Le Grand Pan followed close upon La Mêlée Sociale, and came as a delightful3 surprise to M. Clemenceau’s readers, a piece of pure literature. In this book he no longer writes as a citizen of Paris, a man of the boulevards and pavements, but as one country-born and bred, knowing the hills and the sea. Although he describes his own Vendéen scenery with loving familiarity, making the “Marais,” the “Bocage” and the “Plaine” live before us, he does not cling to them with the monotonous4 affection of some French writers, who are, as it were, dyed in their own local colour. Without elaboration, without the detailed5 building-up of a scene which is the careful habit of some others, he conveys in two or three lines the feeling of a countryside and that elusive6 but immutable7 thing, the character of a landscape. This belongs really to the poet’s art, and gives, I cannot tell why, a deeper impression, a far more lasting8 pleasure than all the abundance and detail of prose. Clemenceau’s neighbour, and almost fellow-countryman, Renan, had this gift. All the grey waters of the rocky Armorican shore seem[142] to sweep through the first lines of his essay on the Celtic Spirit; and the influence of Renan is marked in Le Grand Pan. The first article, which gives the book its title, sets the reader’s fancy sailing among the Greek Isles9, steered10 by poetry and tradition, in the light of the golden and the silver age. Clemenceau, like Heine, mourns for the overthrow11 of the Greek gods in the welter of quarrelling priesthoods and fierce Asian ugliness that flooded the Mediterranean12 world. “Pan, Pan is dead!” But in the Renaissance—“the tumultuous pageant13 of Art hurrying to meet the classic gods reborn”—he welcomes the magnificent restoration of the ancient and eternal Powers. And he claims for the nineteenth century the honour of beholding14 another re-birth of the gods of Nature in the development of science, and the labour that has brought some of the secrets of earth within our ken15.
But science, as we know, has revealed the horrors as well as the wonders of earth. It troubles us; man has shed rivers of needless blood, but we shrink from recognising Nature as she is, “red in tooth and claw.” It did not trouble the ancient Greeks; their gods, developing from the rough deities16 of place or tribe into the embodiments of the natural forces of matter or of mind, were outside human ethic17, although they were cast in human form. They might take the shape of mortals, but only Euripides and a few other hypersensitive moralists thought of blaming the gods when, as often happened, they fell below the standards of human conduct. But we are creatures of another era; and man, criticising and even condemning18 the Powers that rule his little day, has, for good or ill, reached out to a level that is above the gods, whose plaything he still remains19.
And there is another change. Man—some men, that is to say—have taken the animals into their protection and fellowship: and M. Clemenceau is truly one of these. Not only those charming, kindly20 essays, La Main et la Patte and Les Parents Pauvres, in Le Grand Pan, but the history of the two pigeons in the Embuscades de la Vie, and a hundred little[143] touches and incidents throughout Clemenceau’s books show him to be a man of most generous sympathies, looking at animal life from a far higher and finer point of view than the majority of his countrymen.
There is much else in Le Grand Pan that it would be pleasant to dwell upon: a delicate classic spirit, a certain ironic21 grace, humour and mockery, but everywhere and above all keen indignation at needless human suffering and a sympathy which is poles apart from sentiment, for human pain. M. Clemenceau might well be called “a soldier of pity,” as, in one of the Near Eastern languages, the members of his first profession, the doctors, are termed. But I must pass on. Le Grand Pan is, as it deserves to be, the best known of M. Clemenceau’s books, and no one who has overlooked it can form a complete idea of this remarkable22 man.
