cause of hisdeath, which took place on the 18th of July, 1869. He passed awaywithout pain, in the presence of a friend of his youth and her child,whom he loved as if he were his own son. Their affection had increasedtowards the last, but two other persons marred their happiness. It seemsthat in a poet's family there are always bitter disappointments.Annoying quarrels, honeyed sarcasms, direct insults to art, the millionand one things that make your heart bleed,--nothing was spared him whilehe lived, and these things followed him to his death-bed.
His fellow-countrymen flocked to his funeral as if he had been a publicman; even the less educated knowing full well that a superior intellecthad passed away. The whole Parisian press joined in this universalsorrow; even the most hostile expressed their regrets; a Catholic writeralone spoke disparagingly. No doubt the connoisseurs in verse deplorethe loss of such a poetical spirit; but those in whom he confided, whoknew his powerful spirit, who benefited by his advice, they alone knowto what height he might have risen.
He left, besides _Aisse_, three comedies in prose, a fairy-scene, andthe first act of _Pelerinage de Saint-Jacques_, a drama in verse, in tentableaux. He had outlined two short poems: _Le Boeuf_, depicting therustic life of Latium; and _Le Dernier Banquet_, describing the Romanpatricians poisoning themselves at a banquet the night the soldiers ofAlaric are entering Rome. He wished also to write a novel on the heathenof the fifth century, the counterpart of the _Martyrs_; but above all,he desired to write his Chinese tale, the scenes of which are completelylaid out. It was his supreme ambition to recapitulate modern science, towrite the _De natura rerum_ of our age!
Who has the right to classify the talents of his contemporaries, and,thinking himself superior to all, say: "This one comes first, that onesecond, and this other third"? Fame's sudden changes are numerous. Thereare irretrievable failures; some long, obscure periods, and sometriumphant reappearances. Was not Ronsard forgotten before Sainte-Beuve?In days gone by, Saint-Amant was considered inferior as a poet toJacques Delille. _Don Quixote_, _Gil Blas_, _Manon Lescaut_, _La CousineBette_ and other masterpieces, have never had the success of _UncleTom_. In my youth, I heard comparisons made between Casimir Delavigneand Victor Hugo, and it seems that "our great national poet" wasdeclining. Let us then be careful, or posterity will misjudgeus--perhaps laugh at our bitterness--still more, perhaps, at ouradulations; for the fame of an author does not spring from publicapprobation, but from the verdict of a few intellects, who, in thecourse of time, impose it upon the public.
Some will say that I have given my friend too high a place; but theyknow not, no more do I, what place he will retain. Because his firstbook is written in stanzas of six lines each, with triple rhymes, like_Naouma_, and begins like this: "Of all the men that ever walked throughRome, in Grecian buskins and linen toga, from Suburra to the Capitolinehill, the handsomest was Paulus," somewhat similar to this: "Of all thelibertines in Paris, the first, oldest and most prolific in vice, wheredebauchery is so easily found, the lewdest of all was Jacques Rolla,"without more ado, and ignoring the dissimilarity of execution, poetry,and nature, it was declared that the author of _Meloenis_ imitatedAlfred de Musset! He was condemned on the spot; a farce--it is so easyto label a thing so as to be able to put it aside.
I do not wish to be unfair; but where has Musset, in any part of hisworks, harmonized description, dialogue, and intrigue in more than twothousand consecutive rhymes, with such results of composition, suchchoice of language, in short, where is there a work of such magnitude?What wonderful ability was needed to reproduce Roman society, withoutaffectation, yet keeping within the narrow confines of a dramatic fable!
