Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (855 page)

It cannot be denied that he thinks very little.  In him extreme energy of perception achieves great results, as in men of action the energy of force and desire.  His view of intellectual problems is perhaps more simple than their nature warrants; still a man who has written
Yvette
cannot be accused of want of subtlety.  But one cannot insist enough upon this, that his subtlety, his humour, his grimness, though no doubt they are his own, are never presented otherwise but as belonging to our life, as found in nature, whose beauties and cruelties alike breathe the spirit of serene unconsciousness.

Maupassant’s philosophy of life is more temperamental than rational.  He expects nothing from gods or men.  He trusts his senses for information and his instinct for deductions.  It may seem that he has made but little use of his mind.  But let me be clearly understood.  His sensibility is really very great; and it is impossible to be sensible, unless one thinks vividly, unless one thinks correctly, starting from intelligible premises to an unsophisticated conclusion.

This is literary honesty.  It may be remarked that it does not differ very greatly from the ideal honesty of the respectable majority, from the honesty of law-givers, of warriors, of kings, of bricklayers, of all those who express their fundamental sentiment in the ordinary course of their activities, by the work of their hands.

The work of Maupassant’s hands is honest.  He thinks sufficiently to concrete his fearless conclusions in illuminative instances.  He renders them with that exact knowledge of the means and that absolute devotion to the aim of creating a true effect — which is art.  He is the most accomplished of narrators.

It is evident that Maupassant looked upon his mankind in another spirit than those writers who make haste to submerge the difficulties of our holding-place in the universe under a flood of false and sentimental assumptions.  Maupassant was a true and dutiful lover of our earth.  He says himself in one of his descriptive passages: “Nous autres que séduit la terre . . .”  It was true.  The earth had for him a compelling charm.  He looks upon her august and furrowed face with the fierce insight of real passion.  His is the power of detecting the one immutable quality that matters in the changing aspects of nature and under the ever-shifting surface of life.  To say that he could not embrace in his glance all its magnificence and all its misery is only to say that he was human.  He lays claim to nothing that his matchless vision has not made his own.  This creative artist has the true imagination; he never condescends to invent anything; he sets up no empty pretences.  And he stoops to no littleness in his art — least of all to the miserable vanity of a catching phrase.

ANATOLE FRANCE — 1904

I. — ”CRAINQUEBILLE”

The latest volume of M. Anatole France purports, by the declaration of its title-page, to contain several profitable narratives.  The story of Crainquebille’s encounter with human justice stands at the head of them; a tale of a well-bestowed charity closes the book with the touch of playful irony characteristic of the writer on whom the most distinguished amongst his literary countrymen have conferred the rank of Prince of Prose.

Never has a dignity been better borne.  M. Anatole France is a good prince.  He knows nothing of tyranny but much of compassion.  The detachment of his mind from common errors and current superstitions befits the exalted rank he holds in the Commonwealth of Literature.  It is just to suppose that the clamour of the tribes in the forum had little to do with his elevation.  Their elect are of another stamp.  They are such as their need of precipitate action requires.  He is the Elect of the Senate — the Senate of Letters — whose Conscript Fathers have recognised him as
primus inter pares
; a post of pure honour and of no privilege.

It is a good choice.  First, because it is just, and next, because it is safe.  The dignity will suffer no diminution in M. Anatole France’s hands.  He is worthy of a great tradition, learned in the lessons of the past, concerned with the present, and as earnest as to the future as a good prince should be in his public action.  It is a Republican dignity.  And M. Anatole France, with his sceptical insight into an forms of government, is a good Republican.  He is indulgent to the weaknesses of the people, and perceives that political institutions, whether contrived by the wisdom of the few or the ignorance of the many, are incapable of securing the happiness of mankind.  He perceives this truth in the serenity of his soul and in the elevation of his mind.  He expresses his convictions with measure, restraint and harmony, which are indeed princely qualities.  He is a great analyst of illusions.  He searches and probes their innermost recesses as if they were realities made of an eternal substance.  And therein consists his humanity; this is the expression of his profound and unalterable compassion.  He will flatter no tribe no section in the forum or in the market-place.  His lucid thought is not beguiled into false pity or into the common weakness of affection.  He feels that men born in ignorance as in the house of an enemy, and condemned to struggle with error and passions through endless centuries, should be spared the supreme cruelty of a hope for ever deferred.  He knows that our best hopes are irrealisable; that it is the almost incredible misfortune of mankind, but also its highest privilege, to aspire towards the impossible; that men have never failed to defeat their highest aims by the very strength of their humanity which can conceive the most gigantic tasks but leaves them disarmed before their irremediable littleness.  He knows this well because he is an artist and a master; but he knows, too, that only in the continuity of effort there is a refuge from despair for minds less clear-seeing and philosophic than his own.  Therefore he wishes us to believe and to hope, preserving in our activity the consoling illusion of power and intelligent purpose.  He is a good and politic prince.

