V
Due to an oddity of nature that he shared with several of the most poetic writers of this age, such as Chateaubriand, Madame de Staël, George Sand, Mérimée, Janin, Balzac possessed neither the gift nor the love of verse, despite the effort that he otherwise made to attain them. On this point, his judgment that was so fine, so profound, so sagacious was at fault; he admired work somewhat aimlessly and in a way in line with public notoriety. I did not believe, even though he professed a great respect for Victor Hugo, that he had ever truly appreciated the lyrical qualities of the poet, while at the same time the sculpted and colored prose amazed him. He, who was so laborious and who rewrote a sentence as many times as a versifier could rework an Alexandrine on an anvil, found working on meter to be puerile, tedious, and without utility. He would have voluntarily awarded a bushel of peas to those who could manage to pass an idea through the narrow ring of rhythm, as Alexander did for the Greek who was trained to throw a ball through a ring from a long distance; verse, with its fixed and pure form, its elliptical speech little suited to a multiplicity of details, seemed to him to be an obstacle invented on a whim, an unnecessary difficulty or a mnemonic device taken from primitive times. His doctrine was in that way nearly the same as that of Stendhal: "Does the idea that a work has been made while hopping on one leg add to the pleasure that it produces?" The Romantic school holds in its heart some followers, partisans of the absolute truth, who rejected verse as trivial or unnatural. If Talma said: "I do not want fine verses!" Beyle said: "I do not want verses at all." This was the basis of the sentiments of Balzac, however in order to appear open‑minded, comprehensive, universal, he sometimes in society pretended to admire poetry, just as the middle class simulate great enthusiasm for music that bores them profoundly. He was always shocked to see me write verse and take pleasure from it. "That is not copy," he would say, and if he held me in any esteem, I owed it to my prose. All of the writers, young then, who associated themselves with the literary movement represented by Hugo, used, like the master, the lyre or the pen: Alfred de Vigny, Sainte‑Beuve, Alfred de Musset, spoke interchangeably the language of the gods and the language of men. I too, if I am permitted to mention myself after such glorious names, have had since the beginning this double aptitude. It is always easy for poets to descend to prose. The bird may walk as needed, but the lion cannot fly. Those who are born to write prose never rise to poetry however poetic they may be elsewhere. Rhythmic speech is a particular gift, and one can possess it without being a great genius, while it is often refused to superior minds. Among the proudest who appear to disdain it, more than one keeps to himself a secret resentment to not possess it.
Among the two thousand characters in La Comédie Humaine, one finds two poets: Canalis, of Modeste Mignon, and Lucien de Rubempré, of Splendeurs et Misères des Courtisanes. Balzac portrayed both of them as having traits that were not particularly favorable. Canalis is dry, cold, sterile, petty, an adroit arranger of words, a maker of imitation jewelry, who sets rhinestones in gilded silver, and makes necklaces of artificial pearls. His volumes, with many blank spaces, wide margins, and large gaps, contain only a melodious nothingness, monotonous music, suitable only to cause young boarders to fall asleep or dream. Balzac, who ordinarily shapes with warmth the interests of his characters, seems to take a secret pleasure in ridiculing this one and putting him in embarrassing positions: he challenges his vanity with a thousand ironies and a thousand sarcasms, and finishes by taking from him Modeste Mignon with her great fortune, to give her to Ernest de la Brière. This conclusion, in contrast to the beginning of the story, sparkles with concealed malice and fine mockery. One would say that Balzac is personally happy at the good trick that he has played on Canalis. He avenges, in his own way, the angels, the sylphs, the lakes, the swans, the willows, the skiffs, the stars and the lyres that had been used so abundantly by the poet.
