The Adventures of Gil Blas of Santillane, Alain René le Sage [most read books .txt] 📗
- Author: Alain René le Sage
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Lesage, juxtaposing his hero with, for instance, an Archbishop of
Granada, shows the vain prelate so enamoured of his own
productions as to suffer no honest criticism from even the most
disinterested of his acolytes. First cajoled by flattery, then
infuriated by the naive frankness of Gil Blas, whose opinion he
had solicited, he shows the rash youth the door; and Gil Blas
returns once again to his life of adventure. It is his rich fund
of good sense that saves him here as throughout his career, and
that keeps his judgment sane and his heart true amid all the
eccentricities and affectations and passing passions, and even
the temptations, which surround and beset him during his
checkered years. This jolly easy-going boon companion is a long
time learning to be canny, but he is never really a fool. He
comes out ultimately the poorer for the loss of a good many
illusions, but profoundly convinced that straightforwardness in
human relations is as desirable a good as simplicity in art.
Watch him with his friend Fabrice, turned writer � la mode, after
having been the astute lackey who early in life defined with such
cold-blooded cynicism the ideals of a servant:
“le m�tier de laquais est impossible, je l’avoue, pour un
imbecile; mais il a des charmes pour un gar�on d’esprit. Un g�nie
sup�rieur qui se met en condition ne fait pas son service
mat�riellement comme un nigaud. Il entre dans une maison
pour commander plut�t que pour servir. Il commence par �tudier
son ma�tre, il se pr�te � ses d�fauts, gagne sa confiance et le
m�ne ensuite par le nez.”
Fabrice, seized by “la rage d’�crire,” as Gil Blas calls it, and
convinced that he has in him the stuff of a great writer, ignores
the sage advice of his employer who has warned him that poetry is
not all beer and skittles, and comes up to Madrid, the centre of
“les beaux esprits,” “in order to form his taste.” He falls under
the influence of one of the leaders in a log-rolling literary
set, and so adroitly imitates the fashion of the hour that he is
regarded as one of the cleverest writers of the younger
generation. He and Gil Blas meet, after many years, over a bottle
of wine; and Fabrice reads to his friend a sonnet which Gil Blas
finds absurdly obscure. “A poet capable of producing such rubbish
as that,” he says, “can deceive only his time”; and he adds,
“your sonnet is merely pompous nonsense.” The tortured, involved,
affected style disgusts Gil Blas as such a style always disgusted
Lesage, whose one ambition was to be an “�crivain naturel qui
parle comme le commun des hommes,” and who detested “le langage
pr�cieux” which the great ladies and certain wits of his time
took to be the mark of genius and a password for immortality.
Fabrice becomes angry. “Tu n’es qu’une b�te avec ton style
naturel,” he exclaims; and he maliciously reminds Gil Blas of
what befell him with the Archbishop of Granada. The allusion
makes the two old friends laugh, and they finish the evening over
a third bottle.
Yes, Gil Blas, who is a kind of joyous jack-of-all trades,
capable, as Fabrice on another occasion puts it, of fulfilling
all kinds of employment, since he possesses “l’outil universel,”
is interesting and sympathetic quite as much because of his sound
sense and ready wit as because of his amusing adventures. But
this good sense and this wit, it should be remembered, are the
fruits of his experience. Gil Blas’s character is slowly formed
by life under the reader’s eye. Successively the dupe of the
habits and the manners, the prejudices and the ideals of each
social condition which he traverses in his advance towards the
stable equilibrium of middle age, he is too intelligent ever to
remain dazzled by his surroundings for more than a brief period.
You constantly hear him, after each fresh round with Fate, saying
in his natural French way: “�a n’est pas �a; there must be some
thing better than that in store for me!” Even the seduction of
life at Court ceases eventually to charm him; and one of his most
poignant regrets is the fact that he had forgotten under that
corrupting influence his father and mother and the old canon, his
uncle. He does his best later on to make amends for this neglect.