It is said that anyone who has the power of setting down his impressions on paper can write at least one good novel, if he tries, for he will draw with varying degrees of truth or malice23 the individuals he has met, liked, or suffered from, and the main circumstances of his life. What a Homeric novel M. Clemenceau might have written if he had followed these lines! But Les Plus Forts is unfortunately no such overflow24 of personal impressions and memories; it is merely what used to be called “a novel with a purpose.” That is to say, it is one of the many works of fiction which not only record the adventures of certain imaginary yet typical characters, but also contain severe criticism of contemporary social conditions and life. Such novels were much more common in England during the nineteenth century than in France. In English fiction the sequence is unbroken from Sandford and Merton to the earlier works of Mrs. Humphry Ward’s venerable pen. But in 1898 there were still not many French novels concerned with the serious discussion of social conditions, and M. Clemenceau’s early work stands out among these for sincerity26 and simplicity27 of intent. However, in spite of the excellent irony28 of some passages—notably the description of the Vicomtesse de Fourchamps’[144] career—Les Plus Forts is to modern readers a trifle tedious and a little naive29. It is of the same calibre as Mr. Shaw’s two first novels, but less eccentric and not so amusing. M. Clemenceau himself would probably write upon it “Péché de jeunesse,” and pass on. Yet it deserves more attention than that; for Les Plus Forts unconsciously reveals the central weakness of its author’s criticism of modern life. The situation is a good one, although the actors are not so much characters as types.
Henri de Puymaufray, a ruined French gentleman, who has lost the world and found a kind of Radicalism30, and Dominique Harlé, a rich paper manufacturer, live side by side in the country as friendly enemies or, rather, close but inimical friends. Their views of life are as the poles asunder31, but for the purposes of the story they must be constantly meeting in conversational32 intimacy33; and they have each an almost superhuman power of expressing themselves and their attitude towards the world they live in. The chief link between them is Harlé’s supposed daughter and only child, Claude, whose real father is Puymaufray. Both these elderly gentlemen are deeply concerned about Claude’s future; each wishing, as parents and guardians34 often do, to make the child’s career the completion of their own ambitions and hopes. Here Harlé has the advantage; he knows what he wants, that is, money and power, and he means his daughter to have plenty of both. He is the ordinary capitalist, with a strain of politician and Cabinet-maker, who ends by founding a popular journal that outdoes Harmsworth in expressing the “Lowest Common Factor of the Mind.” Society, the Church, and a particularly offensive form of charity all serve him to increase his own power and the stability of his class. All is for the best in the best of bourgeois35 worlds. Such is the theory of life which he puts before his supposed daughter, together with a prétendant who will carry out his aims. Unhappily, Puymaufray has nothing positive to set against this very solid and prosperous creed36. He and Deschars, the young traveller whom he wishes to give Claude for a husband, can only talk pages of Radicalism in which the words[145] “pity” and “love” would recur37 even more frequently if M. Clemenceau’s fine sense of fitness did not prevail. What do they really want Claude to do? The best they can offer her appears to be a life of retired38 and gentle philanthropy, inspired by a dim sense of human brotherhood39, which might, under very favourable40 circumstances, deepen into a sort of Socialist41 mood.
But “mere25 emotional Socialism cuts no ice.” This has often been said, and means that a vague fraternal purpose and a perception of the deep injustice42 of our present social system, even when sharpened with the most destructive satire43, will never change this world for the better, unless they lead up to some theory of construction that is based on economic facts. Pity and brotherhood may move individuals to acts of benevolence44, but they cannot alone recast the fabric45 of society, or even bring about fundamental collective reforms. Besides, when young people are asked to give up certain definite things, such as money, pleasure and power, they must see something more than mere renouncement46 ahead. They must be shown the fiery47 vision of an immortal48 city whose foundations they may hope to build. Clemenceau’s own knowledge of human nature works against his two heroes, and he says:
“Deschars was the child of his time. He had gone about the world as a disinterested49 beholder50, and he returned from voyaging without any keen desire for noble action. . . . Perhaps, if he had been living and working for some great human object, Deschars would have carried Claude away by the very authority of his purpose, without a word. . . .”
And Madame de Fourchamps observes:
“It is very lucky for the poor that there are rich people to give them bread.”
To which Claude replies:
“My father’s factory provides these workmen with a livelihood51; where would they be without him?”
Then, instead of a few plain words on labour-value, Puymaufray can only reply:
[146]
“Well, they give him something in exchange, don’t they?”
The old capitalist fallacies here uttered in their crudest form cannot be refuted by mere injunctions to pity and goodwill52; and even the magnificent words Liberty, Equality, Fraternity are no adequate reply. To the successful profiteer and all who acquiesce53 in his domination they mean: Liberty of Enterprise, Equality of Opportunity, and Fraternity among Exploiters. Facts and the march of events alone can persuade Dominique Harlé and his like to use their ingenuity54 in serving their fellow-creatures, and not in profiting by them. And only collective action, guided by some knowledge of the direction in which our civilisation55 is tending, can hasten the march of events.
