The Press. — London, England, 1858-10-23 00:00:00

I ittraturt. I. La Maison de Penarvan. Par Jules Sandeau London : Jeffs. 2. Le Roman d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre. Par Octave Feuillet. London : Jeffs. Iv is a mistake to imagine that the Index Expur gatorius is exclusively a Roman Catholic institu tion. There exists in this privileged island no inconsiderable party of orthodox Protestants who have got up a little thinf of the kind for their own special use and edihcation ; and who apply it with a rigour perhaps even greater than that displayed by the Congregazione of the Eternal City. In one important particular, indeed, this latter authority is decidedly more liberal than its English prototype. It never condemns un read. The heretical leaven is actually sifted out, weighed, and analyzed, before the terrible sen tence is pronounced ; and a loophole for recon ciliation is always left to the repentant and retracting sinner. Not so with the Index Expur gatorius of these realms. Here the anathema, once fulminated, is irrevocable and absolute— prospective and retrospective. And not only does this hopeless curse involve individual writers and their literary seed for ever—it extends its dread influence occasionally over whole catego ries, entire departments of intellectual produce, without any reference to the real, probable, or possible character of their multiform compo nents. French novels are, we believe, especially and peculiarly the object of this kind of maledic tion en masse. The perusal of French levels is regarded by many as quite one of the worst forms of libertinage, and only exempted by chro nological accident from insertion in the commi nation of sins. Now, while admitting and de ploring the laxity of tone that mars not a few of these brilliant productions, we must protest against a procedure like this, which bundles good and bad indiscriminately together, and pitchforks the whole lot into the abyss of Tartarus. We protest against it, not only in the name of fair play, of abstract justice, and all that sort of thing, but also in the names of MM. Jules San deau and Octave Feuillet, whose latest produc tions lie at this moment before us. "La Maison de Penarvan " and "Le Roman dun Jeune Ilomme Pauvre " are, indeed, as en tirely free from "the objectionable," either in plot, tone, or sentiment, as the most rigid mo ralist could require. At the same time, they are both interesting and amusing qualities not always found in very correct people. But the fact , is, the French are essem iy an artistic nation. In whatever they do, there is a certain finish and lightness--a certain fitness of propor tions and harmony of detail—which always in sure pleasing effects, even where the materials are meagre and unpromising. "La Maison de Penarvan" is not a bad illustration of this. Its plot is singularly poor in incident and originality. The few characters brought upon the stage are either grossly exaggerated, or too faintly sketched in to evoke any deep sympathy with their fate. The heroine, spite of youth and beauty, is actually repulsive ; and we only detect ourselves waxing tender towards her when she has already become—a grandmother. As for the hero, M. Jules Sandeau has chosen to make him such a con centrated noodle that the partial regret awakened by his early death must be considered as no doubtful test of the talent of the author. And yet, in spite of these serious defects, " La Maison de Penarvan "is not merely readable—it is in teresting, and even, as our neighbours happily express it, entrainant. The style of the writer is so easy and flowing, all the ingredients of his work—description, reflection, action, dialogue— are so accurately blended, the proportions are so just, the details so skilfully adapted, the whole picture, in short, so artistically harmonized in all t 8 part s , that we forget, as we its discon gruity with the h uman mo d e l s wci z c e i: all roman cists profess to imitate, and lend to its artificial Creations that momentary faith which we have caught ourselves occasionally bestowing on the marionettes of an Italian fair. A specimen of style and characters may not be unacceptable. Renee de Penarvan, the last scion of the elder branch of an ancient and haughty Breton family, has married her cousin Paul, who represents the younger branch of the same house. THE PRESS, OCTOBER 23, 1858. The youthful pair, however, arc about as anti thetical in character, habits, and opinions as can well be. The lady is possessed by two absorbing ideas—the grandeur of the family of Penarvan and the divine right of kings. These two ideas have grown, in her exalted and sombre nature, to the proportions of a religion, and to them she is prepared to make any sacrifice which the fearful times of the first revolution may demand. Paul, on the contrary, has been brought up amid very different influences. His father, with