The first appearance of Pierre Loti's works, twenty years ago, causeda sensation throughout those circles wherein the creations ofintellect and imagination are felt, studied, and discussed. The authorwas one who, with a power which no one had wielded1 before him, carriedoff his readers into exotic lands, and whose art, in appearance mostsimple, proved a genuine enchantment2 for the imagination. It was thetime when M. Zola and his school stood at the head of the literarymovement. There breathed forth3 from Loti's writings an all-penetratingfragrance of poesy, which liberated6 French literary ideals from theheavy and oppressive yoke7 of the Naturalistic school. Truth now soaredon unhampered pinions8, and the reading world was completely won by theunsurpassed intensity9 and faithful accuracy with which he depicted10 thealluring charms of far-off scenes, and painted the naive11 soul of theraces that seem to endure in the isles13 of the Pacific as survivingrepresentatives of the world's infancy14.
It was then learned that this independent writer was named in reallife Louis Marie Julien Viaud, and that he was a naval15 officer. Thisvery fact, that he was not a writer by profession, added indeed to hissuccess. He actually had seen that which he was describing, he hadlived that which he was relating. What in any other man would haveseemed but research and oddity, remained natural in the case of asailor who returned each year with a manuscript in his hand. Africa,Asia, the isles of the Pacific, were the usual scenes of his dramas.
Finally from France itself, and from the oldest provinces of France,he drew subject-matter for two of his novels, /An Iceland Fisherman/and /Ramuntcho/. This proved a surprise. Our Breton sailors and ourBasque mountaineers were not less foreign to the Parisian drawing-roomthan was Aziyade or the little Rahahu. One claimed to have a knowledgeof Brittany, or of the Pyrenees, because one had visited Dinard orBiarritz; while in reality neither Tahiti nor the Isle12 of Paques couldhave remained more completely unknown to us.
The developments of human industry have brought the extremities16 of theworld nearer together; but the soul of each race continues to cloakitself in its own individuality and to remain a mystery to the rest ofthe world. One trait alone is common to all: the infinite sadness ofhuman destiny. This it was that Loti impressed so vividly17 on thereading world.
His success was great. Though a young man as yet, Loti saw his workcrowned with what in France may be considered the supreme18 sanction: hewas elected to membership in the French Academy. His name becamecoupled with those of Bernardin de St. Pierre and of Chateaubriand.
With the sole exception of the author of /Paul and Virginia/ and ofthe writer of /Atala/, he seemed to be one without predecessor19 andwithout a master. It may be well here to inquire how much reason thereis for this assertion, and what novel features are presented in hiswork.
It has become a trite20 saying that French genius lacks the sense ofNature, that the French tongue is colourless, and therefore wants themost striking feature of poetry. If we abandoned for one moment thedomain of letters and took a comprehensive view of the field of art,we might be permitted to express astonishment21 at the passing of sosummary a judgment22 on the genius of a nation which has, in the realsense of the term, produced two such painters of Nature as ClaudeLorrain and Corot. But even in the realm of letters it is easily seenthat this mode of thinking is due largely to insufficient23 knowledge ofthe language's resources, and to a study of French literature whichdoes not extend beyond the seventeenth century. Without going back tothe Duke of Orleans and to Villon, one need only read a few of thepoets of the sixteenth century to be struck by the prominence24 given toNature in their writings. Nothing is more delightful25 than Ronsard'sword-paintings of his sweet country of Vendome. Until the day ofMalherbe, the didactic Regnier and the Calvinistic Marot are the onlytwo who could be said to give colour to the preconceived and prevalentnotion as to the dryness of French poetry. And even after Malherbe, inthe seventeenth century, we find that La Fontaine, the most trulyFrench of French writers, was a passionate26 lover of Nature. He who cansee nothing in the latter's fables27 beyond the little dramas which theyunfold and the ordinary moral which the poet draws therefrom, mustconfess that he fails to understand him. His landscapes possessprecision, accuracy, and life, while such is the fragrance5 of hisspeech that it seems laden28 with the fresh perfume of the fields andfurrows.