“The majesty of justice is contained entire in each sentence pronounced by the judge in the name of the sovereign people.  Jérome Crainquebille, hawker of vegetables, became aware of the august aspect of the law as he stood indicted before the tribunal of the higher Police Court on a charge of insulting a constable of the force.”  With this exposition begins the first tale of M. Anatole France’s latest volume.

The bust of the Republic and the image of the Crucified Christ appear side by side above the bench occupied by the President Bourriche and his two Assessors; all the laws divine and human are suspended over the head of Crainquebille.

From the first visual impression of the accused and of the court the author passes by a characteristic and natural turn to the historical and moral significance of those two emblems of State and Religion whose accord is only possible to the confused reasoning of an average man.  But the reasoning of M. Anatole France is never confused.  His reasoning is clear and informed by a profound erudition.  Such is not the case of Crainquebille, a street hawker, charged with insulting the constituted power of society in the person of a policeman.  The charge is not true, nothing was further from his thoughts; but, amazed by the novelty of his position, he does not reflect that the Cross on the wall perpetuates the memory of a sentence which for nineteen hundred years all the Christian peoples have looked upon as a grave miscarriage of justice.  He might well have challenged the President to pronounce any sort of sentence, if it were merely to forty-eight hours of simple imprisonment, in the name of the Crucified Redeemer.

He might have done so.  But Crainquebille, who has lived pushing every day for half a century his hand-barrow loaded with vegetables through the streets of Paris, has not a philosophic mind.  Truth to say he has nothing.  He is one of the disinherited.  Properly speaking, he has no existence at all, or, to be strictly truthful, he had no existence till M. Anatole France’s philosophic mind and human sympathy have called him up from his nothingness for our pleasure, and, as the title-page of the book has it, no doubt for our profit also.

Therefore we behold him in the dock, a stranger to all historical, political or social considerations which can be brought to bear upon his case.  He remains lost in astonishment.  Penetrated with respect, overwhelmed with awe, he is ready to trust the judge upon the question of his transgression.  In his conscience he does not think himself culpable; but M. Anatole France’s philosophical mind discovers for us that he feels all the insignificance of such a thing as the conscience of a mere street-hawker in the face of the symbols of the law and before the ministers of social repression.  Crainquebille is innocent; but already the young advocate, his defender, has half persuaded him of his guilt.

On this phrase practically ends the introductory chapter of the story which, as the author’s dedication states, has inspired an admirable draughtsman and a skilful dramatist, each in his art, to a vision of tragic grandeur.  And this opening chapter without a name — consisting of two and a half pages, some four hundred words at most — is a masterpiece of insight and simplicity, resumed in M. Anatole France’s distinction of thought and in his princely command of words.

It is followed by six more short chapters, concise and full, delicate and complete like the petals of a flower, presenting to us the Adventure of Crainquebille — Crainquebille before the justice — An Apology for the President of the Tribunal — Of the Submission of Crainquebille to the Laws of the Republic — Of his Attitude before the Public Opinion, and so on to the chapter of the Last Consequences.  We see, created for us in his outward form and innermost perplexity, the old man degraded from his high estate of a law-abiding street-hawker and driven to insult, really this time, the majesty of the social order in the person of another police-constable.  It is not an act of revolt, and still less of revenge.  Crainquebille is too old, too resigned, too weary, too guileless to raise the black standard of insurrection.  He is cold and homeless and starving.  He remembers the warmth and the food of the prison.  He perceives the means to get back there.  Since he has been locked up, he argues with himself, for uttering words which, as a matter of fact he did not say, he will go forth now, and to the first policeman he meets will say those very words in order to be imprisoned again.  Thus reasons Crainquebille with simplicity and confidence.  He accepts facts.  Nothing surprises him.  But all the phenomena of social organisation and of his own life remain for him mysterious to the end.  The description of the policeman in his short cape and hood, who stands quite still, under the light of a street lamp at the edge of the pavement shining with the wet of a rainy autumn evening along the whole extent of a long and deserted thoroughfare, is a perfect piece of imaginative precision.  From under the edge of the hood his eyes look upon Crainquebille, who has just uttered in an uncertain voice the sacramental, insulting phrase of the popular slang —
Mort aux vaches
!  They look upon him shining in the deep shadow of the hood with an expression of sadness, vigilance, and contempt.

