The Lettres sur Rousseau.
The very early work on Rousseau is of course the most immature, and it meddles the least with purely literary criticism, but it is, for reasons obvious à priori, not the least interesting, and it is perhaps not the least satisfactory on acquaintance. The contrast between the modest (but not fairly to be called mock-modest) brevity of the original Preface, and the pomp and cant and claptrap of the second, twenty-six years later, may raise a sigh in amiable breasts. But the text, whether one agree or disagree with its sentiments and estimates, by no means lacks merit. The writer is well acquainted with the actual matter of discussion (which was by no means always the case with her later): she is in intelligent as well as emotional sympathy with it. She does not indeed take the purely literary side very strongly; she had her master’s own practice as warrant for not doing so. But her remarks (some of which are perhaps innocently borrowed from Longinus) on Rousseau’s style, and the inapplicability of the word “perfection” to it are not despicable: and the characterisations of the various works, though always tending to the moral and material side, are very far from negligible. It may be worth noting that while objecting, not without reason, to “les plaisanteries de Claire,”[[178]] she does not seem to know that they are only a corrupt following of Richardson. But the whole is a very fair début in criticism, inclined as we should expect to the moral side, but not illegitimately so.
The Essai sur les Fictions.
The Essai sur les Fictions, a sort of after-thought introduction to the three little stories, Mirza, Adelaide et Théodore, and Pauline, is a slight and rather curious defence of the novel of actual life moralised, as the most useful of fictitious or imitative writings, by means of a survey of such writings under three heads: “Marvellous and allegorical fictions,” “historical fictions,” and “natural fictions,” i.e. novels proper, where nothing is true, but everything true-like. The first two are very insufficiently treated, and her condemnation of the historical novel is deprived of all weight by the fact that she wrote too early to know any really good example of it. Perhaps the same may be said of the third.
The De La Littérature.
The Rousseau, however, is but the work of a novice, and the Sur Les Fictions is still something of an essay-piece: yet in both one may observe a nisus towards large generalising, which was the natural result of the author’s time, temperament, and education. This nisus turns into a full spread of wing in De La Littérature, published as the centuries met, and when the author was four and thirty. Its avowed central principle is a transformed “Modernism,”—the application of the favourite philosophe doctrine of perfectibility to literature, with an inflexible determination that though Greek literature may be better than anything before it, Roman shall be better than Greek, and (though there is hiatus valde lacrimabilis about mediæval), that modern literature shall be greater than either. To those who are not pure “ideologists,” and who do not think that an ounce of generalisation, however silly, however demonstrably false, is better than a ton of sober consideration and array of fact, this theory condemns itself at once. Here, at any rate, we may legitimately echo Mr Burchell and his “Fudge!” Yet Corinne’s attempts to prove it are interesting, and would be more so, if she had had skill enough to hide her ignorance of the facts themselves, or knowledge enough of them to gild her paradox. Her actual method is not merely characteristic of time and person, but has a certain ingenuity: indeed, it no doubt deceived herself. She will not take literature per se, but she takes it in its relations with “virtue,” “glory,” “liberty,” “happiness,” first in the abstract, and then under these categories as illustrated by Greek, Roman, “Northern,” “Southern,” and individual national literatures, paying special attention to English, and defending it from the objections of French eighteenth-century critics. It is, of course, easy to see how, by showing, or trying to show, that virtue, &c., is, according to her, better displayed in literature as it goes on, she proves, or attempts to prove, her general point.
Unfortunately, in the course of the argument, the most enormous errors of fact, the most startling assertions, which cannot take the benefit of de gustibus, simply pullulate. The book nearly drops from one’s hands when one reads “Eschyle ne présente aucun résultat moral”: and the reference to the Prometheus by which this statement is supported, suggests very forcibly that the writer knew nothing else, and did not understand this. More allowance must be made, no doubt, for the point of view, when we read further that “les héros (of Greek tragedy) n’avaient pas cette grandeur soutenue que leur a donnée Racine”; but what a point of view it is![[179]] We are in full topsyturvydom with the statement[[180]] that “la philosophie des Grecs me paraît fort au-dessous de celle de leurs imitateurs les Romains,” and we do not get out of the country as long as the contrast of Greek and Roman continues. But here, it may be said, we are in the region of opinion. The plea cannot be urged for the astounding statements which diversify the defence of our own barbarous poetry. In believing Ossian genuine, as in admiration for it, she, of course, had respectable companions: but the person who could say[[181]] “les poètes Anglais qui ont succédés aux bardes écossais ont ajouté à leurs tableaux,” &c., could have possessed neither the faintest knowledge of literary, or even political, history, nor the least extensive acquaintance with actual examples. The note,[[182]] “le docteur Blair n’aurait pu juger en Angleterre Shakespere avec l’impartialité d’un étranger,” betrays the most obvious and complete ignorance of what le docteur Blair had actually said. The description in the text[[183]] of Falstaff as a charge, a “caricature populaire,” a “plaisanterie grossière,” speaks the lady’s critical competence with a voice of doom. But the most utterly damning page is that[[184]] which denies inventive imagination to English poetry; airily dismisses Waller and Cowley as unsuccessful imitators of the Italians; adds je pourrais y joindre Downe (sic), Chaucer, &c.; and a moment later despatches at a blow, as showing this want of inventive imagination, The Rape of the Lock (full of faults of taste), The Faërie Queene (the most tiresome thing in the world), Hudibras (witty, but dwelling too long on its jokes). Admit (it is a good deal to admit) that there may be faults of taste in the Rape; admit that more than one Englishman has been unfortunate enough to find Spenser tedious; admit that there is even some justice in the charge against Hudibras. How (except by the easy method of having never read them) can you leash these three books together? and, most of all, by what prank of her own elves does “that Elfish Queen” find herself between Trulla and Belinda? I have myself not the slightest doubt that though Madame de Staël may have glanced at the Rape, and disliked the sylph machinery, she had never so much as opened “Downe” or Chaucer, Butler or Spenser, and I should not be surprised if she knew nothing, save at second-hand, of Waller or Cowley.
I could multiply examples ad lib., from the German chapters especially, but the “matter of Germany” had better be dealt with under the book exclusively devoted to it. As for general strictures on the Littérature, they also will best be postponed till the De l’Allemagne has been dealt with.