If you look for the primitive idea, the general element in LouisBouilhet's poems, you will find a kind of naturalism that reminds you ofthe Renaissance. His hatred of commonplace saved him from platitudes;his inclination towards the heroic was tempered by his wit--he was verywitty. This part of his talent was almost unknown; he kept it somewhatin the shadow, thinking it of no consequence; but now nothing hinders mefrom acknowledging that he excelled in epigrams, sonnets, rondeaux andother jests, written for distraction or pastime, and also through sheergood-nature. I discovered some official speeches for functionaries,New-Year verses for a little girl, some stanzas for a barber, for thechristening of a bell, for the visit of a king. He dedicated to one ofour friends, wounded in 1848, an ode on the patron of _The Taking ofNamur_, where emphasis reached the pinnacle of dullness. To another whokilled a viper with his whip
he sent a piece entitled: _The struggle ofa monster and a genius_, which contained enough imperfect metaphors andridiculous periphrasis to serve as a model or as a scarecrow. But hisbest was a masterpiece, in Beranger's style, entitled _The Nightcap!_His intimate friends will always remember it. It praised glory, theladies, and philosophy so highly,--it was enough to make all the membersof the Caveau burst with the desire of emulating him.
He had the gift of being entertaining--a rare thing for a poet. Comparehis Chinese with his Roman plays, _Neera_ with _Lied Norman_, _Pastel_with _Clair de Lune_, _Chronique de Printemps_ with _Sombre Eglogue_,_Le Navire_ with _Une Soiree_, and you will see how productive andingenious he was.
He has dramatised all human passions; he has written about the mummies,the triumphs of the unknown, the sadness of the stones, has unearthedworlds, described barbaric peoples and biblical scenes, and writtenlullabies. The scope of his imagination is sufficiently proven in _LesFossiles_, which Theophile Gautier called "the most difficult subjectever attempted by any poet!" I may add that it is the only scientificpoem in all French literature that is really poetical. The stanzas atthe end, on the future man, show how well he understood the mosttranscendent utopias. Among religious works, his _Colombe_ will perhapslive as the declaration of faith of the nineteenth century. Hisindividuality manifests itself plainly in _Derniere Nuit_, _A UneFemme_, _Quand vous m'avez quitte_, _Boudeuse_, etc., where he is byturns dismal and ironical; whereas in _La fleur rouge_ it bursts out ina singularly sharp and almost savage manner.
He does not look for effect; follows no school but his own individualstyle, which is versatile, fluent, violent, full of imagination andalways musical. He possesses all the secrets of poetry; that is thereason that his works abound with good lines, good all the way through,as in _Le Lutrin_ and _Les Chatiments_. Take, for instance: "Is longlike a crocodile, with bird-like extremities." "A big, brown bear,wearing a golden helmet." "He was a muleteer from Capua." "The sky wasas blue as a calm sea." "The thousand things one sees when mingling witha crowd."
And this one of the Virgin Mary: "Forever pale from carrying her God."
In one sense of the word, he is classical. His _l'Oncle Million_ iswritten in the most excellent French. "A poem! Make rhymes! It isinsanity! I have seen saner men put into a padded cell! Zounds! Whospeaks in rhymes? What a farce! Am I imaginative? Do I make verses? Doyou know, my boy, what I have had to endure to give you the extremepleasure of watching, lyre in hand, which way the winds blow? Wiselyconsidered, these frivolities are well enough at odd moments. I myselfknew a clerk that wrote verses."
Then further: "I say Leon is not even a poet! He a poet, come! You arejoking. Why, I saw him when he was no higher than that! What has he outof the ordinary? He is a rattle-brained, stupid fool, and I warrant youhe will be a business man, or I will know the reason why!"
This style goes straight to the point. The meaning comes out so clearlythat the words are forgotten; that is, while clinging to it, they do notimpede or alter its purport.
But you will say these accomplishments are of no use for the stage; thathe was not a successful playwright. The sixty-eight performances of_Montarcy_, ninety of _Helene Peyron_, and five hundred of _LaConjuration d'Ambroise_, prove the contrary. One must really know whatis suitable for the stage, and, above all things, acknowledge that thedominant question is spontaneous and lucrative success. The mostexperienced are at sea, not being able to follow the vagaries of publictaste. In olden times, one went to the theatre to hear beautifulthoughts put into beautiful language. In 1830, furious and roaringpassion was the rage; later, such rapidity of action, that the heroeshad not time to speak; then, thesis; after that, witty sallies; and nowthe reproduction of stupid vulgarism appears to monopolize the publicfavour.