It is remarkable how greatly the “novel with a purpose” has developed during the last twenty years in England and, to a less extent, in France. The characters are creatures of their conditions; and it is these conditions, not the characters, that do the talking. Some novels to-day are such careful and withal highly interesting guides to the sociology of England towards the end of the black Industrial Age that we cannot wonder if their authors take themselves too seriously as politicians and reformers. Yet these works show, after all, the same defect as Les Plus Forts, they have no constructive56 theory of life to set against the very well-defined, solid, and still apparently57 effective system which they criticise58. All their most ironic descriptions, their most penetrating59 satire are negative, and, in the end, the utterances60 of men “wandering between two worlds, one dead, one powerless to be born.”
Au Fil des Jours is an interesting collection of pieces in which the author has not made up his mind whether he will write short stories or articles upon social conditions. There is no harm in that; some people may even say that M. Clemenceau has produced a new variety of readable matter; but, curiously61 enough, the substance of the story is often so telling that one[147] quarrels with the writer for not having put it into the best shape. Take one of the pieces in Au Fil des Jours—La Roulotte. Briefly62, a weary old gipsy drives in a covered donkey-cart into a country hamlet, and stops by the riverside, where all the gossips are washing. He is received with hostile and watchful63 silence, because gipsies are always the scapegoats64 in a peasant district, and anything and everything that may be lost, stolen or strayed—even if it turns up again—is always laid to their account. In the night he dies, unnoticed; and, after some further time has passed, the villagers inspect his cart. Finding him there, dead, with a very small grandson living, they fetch the local constable65 and the mayor. The arm of the Law begins to function, the child is sent to the workhouse, the moribund66 donkey is “taken care of” by one of the villagers, and the dilapidated old cart, which only contained a few rags, is left by the riverside.
But the French peasant knows how to turn every little thing to profit: nothing is useless in his eyes. Gradually handy fragments of the donkey-cart begin to disappear. Bits of the iron fittings vanish, the tilt-props go, a shaft67 follows, one wheel after another slips away and is no more seen. In fact, the donkey-cart, as such, disappears from mortal sight. Then, one fine day, a gipsy-woman comes swinging along the road, where she had followed the traces of the donkey-cart, and asks for news of her old father and her little boy. The authorities of the village tell her of the old gipsy’s death and burial: they do not require her to pay for his obsequies only because they see it would be no use. She goes to fetch the child from the workhouse, and then asks for the donkey and cart. The former, they tell her, died in the hands of the villager who “took care of him” (and sold his skin for a fair sum). She accepts this loss with resignation; but the cart, as she says, cannot have died: where is her father’s “roulotte“?—Ah, well, nobody in the village knows anything about that! It was here, no doubt, since the old gipsy died in it—but since then——The Law, once more represented by mayor and[148] constables68, can only shrug69 its shoulders in the finest French manner and disclaim70 all responsibility for a vagabond’s goods. But the gipsy-woman persists: she begins even to clamour for her rights. “Rights, indeed!” The village, hitherto indifferent, becomes hostile; and the old cry that meets the gipsy everywhere is raised, for someone on the edge of the crowd calls out, “Thief!” It is a mere expression of disapproval71, not a direct accusation72, but the whole village takes it up joyfully73: “Thief! Thief!” So the gipsy-woman, who, as it chanced, has stolen nothing, is hounded out of the commune with sticks and stones and objurgations by those who had themselves appropriated her old donkey-cart piecemeal74. “A bit of rusty75 iron whizzed past her as she crossed the bridge. It may once have served as her donkey’s shoe.”
Such is the tale: a sample of many in Au Fil des Jours. Irony and realism are not wanting, nor yet the grimly picturesque76, but the reader is left thinking: “What a little gem77 this would be if it were told by Maupassant, or some other master of the conte!” Certainly M. Clemenceau has something else to do than tell contes! But his literary material is so fine that it is his own fault if we expect the very best of him. As it is, he does not take the trouble to cut the story out clearly from the matrix of thought and memories which enfolded it in his own mind. The effect on the reader is, one might say, a little vague and murmurous78, like some tale half-heard in a crowd.