If in Canalis we have the false poet, reserving his meager inspiration and putting it behind a dam so that it can flow, foam and sound for a few minutes in order to seem like a cascade, the man used to taking advantage of his laboriously wrought literary successes to serve his political ambitions, the man with material interests who is in love with money, medals, pensions and honors, despite his elegiac attitudes and pose as an angel who misses being in heaven, Lucien de Rubempré shows us the poet who is lazy, frivolous, oblivious, capricious, and as nervous as a woman, incapable of prolonged effort, without moral force, living in the hooks of actresses and courtesans, a puppet whose strings the terrible Vautrin, under the pseudonym Carlos Herrera, pulls as he pleases. Despite all of his vices, Lucien is seductive; Balzac has equipped him with spirit, beauty, youth, and elegance; women adore him; but he ends by hanging himself at the Conciergerie. Balzac did everything he could to successfully complete the marriage of Clotilde de Grandlieu with the author of Marguerite; unfortunately the demands of morality intervened, and what would the Faubourg Saint‑Germain have said of La Comédie Humaine if the student of Jacques Collin the convict had married the daughter of a duke?
Regarding the author of Marguerite, I will note here a bit of information that could amuse those who are interested in literature. The few sonnets that Lucien de Rubempré shows as a sample of his volume of verse to the bookseller Dauriat are not the work of Balzac, who did not write verse, and asked his friends for those that he happened to need. The sonnet on the daisy is by Madame de Girardin, the sonnet on the camellia is by de Lassailly, and the one on the tulip is by myself.
Modeste Mignon also contained a piece of verse, but I do not know the author.
As I have said regarding Mercadet, Balzac was an admirable reader, and he very much wanted, one day, to read some of my own verses. He read to me, among others, La Fontaine du Cimitière. Like all prose writers, he read only for the meaning, and tried to conceal the rhythm that poets, when they deliver their verses out loud, in contrast accentuate in a manner intolerable to everyone, but which delights them alone, and we had together, on this point, a long discussion, which, like always, served only to cause each of us to persist in our particular opinion.
The great literary man of La Comédie Humaine is Daniel d'Arthez, a writer who was serious, a hard worker, and for a long time buried, before achieving his success, in immense studies of philosophy, history and linguistics. Balzac feared facility, and he did not believe that a rapidly produced work could be good. In this context, journalism held a singular repugnance for him, and he regarded the time and talent consecrated to it to be wasted; he didn't hold journalists in any higher regard, and he, who was however such a great critic, despised criticism. The unflattering portraits that he has drawn of Etienne Loustau, of Nathan, of Vernisset, of Andoche Finot, represent fairly well his true opinion of the place of the press. Emile Blondet, introduced into that bad company to represent the good writer, is compensated for his articles in the imaginary Débats of La Comédie Humaine with a rich marriage to the widow of a general, which permits him to leave journalism.
Moreover, Balzac never worked toward the point of view of a newspaper. He brought his novels to the magazines and daily newspapers as they had come to him, without preparing any breaks or interesting twists at the end of each installment, to increase the desire for the continuation. His work was broken up into sections that were roughly the same length, and sometimes the description of an armchair would start on one day and finish the next. With justification, he did not want to divide his work into little dramatic or vaudevillian tableaus; he thought of nothing but the book. This working method was often to the detriment of the immediate success that journalism requires of the authors it employs. Eugène Sue, Alexandre Dumas were more frequently victorious in the battles each morning that then captivated the public. He did not obtain immense popularity, like that of Les Mystères de Paris and Le Juif‑Errant, of Les Mousquetaires and of Monte‑Cristo. Les Paysans, a masterpiece, even caused a great number of readers to cancel their subscriptions to the Presse, where the first installment appeared. Its publication had to be suspended. Every day letters arrived that demanded that it be ended. Balzac was found to be boring!
There was still not a good understanding of the great idea of La Comédie Humaine, to take on modern society and write about Paris and our times the book that sadly no ancient civilization has left for us. The collected edition of La Comédie Humaine, by assembling all of the scattered works, put into relief the philosophical intention of the writer. From that date forward, Balzac grew considerably in public opinion, he finally ceased being considered "the most productive of our novelists," a stereotyped phrase that irritated him as much as "the author of Eugénie Grandet."