Correspondence
A LETTER FROM PARIS
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[To tae Editor of the SPECTATOR.] SIR,—A review of current French literature would lead one to wonder whether those who claim that we are witnessing the decline of the novel have not some measure of evidence to support them. For among a representative collection of volumes that have just been published one finds the novel in point of interest and quality taking quite a second place. The outstanding books are for the most part of a biographical character. Whether the explanation lies merely in the decline of the novelist, or in some deeper cause involving a radical change in attitude and outlook, I do not know. I can find nothing in the fiction of the last month or two that can equal in interest M. Maurice Paleologue's Les Entre- tiens de l'Imperatrice Eugenie, M. Louis Madelin's Les Hommes de la Revolution, M. Georges Clemenceau's Claude Monet, or even M. Poincare's fifth book of Memoirs. In M. Paleologue's Entretiens de l'Imperatrice Eugenie we have what is practically the last word of a broken Empress to justify herself to posterity. She chose M. Paleologue to be her mouthpiece, and in a number of interviews from 1901, when she was 75 and still vigorous and sprightly, until 1919, when she was 93 and nearing her end, she reviewed the years of her troubled reign as the empress of Napoleon III. Immediately after every interview M. Paleologue made notes of the conversation, and the book written from them reads with a remarkable freshness. M. Paleologue, however, did not take all her statements " lying down. ' He was argumentative, sometimes provoking her to sharp retort. What," we hear her exclaiming after one of his remarks, " the Napoleonic Empire was not compatible with human liberty ! Why not ? Develop • this idea. It interests me
immensely."
She still idolized her husband. Not one of their quixotic adventures in statesmanship would she agree was mistaken. Even the disaster of the" war of 1870 would not have been, had Napoleon III. • not been misled as to the state of pre- paredness of the French army. Vigorously she denied that she ever used the words attributed to her, This is my war." There are a few affectionate references to Queen Victoria, " my dear friend," and we find this vigorous sentence attri- buted to King Edward VII. (regarding Ferdinand of Bulgaria), "I believe him capable of e very crime. To satisfy his ambitions and his hides he would set fire to the four corners of Europe." Very readable, despite the fact that it is a collection of lectures, is M. Louis Madelin's Les HOmmes de la Revolution. In the three hundred and odd closely-printed pages perhaps the most striking studies are those of Robespierre and Danton. It' s not a little remarkable how in France, even until recent Years, the prominent figures of the Revolution have still lived in the public imagination in all the glamour of demi- gods. The process of humanization, however, is proceeding; and M. Madelin certainly accelerates the process. Thus we have Robespierre reduced to a narrow-minded little man vain in his incorruptible virtue, a dandy in goggles; with 'a slight feline figure and the airs of an angry cat. Denton suffers little in the process, though most of the ()Viers— Lafayette, Mirabeau, Talleyrand—emerge a little smaller from M. Madelin's analysis. One of the most entertaining studies is that of Mme. Roland, daughter of the Paris engraver, who became the driving power behind the Girondins, and whom the writer insists on including among the " men of the Revolution." At the time of writing, M. Clemenceau's book on Claude Monet has not emerged from the hands of the publisher. Certain chapters, however, have already been published, which afford one some idea of the flavour of the volume. It is not a little remarkable to find the venerable statesman; eighty-seven years old, sitting down to write so keenly reasoned an appreciation of the great painter who was his lifelong friend. He reveals much that is deeply interesting of Monet's temperament. " The eye of Monet, he says in one striking phrase, " was the whole man." Monet saw too much to be happy. What he saw in form and colour was, according to his own statement, " the joy and torment of his days.' To M. Clemenceau he once confessed that on the death of a dear friend he found himself lost in noting the changes in colour that death had wrought in the familiar feaTtuhres. Monet's life was " a combat with light and colour." Those who know how deeply M. Clemenceau felt the loss of Monet will find in this book not merely a work on a great painter. It is a lonely old man seeking once again the company of his friend. In his fifth volume of memoirs, just published under the general title of Au Service de la France, M. Poincare retraces the tragic history of the early months of the great War. One of the most interesting points brought out in this book is that Foch, even in those early days, while Joffre was still in' supreme command of the French forces, was playing a decisive role in the operations. A dramatic incident is recorded of the night of October 80, 1914, when the Germans had broken through the British cavalry screen on the Yser front and were sweeping all before them. Foch went post haste to
French to ask him if he had any reserves. None," said
French, whOse idea Was to make a 'fighting retreat. Foch
would not hear of it. To admit their weakness would, he said, mean that they would be crushed like straw. " Cost
what it will," he said, " you must keep your first corps where it is while I attack on both sides." And taking a slip of paper he wrote in four lines his idea of the order that should be given,' French considered a moment and called an officer. IssuO that order," he said. The position was saved. As to novels, M. Henry Bordeaux (who is, of course, member of the Academie Fransaise) has just given us Andromkle et le Monstre, in which he seems to suggest that the modern girl, although she may be emancipated, may still be much bothered with her love affairs. She may be free to choose her own husband and yet find herself in terrible bondage. The monster was a clever sculptor who held hid pupil, Andree Nestle (Andromede) in this thrall. Perseus; in the shape of a young diplomat, who loved Andree, made a gallant attempt to rescue her and failed miserably, although Andree loved him in a way. M. Bordeaux seems to suggest that, after all, French girls were quite as happy when wise mothers and fathers chose their life partners for them. With M. Tristan Bernard we are always sure of spending an amusing evening, and in his new book, Le Voyage Imprivu, we follow the breathless journey across Europe of a young man who has been spirited away by a young and charming woman in an eight-cylinder motor-car. What it was all for; he had not the ghost of a notion until when nearing the end of the journey the revelation of a murder and a great financial crisis made matters clear. The story would make an excellent companion for a journey in a train. One may also recommend Deux Fois Vingt Ans, by M. Pierre. Frondaie, who possesses the distinction of drawing a royalties bigger sum in yalties than almost any other French author. It is the story of a woman of forty—twice twenty—who falls in love with a young man of thirty, but has the sense to marry a man of fifty and give the young man to a woman of his own age. And this is also an excellent book for the train.— I am, Sir, &c.,
YOUR PARIS LITERARY CORRESPONDENT.
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