ALPHONSE DAUDET.*

THIS is an interesting, even fascinating, if not an altogether satisfactory book. Mr. Sherard is an Englishman who has made his home in Paris, and has thrown himself completely into the literary interests of France. He has become so French that his book frequently reads like a translation, and not always a particularly good one ; he always, for instance, uses the word to-day where an English writer would more naturally use now. He has preserved, however, a thoroughly English dislike for French Bohemianism, and he speaks of the Symbolists, of les jeunes, of the most modern developments of French genius, which, if strange and irre- gular, are often very real and remarkable in their way, with an unmeasured contempt. It is true that he quotes Renan and Leconte de Lisle on the same side; but men of an older generation and of a different school are not always the fairest critics of what their successors may do. Mr. Sherard's indigna- tion is roused against the younger men by their unwillingness to count M. Alphonse Daudet among the poets. This is not so strange when one remembers that his only literal claim to the name is a volume of verses published when he was quite young, and which, though pretty, he would hardly have found a very satisfactory foundation to build his fame and fortune upon. Besides, a real poet would not have stopped there. M. Daudet is a great novelist, a wonderful story-teller, and with these titles his admirers may as well be satisfied. But Mr. Sherard is such a thorough-going disciple of "the master" as to resent any hint of a limitation of his genius in any direction.

And this is what makes the book not entirely satisfactory,

• Alphor se Daudet : a Biographical and Critical Study. By Robert Harborongh Sheriird. London : Edward Arnold.

and deprives it of much of the use and value it might other- wise possess. Mr. Sherard in his preface says all that can be said in favour of writing the biographies of living men, and no one can find fault with his grateful admiration of such a charming man and delightful writer as M. Alphonse Daudet. But it is this very admiration which weakens his power of criticism, and turns his book into so many pages of the affectionate gossip of a friend. In fact, the word "critical" should be left out of the title, for it is misleading. Mr. Sherard's criticism is all praise. If he prefers one novel or one short story to another, this is as much as he will let the public know. And he gives a kind of praise which is calcu- lated sometimes to lead English readers, to whom his book is addressed, somewhat astray ; for they will not find a hint of the bad taste, not to speak more strongly, which deforms Les Bois en Exil for instance, and several others of the novels we could name. They are not Zolaesque, it is true; the worst faults of the naturalist school are not to be found in them ; but it would be a little too much to say that their tone is always absolutely "clean and sweet." The conclusion is, we think, that if a man's biography and that of his works is to be written while he is alive, the writer should be an impartial person, not a devoted friend.

And yet few literary lives are more attractive than that of Alphonse Daudet. It has already been made tolerably familiar to the world by his own Souvenirs, Trente Ans de Paris, Lettres de mon Moulin, and the early part of Le Petit Chose. Mr. Sherard, by the way, does well to defend his " master " against the unwarranted assumption that he is, or ever was, a copier of Dickens. On M. Daudet's own authority, he had not read a word of Dickens when he wrote Le Petit Chose.

Mr. Sherard tells in detail the story of his hero's childhood, the troubles of his family, the early efforts of his genius, the self-sacrificing devotion of his brother Ernest. Then comes the painful experience of the sensitive, delicate lad, as an usher at the Alais College, where cruel boys tormented him. It was a time of which a man bears the marks all his life ; for a French pion has duties and trials never laid on a young Englishman in the same employment. At last came freedom ; the excellent Ernest, having found some literary work in Paris, sent for his brother to join him there ; and Alphonse started on the journey of twenty-two hours, with two francs in his pocket, having spent all the rest of his money on excess luggage; for the little trunk that accompanied him was full of books and manuscripts, and it was better to starve on the way than to leave these behind. And probably the young author never was much nearer starvation than on that journey, though in his Paris garret, after Ernest had lost his appoint- ment there and had gone into the provinces, he often suffered from "terrible hunger and terrible cold." Many temptations to start on the nearest road to ruin beset the young Provencal at this time. He was well acquainted with the Bohemian life of which Mr. Sherard writes with such just condemnation. He was handsome, clever, excitable, and only twenty. His might easily have been another of the wasted lives which came to an early end in the Quartier Latin. But there was better stuff in him. Though Bohemianism attracted him in many ways, it never took him prisoner. He felt the vulgarity of a life given up to dissipation ; be was self-respecting and ardently ambitious, and had no idea of being ranked among failures, even though, as so often was the case, they were failures of genius. His genius was always sane. He was proud too, and full of artistic conscientiousness. This, indeed, was nearly the death of him, for nothing would induce him to keep body and soul together by mechanical work such as writing for an encyclopaedia; neither would he attempt journalism, for then, as now, his work had to be "polished and polished again" before he would allow it to leave his desk.