Racine himself, the most penetrating4 and the most psychological ofpoets, is too well versed29 in the human soul not to have felt itsintimate union with Nature. His magnificent verse in Phedre,"Ah, que ne suis-je assise a l'ombre des forets!"is but the cry of despair, the appeal, filled with anguish30, of a heartthat is troubled and which oft has sought peace and alleviation31 amidthe cold indifference32 of inanimate things. The small place given toNature in the French literature of the seventeenth century is not tobe ascribed to the language nor explained by a lack of sensibility onthe part of the race. The true cause is to be found in the spirit ofthat period; for investigation33 will disclose that the very samecondition then characterized the literatures of England, of Spain, andof Italy.
We must bear in mind that, owing to an almost unique combination ofcircumstances, there never has been a period when man was moreconvinced of the nobility and, I dare say it, of the sovereignty ofman, or was more inclined to look upon the latter as a beingindependent of the external world. He did not suspect the intimatelyclose bonds which unite the creature to the medium in which it lives.
A man of the world in the seventeenth century was utterly34 without anotion of those truths which in their ensemble35 constitute the naturalsciences. He crossed the threshold of life possessed36 of a deepclassical instruction, and all-imbued37 with stoical ideas of virtue38. Atthe same time, he had received the mould of a strong but narrowChristian education, in which nothing figured save his relations withGod. This twofold training elevated his soul and fortified39 his will,but wrenched40 him violently from all communion with Nature. This is thestandpoint from which we must view the heroes of Corneille, if wewould understand those extraordinary souls which, always at thehighest degree of tension, deny themselves, as a weakness, everythingthat resembles tenderness or pity. Again, thus and thus alone can weexplain how Descartes, and with him all the philosophers of hiscentury, ran counter to all common sense, and refused to recognisethat animals might possess a soul-like principle which, howeverremotely, might link them to the human being.
When, in the eighteenth century, minds became emancipated41 from thenarrow restrictions42 of religious discipline, and when method wasintroduced into the study of scientific problems, Nature took herrevenge as well in literature as in all other fields of human thought.
Rousseau it was who inaugurated the movement in France, and the wholeof Europe followed in the wake of France. It may even be declared thatthe reaction against the seventeenth century was in many respectsexcessive, for the eighteenth century gave itself up to a species ofsentimental debauch43. It is none the less a fact that the author of /LaNouvelle Heloise/ was the first to blend the moral life of man withhis exterior44 surroundings. He felt the savage45 beauty and grandeur46 ofthe mountains of Switzerland, the grace of the Savoy horizons, and themore familiar elegance47 of the Parisian suburbs. We may say that heopened the eye of humanity to the spectacle which the world offeredit. In Germany, Lessing, Goethe, Hegel, Schelling have proclaimed himtheir master; while even in England, Byron, and George Eliot herself,have recognised all that they owed to him.
The first of Rosseau's disciples48 in France was Bernardin de St.
Pierre, whose name has frequently been recalled in connection withLoti. Indeed, the charming masterpiece of /Paul and Virginia/ was thefirst example of exoticism in literature; and thereby49 it excited thecuriosity of our fathers at the same time that it dazzled them by thewealth and brilliancy of its descriptions.
Then came Chateaubriand; but Nature with him was not a merebackground. He sought from it an accompaniment, in the musical senseof the term, to the movements of his soul; and being somewhat prone51 tomelancholy, his taste seems to have favoured sombre landscapes, stormyand tragical53. The entire romantic school was born from him, VictorHugo and George Sand, Theophile Gautier who draws from the Frenchtongue resources unequalled in wealth and colour, and even M. Zolahimself, whose naturalism, after all, is but the last form and, as itwere, the end of romanticism, since it would be difficult to discoverin him any characteristic that did not exist, as a germ at least, inBalzac.
I have just said that Chateaubriand sought in Nature an accompanimentto the movements of his soul: this was the case with all theromanticists. We do not find Rene, Manfred, Indiana, living in themidst of a tranquil54 and monotonous55 Nature. The storms of heaven mustrespond to the storms of their soul; and it is a fact that all thesegreat writers, Byron as well as Victor Hugo, have not so muchcontemplated and seen Nature as they have interpreted it through themedium of their own passions; and it is in this sense that the keenAmiel could justly remark that a landscape is a condition or a stateof the soul.