Bouilhet cared nothing for thesis; he hated insipid phrases, andconsidered what is called "realism" a monstrosity. Stunning effects notbeing acquired by mild colouring, he preferred bold descriptions,violent situations--that is what made his poems really tragic. His plotsweakened sometimes towards the middle, but, for a play in verse, were itmore concise, it would crowd out all poetry. _La Conjuration d'Ambroise_and _Mademoiselle Aisse_ show some progress in this respect; but I amnot blind; I censure his Louis XIV. in _Madame de Montarcy_ as toounreal; in _l'Oncle Million_ the feigned illness of the notary; in_Helene Peyron_ the too prolix scene in the fourth act, and in _Dolores_the lack of harmony between vagueness and precision. In short, hispersonages are too poetical. He knew how to bring out sensationaleffects, however. For instance, the reappearance of Marcelline atDubret's, the entrance cf Dom Pedro in the third act of _Dolores_, theCountess of Brissot in the dungeon, the commander in the last act of_Aisse_, and the ghostly reappearance of Cassius before the EmpressFaustine. This book was unjustly criticised; nor was the atticismunderstood in _l'Oncle Million_, it being perhaps the best written ofall his plays, as _Faustine_ is the most labouriously contrived. Theyare all very pathetic at the end, filled with exquisite things and realpassion. How well suited to the voice his poems are! How virile hiswords, which make one shiver! Their impulsion resembles the flap of agreat bird's wings!
The heroic style of his dramas secured them an enthusiastic reception;but his triumphs did not turn his head, as he knew that the best part ofa work is not always understood, and he might owe his success to theweaker. If he had written the same plays in prose, perhaps his dramatictalent would have been extolled; but, unfortunately, he used a mediumthat is generally disliked. "No comedy in verse!" was the first cry, andlater, "No verses on the stage!" Why not confess that we desire none atall?
He never wrote prose; rhymes were his natural dialect. He thought inrhymes, and he loved them so that he read all sorts with equalattention. When we love a thing we love every part of it. Play-goerslove the green-room; gourmands love to smell cooking; mothers love tobathe their children. Disillusion is a sign of weakness. Beware of thefastidious, for they are usually powerless!
Art, he thought, was a serious thing, its aim being to create a vagueexaltation; that alone being its morality. From a memorandum I take thefollowing notes:
"In poetry, one need not consider whether the morals are good, but whether they adapt themselves to the person described; thus will it describe with equal indifference good and bad actions, without suggesting the latter as an example."--PIERRE CORNEILLE.
"Art, in its creations, must strive to please only those who have the right to judge it; otherwise it will follow the wrong path."--GOETHE.
"All the intellectual beauties and details of a tale (if it is well written) are so many useful facts, and are perhaps more precious to the public mind than the main points that make up the subject."--BUFFON.
Therefore art, being its own motive, must not be considered anexpedient. No matter how much genius we might use in the development ofa story used as an example, another might prove the contrary. A climaxis not a conclusion. We must not infer generalities from one particularcase; those who think themselves progressive in doing so are workingagainst modern science, which demands that we gather all the factsbefore proclaiming a law.
Bouilhet did not like that moralising art which teaches and corrects; heliked still less the frivolous art, which strives to divert the mind orstir the feelings; he did not follow democratic art, being convincedthat, to be accessible to all, it must descend to the lowest level; as,at this civilised period, when we try to be artless we become silly. Asto official art, he refused all its advantages, not wishing to defendcauses that are so short-lived.
He avoided paradoxes, oddities, and all deviations; he followed astraight road; that is, the generous feelings, the immutable side of thehuman soul. As "thoughts are the foundation of language," he tried tothink well so as to write well. Although he wrote emotional dramas, henever said: "If Margot wept, the melodrama is good," as he did notbelieve in replacing emotion by trickery. He hated the new maxim thatsays, "One must write as one speaks." It is true, the old way ofwasting time i
n making researches, the trouble taken when bringing out abook, would seem ridiculous nowadays; we are above all those things, weoverflow with fluency and genius!