It is a strange thing that the countryside, Nature, the pure and never-failing spring of inspiration for poetry and human delight, should turn so different a countenance79 towards those who live with her, year out and year in, winning sustenance80 for us all from her broad and often ungenial breast. Our Mother Earth is an iron taskmaster to the tillers of the soil grinding out their youth and strength, bowing their eyes to their labour, so that all her beauty passes them by unseen. Either Nature keeps her charms jealously for the untroubled mind and the leisured eye, or else all the beauty that we see in her is borrowed, a glamour81 lent by some immaterial force—[149] not ours, perhaps, but certainly not her own. Be this as it may, in the Embuscades de la Vie M. Clemenceau beholds82 and describes the careless, endless, natural beauty amid which the peasant-lives that he sketches for us are set; but these themselves are often as ugly as bare stone, and the men and women are hard and close-fisted with one another mainly because the earth is so grudging83 to them. These stories are the most clear-cut of all Clemenceau’s essays in fiction. They are not exactly contes, either: they are the discoveries, one might say, of Clemenceau in his ancestral character as the descendant of a line of doctors and landowners who worked for generations among the small bourgeois and the tillers of the soil. How he knows them! and—if French fiction is to be believed—how unchangeable they are! Since the bourgeois gained his freedom in the great Revolution by using the arm of the sans-culotte, what a grip he has kept upon his possession! and how much dearer to him his property is than anything else in the world! Clemenceau does but take up the theme of Balzac and others when he describes provincial84 France and its twin gods, money and the land—money which compels loveless marriages, envy, fawning85, bitterness, perpetual small cheating or endless insect-like toil86; and the land, in whose service men work themselves and their kindred to the bone, and grudge87 a pittance88 to old age.
The bourgeoisie and their customs vary with their nationality, but peasant life is much the same all over Europe. Clemenceau found similar traits of life and character in Galicia to those of La Vendée; and others will tell us that from Ireland to Russia, from the Baltic to the Black Sea, the peasant and the small farmer conduct their lives upon the same lines: hard work, dependence89 upon the seasons, family authority, tribal90 feuds91, and a meticulous93 social system of comment and convention, under which the individual finds himself far less free than in the unhampered, unnoticed life of the towns.
Yet many of the “ambushes of life” are to be found in the cities; and about a third of these tales are laid in the towns[150] and among the well-to-do middle class. M. Clemenceau’s satire plays freely upon the “marriage of convention,” by which two families agree, after a certain amount of haggling94 and mutual95 sharp practice, to bind96 two young strangers together in the closest of relationship, for time, and also, we are told, for eternity97, in the interest of property alone. Still, human nature adapts itself to anything, and even such marriages have their compensations, as our author lightly and ironically points out. Being a genuine sociologist98, he does not handle these tales of the bourgeoisie and their vagaries99 within what is, after all, an artificial and exclusive form of existence, as seriously as he does the great plain outlines of peasant life.
Whether he writes of town or country, of Fleur de Froment and Six Sous, or of a ménage à trois; whether he calls up a Greek courtesan to theorise about her profession, or describes a long-standing bitter, and motiveless100 peasant feud92, his style is always fluent and charming, vivid with irony, and graceful101 with poetic102 thought. Yet the defect as well as the merit of M. Clemenceau’s fiction and essay-writing is just this admirable, unvarying ease and fluency103. One feels that he writes with perfect unconsciousness, as the thoughts come into his head. And, after a while, the ungrateful reader is inclined to ask for some kind of selection in the feast before him, where all is good, very good, even, but nothing is excellent. Like a far greater writer, Clemenceau—on paper at least—“has no peaks in him.” His literature was an admirable “by-product” of his almost limitless capacities; his actions and not his writings are the achievements of his life.
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1
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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ethic
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| n.道德标准，行为准则 | |
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condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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renouncement
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| n.否认，拒绝 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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scapegoats
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| n.代人受过的人，替罪羊( scapegoat的名词复数 )v.使成为替罪羊( scapegoat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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moribund
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| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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disclaim
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| v.放弃权利，拒绝承认 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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sociologist
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| n.研究社会学的人，社会学家 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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motiveless
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| adj.无动机的，无目的的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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