M. Loti does not merely interpret a landscape; though perhaps, tobegin with, he is unconscious of doing more. With him, the human beingis a part of Nature, one of its very expressions, like animals andplants, mountain forms and sky tints56. His characters are what they areonly because they issue forth from the medium in which they live. Theyare truly creatures, and not gods inhabiting the earth. Hence theirprofound and striking reality.
Hence also one of the peculiar57 characteristics of Loti's workers. Heloves to paint simple souls, hearts close to Nature, whose primitivepassions are singularly similar to those of animals. He is happy inthe isles of the Pacific or on the borders of Senegal; and when heshifts his scenes into old Europe it is never with men and women ofthe world that he entertains us.
What we call a man of the world is the same everywhere; he is mouldedby the society of men, but Nature and the universe have no place inhis life and thought. M. Paul Bourget's heroes might live withoutdistinction in Newport or in Monte Carlo; they take root nowhere, butlive in the large cities, in winter resorts and in drawing-rooms astransient visitors in temporary abiding-places.
Loti seeks his heroes and his heroines among those antique races ofEurope which have survived all conquests, and which have preserved,with their native tongue, the individuality of their character. He metRamuntcho in the Basque country, but dearer than all to him isBrittany: here it was that he met his Iceland fishermen.
The Breton soul bears an imprint59 of Armorica's primitive58 soil: it ismelancholy and noble. There is an undefinable charm about those aridlands and those sod-flanked hills of granite60, whose sole horizon isthe far-stretching sea. Europe ends here, and beyond remains61 only thebroad expanse of the ocean. The poor people who dwell here are silentand tenacious62: their heart is full of tenderness and of dreams. Yann,the Iceland fisherman, and his sweetheart, Gaud of Paimpol, can onlylive here, in the small houses of Brittany, where people huddletogether in a stand against the storms which come howling from thedepths of the Atlantic.
Loti's novels are never complicated with a mass of incidents. Thecharacters are of humble63 station and their life is as simple as theirsoul. /Aziyade/, /The Romance of a Spahi/, /An Iceland Fisherman/,/Ramuntcho/, all present the story of a love and a separation. Adeparture, or death itself, intervenes to put an end to the romance.
But the cause matters little; the separation is the same; the heartsare broken; Nature survives; it covers over and absorbs the miserableruins which we leave behind us. No one better than Loti has everbrought out the frailty64 of all things pertaining65 to us, for no onebetter than he has made us realize the persistency66 of life and theindifference of Nature.
This circumstance imparts to the reading of M. Loti's works acharacter of peculiar sadness. The trend of his novels is not one thatincites curiosity; his heroes are simple, and the atmosphere in whichthey live is foreign to us. What saddens us is not their history, butthe undefinable impression that our pleasures are nothing and that weare but an accident. This is a thought common to the degree oftriteness among moralists and theologians; but as they present it, itfails to move us. It troubles us as presented by M. Loti, because hehas known how to give it all the force of a sensation.
How has he accomplished67 this?
He writes with extreme simplicity68, and is not averse69 to the use ofvague and indefinite expressions. And yet the wealth and precision ofGautier's and Hugo's language fail to endow their landscapes with thestriking charm and intense life which are to be found in those ofLoti. I can find no other reason for this than that which I havesuggested above: the landscape, in Hugo's and in Gautier's scenes, isa background and nothing more; while Loti makes it the predominatingfigure of his drama. Our sensibilities are necessarily aroused beforethis apparition70 of Nature, blind, inaccessible71, and all-powerful asthe Fates of old.
It may prove interesting to inquire how Loti contrived72 to sound such anew note in art.
He boasted, on the day of his reception into the French Academy, thathe had never read. Many protested, some smiled, and a large number ofpersons refused to believe the assertion. Yet the statement wasactually quite credible73, for the foundation and basis of M. Loti reston a naive simplicity which makes him very sensitive to the things ofthe outside world, and gives him a perfect comprehension of simplesouls. He is not a reader, for he is not imbued with book notions ofthings; his ideas of them are direct, and everything with him is notmemory, but reflected sensation.
On the other hand, that sailor-life which had enabled him to see theworld, must have confirmed in him this mental attitude. The deckofficer who watches the vessel's course may do nothing which coulddistract his attention; but while ever ready to act and alwaysunoccupied, he thinks, he dreams, he listens to the voices of the sea;and everything about him is of interest to him, the shape of theclouds, the aspect of skies and waters. He knows that a mere50 board'sthickness is all that separates him and defends him from death. Suchis the habitual74 state of mind which M. Loti has brought to thecolouring of his books.