Not that he lacked genius, however; he often made corrections while arehearsal was in progress. Inspiration, he held, cannot be made, butmust come naturally. He followed Buffon's advice, expressing eachthought by an image, and made his conceptions as vivid as possible; butthe _bourgeois_ declared that "atmosphere" was too material a thing toexpress sentiment; and fearing their sound French judgment might bedisturbed and carried beyond its limits, they exclaimed "too muchmetaphor"!--as if they had any to spare!
Few authors take such pains in choosing their words, in phrasing. He didnot give the title of author to those who possess only certain elementsof style. Many of the most praised would have been unable to combineanalysis, description, and dialogue!
He loved rhythm, in verse as well as in prose. He considered thatlanguage without rhythm was tedious, and unfit to stand the test ofbeing read aloud. He was very liberal; Shakespeare and Boileau wereequally admired by him; he read Rabelais continually, loved Corneilleand La Fontaine, and, although very romantic, he praised Voltaire. InGreek literature, he preferred first of all the Odyssey, thenAristophanes; in Latin, Tacitus and Juvenal. He had also studiedApuleius a great deal.
He despised public speeches, whether addressed to God or to the people;the bigot's style, as that of the labourer; all things that reek of thesewer or of cheap perfume. Many things were unknown to him; such as thefanaticism of the seventeenth century, the infatuation for Calvin, thecontinuous lamentations on the decline of the arts. He cared little forM. de Maistre, nor did Prudhon dazzle him. In his estimation, soberminds were nothing else than inferior minds; he hated affected goodtaste, thinking it more execrable than bad; and all discussions on thearts, the gossip of the critics. He would rather have died than write apreface. The following page, taken from a note-book and entitled _Noteset Projets_, will give a better idea: "This century is essentiallypedagogic. There is no scribbler, no book, be they never so paltry, thatdoes not press itself upon the public; as to form, it is outlawed. Ifyou happen to write well, you are accused of lacking ideas. Heavens! Onemust be stupid indeed to want for ideas at the price they bring! Bysimply using these three words future, progress, society, no matter whoyou are, you are a poet. How easy to encourage the fools and console theenvious! Mediocre, profitable poetry, school-room literature, aestheticprattle, economical refuse, scrofulous products of an exhausted nation,oh! how I detest you all from the bottom of my heart! You are notgangrene, you are putrescence!"
The day after his death Theophile Gautier wrote: "He carried with pridethe old tattered banner, which had seen so many battles; we can make ashroud of it, the valiant followers of Hernani are no more." How true!He devoted his entire life to ideals, loving literature for itself; asthe last fanatic loves a religion nearly or quite extinct.
"Second-rate genius," you will say; but fourth-rate ones are not soplentiful now! We are getting wide of the mark. We are so engrossed instupidity and vulgarism that we shun delicacy and loftiness of mind; wethink it a bore to show respect to great men. Perhaps we shall lose,with literary tradition, that ethereal element which represented life asmore sublime than it really is; but if we wish our works to live afterus, we must not sneer at fame. By cultivating the mind we acquire somewit. Witnessing beautiful actions makes us more noble.
If there should be somewhere two young men who spend their Sundaysreading poetry together, telling each other what they have written andwhat they would like to write, and, while indifferent to all else,conceal this passion from all eyes--if so, my advice to them is this:
Go side by side, through the woods, reciting poetry; mingle your soulswith the sap of the trees and the eternity of God's creations; abandonyourselves to reverie and the torpors of sublimity! Give up your youthto the Muse; it will replace all other loves. When you have experiencedthe world's miseries; when everything, including your own existence,seems to point towards one purpose; when you are ready for anysacrifice, any test,--then, publish your works. After that, no matterwhat happens, you will look on the wretchedness of your rivals withoutindignation, and on their success without envy. As the less favouredwill be consoled by the other's success, the one with a stouter heartwill encourage the weaker one; each will contribute his particular gift;this mutual help will avert pride and delay declination.
When one of you dies--as we must all die--let the other treasure hismemory; let him use it as a bulwark against weakness, or, better, as aprivate altar where he can open his heart and pour out his grief. Manytimes, in the stillness of night, will he look vainly for his friend'sshadow, ready to question him: "Am I doing right? What must I do? Answerme!"--and if this memory be a constant reminder of his sorrow, it willat least be a companion in his solitude.