that spirit of opposition which is occasionally found in younger sons, had embraced the Liberal cause, had corresponded with D'Alembert, and contri buted articles against Feudalism to the " Ency clopedie." Renee's husband, therefore, had been " smeared over with philosophy from the very cradle." In his little estate near Rennes "he " lived familiarly with his tenants, reddened " with anger if the cowboys called him Monsieur le " Vicomte, and evinced his love for equality by " yoking his own oxen ; his hatred for privileges "by wearing sabots in preference to shoes ; and " his respect for liberty by allowing the hens "to lay their eggs in the drawing-room." He was, in fact, just about to render his adhesion to democracy irrevocable by marrying a miller's daughter, when Renee got scent of the meditated sacrilege, rushed down to Rennes, converted the good, easy, and fascinated Paul to sentiments more becoming his birth, and finally carried him off in triumph from his comfortable farm to in habit with her the mouldering ruins of Penarvan Castle, where, in the long dreary evenings of a Breton winter, he was regaled with a complete course of lectures on the grandeur and prowess of his ancestry : Conversation in Penarvan Castle always took an epic turn ; familiarity was entirely banished from it, and every phrase, down to "good morning" and "good evening," was clothed in an heroic dress. But Paul had nothing either epic or heroic in his composition. If he set about sawing a plank, repairing a piece of furniture, nailing a bit of list, or oiling a door-hinge, he was reminded at once that occupations of the kind did not become a nobleman. Ile was thirty years old ; his wife was beautiful, and he loved her. But at the slightest forgetfulness, the smallest departure from etiquette, the faintest shadow of familiarity, a disdainful smile or a haughty look recalled him at once to the dignity of his rank. Under like these no wonder that poor Paul found conjugal felicity an immense bore; no wonder that he seized the first pretext on the return of spring to visit his old farm near ' Rennes, whose unrestrained bachelor reminis cences were daily becoming dearer to him. After a month ?pent here, in resumed sabots and democratic associates, Paul is enchanted by the receipt of some approach to an affectionate letter from his wife, who communicates the dawning prospect of a son and heir, and earnestly presses his immediate return. The kind-hearted fellow is beside himself with joy. " Everything grew " bright around him, and the image of the old " castle, enlivened by a cradle, rose up before his " mental vision decked with hues of enchantment." Full of schemes for the future, he sells his old farm, at a fancy price, to his friend the miller, and returns home with a heavy sack of ecus in the boot of his chaise : His child at least would be born amid abundance. How his first smile would light up the old manor ! What love, what tender care, would surround that fair head! And as he grows up, how everything around bor rows beauty from his grace ! Paul was plunged in these enchanting dreams as he passed through Clisson and the little valley watered by the Sevre. Viewing again that landscape, now dressed in all the beauty of spring, which he had only seen before in the bleak nakedness of winter; contemplating, btneath an azure sky and a glowing sun, those lovely waters and the magnificent foliage which overshadowed them, he felt his transports redouble. Yes, it was there—it was on those blessed banks, that it was sweet to love and to be loved ! Remk receives him with even more empresse ment than he had anticipated. After the first embraces,— " You understood my letter ?" she asked, bending over kite. I had no difficulty there," smiled Paul. "You understood it perfectly?" she added, with em• phasis. " Perfectly," he gaily replied ; " so perfectly that I took posthorses to get home faster." " Ah, you are a Penarvan ! " and, with a movement of proud tenderness, she took his head between her two hands and pressed her lips to his forehead. " I am simply a man who adores you!" whispered Paul, again pressing her to his heart. All this happiness was but a dream. The poor fellow slept ;—a thunderbolt was about to awake him. While he was lavishing upon his wife the tender caresses which she now for the first time permitted, Renee hod, 1031 as if in play, crossed the double breast of his coat, and, with her white and taper fingers, passed each button into its proper button-hole. He profited by her absorption in this little effort to raise the tresses of her blond hair and inhale the natural perfume they gave out. As soon as she had finished, without changing her position she stretched out her hand, seized the " Sacred Heart " she had just embroidered, and fastened it, in the twinkling of an eye, upon her husband's breast. This done, she rose and went to take down one of the