He does not move.  Crainquebille, in a feeble and hesitating voice, repeats once more the insulting words.  But this policeman is full of philosophic superiority, disdain, and indulgence.  He refuses to take in charge the old and miserable vagabond who stands before him shivering and ragged in the drizzle.  And the ruined Crainquebille, victim of a ridiculous miscarriage of justice, appalled at this magnanimity, passes on hopelessly down the street full of shadows where the lamps gleam each in a ruddy halo of falling mist.

M. Anatole France can speak for the people.  This prince of the Senate is invested with the tribunitian power.  M. Anatole France is something of a Socialist; and in that respect he seems to depart from his sceptical philosophy.  But as an illustrious statesman, now no more, a great prince too, with an ironic mind and a literary gift, has sarcastically remarked in one of his public speeches: “We are all Socialists now.”  And in the sense in which it may be said that we all in Europe are Christians that is true enough.  To many of us Socialism is merely an emotion.  An emotion is much and is also less than nothing.  It is the initial impulse.  The real Socialism of to-day is a religion.  It has its dogmas.  The value of the dogma does not consist in its truthfulness, and M. Anatole France, who loves truth, does not love dogma.  Only, unlike religion, the cohesive strength of Socialism lies not in its dogmas but in its ideal.  It is perhaps a too materialistic ideal, and the mind of M. Anatole France may not find in it either comfort or consolation.  It is not to be doubted that he suspects this himself; but there is something reposeful in the finality of popular conceptions.  M. Anatole France, a good prince and a good Republican, will succeed no doubt in being a good Socialist.  He will disregard the stupidity of the dogma and the unlovely form of the ideal.  His art will find its own beauty in the imaginative presentation of wrongs, of errors, and miseries that call aloud for redress.  M. Anatole France is humane.  He is also human.  He may be able to discard his philosophy; to forget that the evils are many and the remedies are few, that there is no universal panacea, that fatality is invincible, that there is an implacable menace of death in the triumph of the humanitarian idea.  He may forget all that because love is stronger than truth.

Besides “Crainquebille” this volume contains sixteen other stories and sketches.  To define them it is enough to say that they are written in M. Anatole France’s prose.  One sketch entitled “Riquet” may be found incorporated in the volume of
Monsieur Bergeret à Paris
.  “Putois” is a remarkable little tale, significant, humorous, amusing, and symbolic.  It concerns the career of a man born in the utterance of a hasty and untruthful excuse made by a lady at a loss how to decline without offence a very pressing invitation to dinner from a very tyrannical aunt.  This happens in a provincial town, and the lady says in effect: “Impossible, my dear aunt.  To-morrow I am expecting the gardener.”  And the garden she glances at is a poor garden; it is a wild garden; its extent is insignificant and its neglect seems beyond remedy.  “A gardener!  What for?” asks the aunt.  “To work in the garden.”  And the poor lady is abashed at the transparence of her evasion.  But the lie is told, it is believed, and she sticks to it.  When the masterful old aunt inquires, “What is the man’s name, my dear?” she answers brazenly, “His name is Putois.”  “Where does he live?”  “Oh, I don’t know; anywhere.  He won’t give his address.  One leaves a message for him here and there.”  “Oh!  I see,” says the other; “he is a sort of ne’er do well, an idler, a vagabond.  I advise you, my dear, to be careful how you let such a creature into your grounds; but I have a large garden, and when you do not want his services I shall find him some work to do, and see he does it too.  Tell your Putois to come and see me.”  And thereupon Putois is born; he stalks abroad, invisible, upon his career of vagabondage and crime, stealing melons from gardens and tea-spoons from pantries, indulging his licentious proclivities; becoming the talk of the town and of the countryside; seen simultaneously in far-distant places; pursued by gendarmes, whose brigadier assures the uneasy householders that he “knows that scamp very well, and won’t be long in laying his hands upon him.”  A detailed description of his person collected from the information furnished by various people appears in the columns of a local newspaper.  Putois lives in his strength and malevolence.  He lives after the manner of legendary heroes, of the gods of Olympus.  He is the creation of the popular mind.  There comes a time when even the innocent originator of that mysterious and potent evil-doer is induced to believe for a moment that he may have a real and tangible presence.  All this is told with the wit and the art and the philosophy which is familiar to M. Anatole France’s readers and admirers.  For it is difficult to read M. Anatole France without admiring him.  He has the princely gift of arousing a spontaneous loyalty, but with this difference, that the consent of our reason has its place by the side of our enthusiasm.  He is an artist.  As an artist he awakens emotion.  The quality of his art remains, as an inspiration, fascinating and inscrutable; but the proceedings of his thought compel our intellectual admiration.