"Scoff at Founders of Systems.And cry with a glow of fine enthusiasm,'Here are errors and misleading statements in abundance in our contemporary's work,and to what end?To depreciate a fine work,to deceive the public,and to arrive at this conclusion--"A book that sells,does not sell."'Proh pudor!(Mind you put Proh pudor!'tis a harmless expletive that stimulates the reader's interest.)Foresee the approaching decadence of criticism,in fact.Moral--'There is but one kind of literature,the literature which aims to please.Nathan has started upon a new way;he understands his epoch and fulfils the requirements of his age--the demand for drama,the natural demand of a century in which the political stage has become a permanent puppet show.Have we not seen four dramas in a score of years--the Revolution,the Directory,the Empire,and the Restoration?'With that,wallow in dithyramb and eulogy,and the second edition shall vanish like smoke.This is the way to do it.Next Saturday put a review in our magazine,and sign it 'de Rubempre,'out in full.
"In that final article say that 'fine work always brings about abundant controversy.This week such and such a paper contained such and such an article on Nathan's book,and such another paper made a vigorous reply.'Then you criticise the critics 'C'and 'L';pay me a passing compliment on the first article in the Debats,and end by averring that Nathan's work is the great book of the epoch;which is all as if you said nothing at all;they say the same of everything that comes out.
"And so,"continued Blondet,"you will have made four hundred francs in a week,to say nothing of the pleasure of now and again saying what you really think.A discerning public will maintain that either C or Lor Rubempre is in the right of it,or mayhap all the three.Mythology,beyond doubt one of the grandest inventions of the human brain,places Truth at the bottom of a well;and what are we to do without buckets?
You will have supplied the public with three for one.There you are,my boy,Go ahead!"Lucien's head was swimming with bewilderment.Blondet kissed him on both cheeks.
"I am going to my shop,"said he.And every man likewise departed to his shop.For these "hommes forts,"a newspaper office was nothing but a shop.
They were to meet again in the evening at the Wooden Galleries,and Lucien would sign his treaty of peace with Dauriat.Florine and Lousteau,Lucien and Coralie,Blondet and Finot,were to dine at the Palais-Royal;du Bruel was giving the manager of the Panorama-Dramatique a dinner.
"They are right,"exclaimed Lucien,when he was alone with Coralie.
"Men are made to be tools in the hands of stronger spirits.Four hundred francs for three articles!Doguereau would scarcely give me as much for a book which cost me two years of work.""Write criticism,"said Coralie,"have a good time!Look at me,I am an Andalusian girl to-night,to-morrow I may be a gypsy,and a man the night after.Do as I do,give them grimaces for their money,and let us live happily."Lucien,smitten with love of Paradox,set himself to mount and ride that unruly hybrid product of Pegasus and Balaam's ass;started out at a gallop over the fields of thought while he took a turn in the Bois,and discovered new possibilities in Blondet's outline.
He dined as happy people dine,and signed away all his rights in the Marguerites.It never occurred to him that any trouble might arise from that transaction in the future.He took a turn of work at the office,wrote off a couple of columns,and came back to the Rue de Vendome.Next morning he found the germs of yesterday's ideas had sprung up and developed in his brain,as ideas develop while the intellect is yet unjaded and the sap is rising;and thoroughly did he enjoy the projection of this new article.He threw himself into it with enthusiasm.At the summons of the spirit of contradiction,new charms met beneath his pen.He was witty and satirical,he rose to yet new views of sentiment,of ideas and imagery in literature.With subtle ingenuity,he went back to his own first impressions of Nathan's work,when he read it in the newsroom of the Cour du Commerce;and the ruthless,bloodthirsty critic,the lively mocker,became a poet in the final phrases which rose and fell with majestic rhythm like the swaying censer before the altar.
"One hundred francs,Coralie!"cried he,holding up eight sheets of paper covered with writing while she dressed.
The mood was upon him;he went on to indite,stroke by stroke,the promised terrible article on Chatelet and Mme.de Bargeton.That morning he experienced one of the keenest personal pleasures of journalism;he knew what it was to forge the epigram,to whet and polish the cold blade to be sheathed in a victim's heart,to make of the hilt a cunning piece of workmanship for the reader to admire.For the public admires the handle,the delicate work of the brain,while the cruelty is not apparent;how should the public know that the steel of the epigram,tempered in the fire of revenge,has been plunged deftly,to rankle in the very quick of a victim's vanity,and is reeking from wounds innumerable which it has inflicted?It is a hideous joy,that grim,solitary pleasure,relished without witnesses;it is like a duel with an absent enemy,slain at a distance by a quill;a journalist might really possess the magical power of talismans in Eastern tales.Epigram is distilled rancor,the quintessence of a hate derived from all the worst passions of man,even as love concentrates all that is best in human nature.The man does not exist who cannot be witty to avenge himself;and,by the same rule,there is not one to whom love does not bring delight.Cheap and easy as this kind of wit may be in France,it is always relished.