In these early days he published his poems, Les Amoureuses, having made acquaintance with a generous publisher, Jules Tardieu, who took the risk himself. The little book was well reviewed and kindly received, partly because the author, happily possessing a dress-coat—he has told us all about it himself in "Mon Premier Habit "—had become acquainted by Ernest's help with a few people who welcomed to their drawing-rooms anything in the shape of a poet ; and a very handsome and attractive youth such as Alphonse needed only to be known to be popular. He was still penniless, however, for his book brought in no money. But in spite of this, it

was the first step in the ladder of fame, for the Empress's admiration of "Lee Prunes" was the cause of the Duo de Morny's offering him a Government appointment, almost a sinecure, the salary of which set him at ease to work as he

chose. At this time he was already on the staff of the Figaro, having captured the great Villemessant with his

Roman du Chaperon Rouge.

No one who knows anything of a literary life will imagine that fame and success mean rest and self-indulgence. The great quantity of brilliant work that M. Alphonse Daudet

has produced, with all its extraordinary variety, ranging between the very different keys of Tartarin and Jack, between a tragical roman a clef like Les Bois en Exil, and that collection of exq uisite sketches, both pathetic and humorous, Lettres de mon Moulin—including the novels of Parisian life, which some people think his highest title to fame—all this means an amount of industry which would frighten most novelists of the present day.

To begin with, M. Daudet's note-books are a library in themselves. Then he frequently works for eighteen hours a day, composing chiefly in the evening and night, spending the rest of the time in correcting and copying. This does not go on all the year round, for he depends much on inspiration, and eight months' work may very likely be followed by three months' idleness. But his own account of his manner of work is so instructive, when one considers, as Mr. Sherard says, the "artistic consciousness" displayed, that we must find room to quote it :—

"I write slowly, very slowly, and revise and revise. I am never satisfied with my work. My novels I always write myself.

I never could dictate a novel My books go through many processes. To begin with, I fill my note-books. Each note, as it is used, is scratched out in blue or red pencil. From these written notes and the tablets of my memory,

I write out in copybooks the first copy of my novel. I write this first copy on alternate pages of my copy-books, and leave the opposite sheets blank. When the book is finished in its rough state, I rewrite it page by page on the blank sheets. The page on the right is the amended copy of the page on the left. Then my wife looks at this second copy, and suggests to me what im- provements might be made. I note these down. Then I rewrite the whole book again with the joy of a school-boy who feels that a wearisome task is ended. So that, apart from my notes, I write each manuscript three times over, and if I could do so, I would write it as many times more, for, as I have said, I am never satis- fied with my work. But I am very irregular in my way of work- ing. Sometimes I work for eighteen hours a day, and day by day. It other times I pass months without touching a pen."

It really would seem as if genius had been well defined as "an infinite capacity for taking pains." Such a picture of work, given by one of the first among French writers, ought to be of service in checking the supply of half-baked litera- ture with which we are more heavily loaded every day.

Madame Alphonse Daudet, herself a literary personage of high standing, is the ideal wife of a man of genius. With a most delicate critical talent, she has all the practical virtues

of a true Parisienne, and thus the author's married life is as

happy as it is fortunate. Mr. Sherard's account of Alphonse Daudet at home is very attractive. One likes to read of the great writer's kindness to struggling men of letters, and indeed to all who need his help.

For a great many personal traits and amusing anecdotes, for details as to the novels—not quite new, for Daudet himself has told their story in his published reminiscences— for descriptions given with the amiable enthusiasm of a friend, —in fact, for every possible information that can be wanted as to the author's life, character, and works, written down in a scattered and digressive bat always lively manner, we may

refer the reader to Mr. Sherard's handsome book.