Intentions | Page 4

Indeed it is only in England that such a book could be produced. England is the
home of lost ideas. As for that great and daily increasing school of novelists for whom
the sun always rises in the East-End, the only thing that can be said about them is that
they find life crude, and leave it raw.

'In France, though nothing so deliberately tedious as Robert Elsmere has been produced,
things are not much better. M. Guy de Maupassant, with his keen mordant irony and his
hard vivid style, strips life of the few poor rags that still cover her, and shows us foul sore
and festering wound. He writes lurid little tragedies in which everybody is ridiculous;
bitter comedies at which one cannot laugh for very tears. M. Zola, true to the lofty
principle that he lays down in one of his pronunciamientos on literature, "L'homme de
genie n'a jamais d'esprit," is determined to show that, if he has not got genius, he can at
least be dull. And how well he succeeds! He is not without power. Indeed at times, as in
Germinal, there is something almost epic in his work. But his work is entirely wrong
from beginning to end, and wrong not on the ground of morals, but on the ground of art.
From any ethical standpoint it is just what it should be. The author is perfectly truthful,
and describes things exactly as they happen. What more can any moralist desire? We
have no sympathy at all with the moral indignation of our time against M. Zola. It is
simply the indignation of Tartuffe on being exposed. But from the standpoint of art, what
can be said in favour of the author of L'Assommoir, Nana and Pot-Bouille? Nothing. Mr.
Ruskin once described the characters in George Eliot's novels as being like the sweepings
of a Pentonville omnibus, but M. Zola's characters are much worse. They have their
dreary vices, and their drearier virtues. The record of their lives is absolutely without
interest. Who cares what happens to them? In literature we require distinction, charm,
beauty and imaginative power. We don't want to be harrowed and disgusted with an
account of the doings of the lower orders. M. Daudet is better. He has wit, a light touch
and an amusing style. But he has lately committed literary suicide. Nobody can possibly
care for Delobelle with his "Il faut lutter pour l'art," or for Valmajour with his eternal
refrain about the nightingale, or for the poet in Jack with his "mots cruels," now that we
have learned from Vingt Ans de ma Vie litteraire that these characters were taken directly
from life. To us they seem to have suddenly lost all their vitality, all the few qualities
they ever possessed. The only real people are the people who never existed, and if a
novelist is base enough to go to life for his personages he should at least pretend that they
are creations, and not boast of them as copies. The justification of a character in a novel
is not that other persons are what they are, but that the author is what he is. Otherwise the
novel is not a work of art. As for M. Paul Bourget, the master of the roman
psychologique, he commits the error of imagining that the men and women of modern
life are capable of being infinitely analysed for an innumerable series of chapters. In
point of fact what is interesting about people in good society--and M. Bourget rarely
moves out of the Faubourg St. Germain, except to come to London,-- is the mask that
each one of them wears, not the reality that lies behind the mask. It is a humiliating
confession, but we are all of us made out of the same stuff. In Falstaff there is something
of Hamlet, in Hamlet there is not a little of Falstaff. The fat knight has his moods of
melancholy, and the young prince his moments of coarse humour. Where we differ from
each other is purely in accidentals: in dress, manner, tone of voice, religious opinions,
personal appearance, tricks of habit and the like. The more one analyses people, the more
all reasons for analysis disappear. Sooner or later one comes to that dreadful universal
thing called human nature. Indeed, as any one who has ever worked among the poor
knows only too well, the brotherhood of man is no mere poet's dream, it is a most
depressing and humiliating reality; and if a writer insists upon analysing the upper classes,
he might just as well write of match-girls and costermongers at once.' However, my dear

Cyril, I will not detain you any further just here. I quite admit that modern novels have
many good points. All I insist on is