He has related to us how, when still a little child, he first beheldthe sea. He had escaped from the parental75 home, allured76 by the briskand pungent77 air and by the "peculiar noise, at once feeble and great,"which could be heard beyond little hills of sand to which led acertain path. He recognised the sea; "before me something appeared,something sombre and noisy, which had loomed78 up from all sides atonce, and which seemed to have no end; a moving expanse which struckme with mortal vertigo79; . . . above was stretched out full a sky allof one piece, of a dark gray colour like a heavy mantle80; very, veryfar away, in unmeasurable depths of horizon, could be seen a break, anopening between sea and sky, a long empty crack, of a light paleyellow." He felt a sadness unspeakable, a sense of desolate81 solitude,of abandonment, of exile. He ran back in haste to unburden his soulupon his mother's bosom82, and, as he says, "to seek consolation83 withher for a thousand anticipated, indescribable pangs84, which had wrungmy heart at the sight of that vast green, deep expanse."A poet of the sea had been born, and his genius still bears a trace ofthe shudder85 of fear experienced that evening by Pierre Loti the littlechild.
Loti was born not far from the ocean, in Saintonge, of an old Huguenotfamily which had numbered many sailors among its members. While yet amere child he thumbed the old Bible which formerly86, in the days ofpersecution, had been read only with cautious secrecy87; and he perusedthe vessel's ancient records wherein mariners88 long since gone hadnoted, almost a century before, that "the weather was good," that "thewind was favourable," and that "doradoes or gilt-heads were passingnear the ship."He was passionately90 fond of music. He had few comrades, and hisimagination was of the exalted91 kind. His first ambition was to be aminister, then a missionary92; and finally he decided93 to become asailor. He wanted to see the world, he had the curiosity of things; hewas inclined to search for the strange and the unknown; he must seekthat sensation, delightful and fascinating to complex souls, ofbetaking himself off, of withdrawing from his own world, of breakingwith his own mode of life, and of creating for himself voluntaryregrets.
He felt in the presence of Nature a species of disquietude, andexperienced therefrom sensations which might almost be expressed incolours: his head, he himself states, "might be compared to a camera,filled with sensitive plates." This power of vision permitted him toapprehend only the appearance of things, not their reality; he wasconscious of the nothingness of nothing, of the dust of dust. Theremnants of his religious education intensified94 still more thisdistaste for the external world.
He was wont95 to spend his summer vacation in the south of France, andhe preserved its warm sunny impressions. It was only later that hebecame acquainted with Brittany. She inspired him at first with afeeling of oppression and of sadness, and it was long before helearned to love her.
Thus was formed and developed, far from literary circles and fromParisian coteries96, one of the most original writers that had appearedfor a long time. He noted89 his impressions while touring the world; onefine morning he published them, and from the very first the readingpublic was won. He related his adventures and his own romance. Thequestion could then be raised whether his skill and art would prove asconsummate if he should deviate98 from his own personality to write whatmight be termed impersonal99 poems; and it is precisely100 in this lastdirection that he subsequently produced what are now considered hismasterpieces.
A strange writer assuredly is this, at once logical and illusive101, whomakes us feel at the same time the sensation of things and that oftheir nothingness. Amid so many works wherein the luxuries of theOrient, the quasi animal life of the Pacific, the burning passions ofAfrica, are painted with a vigour102 of imagination never witnessedbefore his advent97, /An Iceland Fisherman/ shines forth withincomparable brilliancy. Something of the pure soul of Brittany is tobe found in these melancholy52 pages, which, so long as the Frenchtongue endures, must evoke103 the admiration104 of artists, and must arousethe pity and stir the emotions of men.
JULES CAMBON.
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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enchantment
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forth
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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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fragrance
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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yoke
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pinions
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intensity
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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naive
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isle
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isles
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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naval
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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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trite
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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fables
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laden
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versed
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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alleviation
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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investigation
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utterly
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ensemble
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possessed
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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virtue
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fortified
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wrenched
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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mere
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prone
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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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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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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coteries
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| n.（有共同兴趣的）小集团( coterie的名词复数 ) | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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101
illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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102
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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103
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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104
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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