swords which were suspended beneath the portrait of her father. Paul had risen too, and, not less inquisitive than am szed, fol lowed sll her movements with a vague Meting of anxiety. When she returned towards him, she was no longer the same woman. He shuddered from head to foot. " Monsieur le Marquis," said she, in a Srm voice, " take this sword. It has already s erved the holy cause, and you will nut have to watt long before drawing it front its sheath. Rejoice ! everything is propared ; the great days are returned. To morrow morning you will be roused by the tocsin. The general rendezvous is at Torfou, of glorious memory. All our nobles will be there on horseback by break of day. You have not forgotten the battle cry of our family= Penarvan, toujours avant !' They rely upon seeing you among them; and you will not be the last to arrive." An admirably worked-up scene follows, in which—as usually happens in such contests—the feeble Paul, after a burst of passionate and almost coarse republicanism, finally succumbs to the stern, unyielding resistance of his one-idead wife. In screwing him up to this point, no inconsiderable influence is accorded to the becoming effect of a broad-brimmed hat with a white cockade, a cache mir scarf, and a pair of jack-boots with steel spurs, all which articles had been placed in his room by the relentless RenCe, as at once a bait and a surprise. The idea of calling in the aid of such an auxiliary as the toilette was certainly a bold one, and we pay a high compliment to the author's ability in conceding that he has managed to do this without falling into the ludicrous. Perhaps to a Frenchman only could such an idea have suggested itself—and yet, after all, there may be more universality of application in it than we care to allow. Poor Paul fulfils his destiny and joins the royalist heroes of La Vendite, by whose side he deports himself with becoming bravery. At the end of three weeks, however, he is brought home in a cart, with a ball through his breast. During a long and rigorous winter his wife, to whose eyes he is now a veritable hero, attends him with the most exalted devotion. But her lavished tenderness awakens no response now : Three months of sickness teach us more about the chs• racier of those who live with us than ten years of health. Paul had penetrated into his wife's heart ; he had reached the bottom of it. _ One day he had suffered from fever, from delirium. Grown calmer towards the evening, he had fallen asleep, and Renee went out upon the balcony. When she returned to her husband's pillow she found him sitting up, his head resting upon his hand, with a mien of deeper and more sombre despondency than usual. Tears coursed each other in silence down his emaciated cheeks, without any endeavour on his part to check or hide them... " You weep, you weep !" said she. "Yes, I weep," said Paul ; " I weep the life I have lost, not that which is about to escape me—it is not worth a regret—but the free happy life I carried so lightly and so gaily! Oh, my plough, my oxen l my modest patrimony I Why did I quit you? What did I come to seek here? Ah ! it will cost me dear, that silly whiff of vanity which you blew into my brain." " Tears! regrets ! reproaches ! Is this, then,' cried Renee," the price of my love and my devotion ?" " the price of your love, of your devotion," replied Paul, with a bitter smile. " Hold, I pity the error in which you have lived so long. J owe you nothing. Renee. It is not I that you love. For the last three months your pride has been exalting itself for a being that does not exist, devoting itself for a phantom, idolizing an illusion. You love a hero, a paladin. lam nothing of the kind. You are proud of my wound. I suffer cruelly from it, and be lieve I shall die of it. That is all I see clearly in the matter. The lustre of my name is more precious to you than my life. We differ on that point. As for me I hate this fatal name—l hate it ; it is this name which is kill ing me. I reproach you not, and yet, when I think of all the follies, all the puerilities upon which you live, and for which I die, I cannot help a little indignation. Ah, Renee, if you had only wished it! How much I loved you! But, alas ! you wanted a hero, and I was but a poor youth made to adore you. Take back your love : it belongs not to me. I restore it to you. And yet l have paid for it with my blood." For the further destinies of poor Paul, and his expected " son and heir," who, by the way, turns out to be a daughter, we must refer the reader to the work itself. The "Roman d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre," while equally free from any approach to a dis regard of " the decorums," possesses another fea ture in common with " La Maison de Penarvan." Its most prominent character is, in like manner, the impoverished representative of an ancient and noble family —a coincidence in which the spece.