On his way to his country place at Lirias he is suddenly filled
with remorse, and he turns aside towards Oviedo, where his
parents live. His own dream now is to watch over their last
years; and he looks forward, on arriving home, to inscribing in
gold letters on the door of his father’s house the Latin verses:
“Inveni portum. Spes et Fortuna, valete!
Sat me lusistis; ludite nunc alios!”
Alas! it is almost too late, for he arrives just in time to bury
his father. He had previously entered the country inn, where he
had been recognised by the inn keeper with lively joy. “By Saint
Anthony of Padua,” his host had exclaimed, “here is the son of
the good Blas de Santillane”; and his wife had chimed in with,
“Why, yes, so it is. Oh, I recognise him. He is hardly changed.
It’s that wide-awake little Gil Blas who had more intelligence
than inches. I can still see him dropping in here for a bottle of
wine for his uncle’s supper.” Gil Blas has changed, nevertheless.
Fabrice is too keen not to perceive it some time afterwards when
Gil Blas visits him at the hospital. Fabrice remarks upon his
modest bearing and observes: “You haven’t the vain and insolent
air that prosperity is wont to give.” Gil Blas explains the
reason why: “Les disgraces ont purifi� ma virtu; et j’ai appris a
l’�cole de l’adversit� � jouir des richesses sans m’en laisser
poss�der.” He is now and then to be a backslider still, but we
know that he has learned the essential lesson of life. Really, as
the Italians say, “il tempo � galantuomo.”
III
The rapidity of the narrative enhances the effect of optimism
which is so inspiriting throughout the whole book. The
transitions from the episodes of bad luck to those of good
fortune take place, as Smollett has already pointed out, so
suddenly that the reader positively has no time to pity Gil Blas.
He is speedily inspired with a firm confidence in Lesage’s
ingenuity, which somehow manages to extricate his hero from every
possible embarrassment. Lesage’s point of view, as an observer of
life, is thus quickly revealed to be a lively sense of life’s
chronic succession of ups and downs, and of the merely relative
importance of its plights. When Gil Blas loses his place with
Count Galiano, he remarks:
“I began to lose courage when I found myself back again in so
miserable a case. I had grown accustomed to the conveniences of
existence, and I could no longer, as before, regard indigence
with cynicism. Yet I will confess I was wrong to indulge in
sadness after having so many times discovered that no sooner had
Fortune upset me than it put me on my feet again.”
Lesage accepts the stoical ideal of patience in adversity, but he
does not accept it in the stoical way. His philosophy is the
Christian belief in a Providence upon whom sane mortals may
serenely rely. Providence, he knows, can be counted upon to hold
the balance true on that Day of Judgment, when all human things
will be set right, and when there will be a startling reversal of
human verdicts. Convinced, like Bishop Butler, that things will
be as they will be, his experience of life has taught him that
the best philosophy is to bide one’s me, all one’s antennae out
For Lesage the logical result of having been frequently a fool is
to cease being dupe.
It would be possible and amusing to draw a parallel in this
connection between the philosophy of Lesage and that of an even
more successful French playwright of the present day, M. Alfred
Capus — who has not yet, however, written a Gil Blas — and to
contrast the manner of the two with that of Beyle in his
characterisation of Julien Sorel, Gil Blas is too often, if you
like, a genial rascal, as are so many of M. Capus’s heroes, but
he is never an odiously cynical one like his servant Scipion, and
like Julien. While Lesage could say with Philinte, discreetly
blaming the vices of mankind:
“Je prends tout doucement les hommes comme ils sont,
J’accoutume mon �me � soufirir ce qu’ils font …
Oui, je vois ces d�fauts dont votre �me murmure
Comme vices unis � l’humaine nature,
Et mon esprit enfin n’est pas plus offens�
De voir un homme fourbe, injuste, int�ress�,
Que de voir des vautours affam�s de carnage,
Des singes malfaisants et des loups pleins de rage,”
Beyle did not confine himself to “accustoming his soul to suffer”
the enormities that men commit, but positively created in Julien
Sorel an unscrupulous professor of energy whom he would appear to
have regarded as an excellent model. Lesage, on the other hand,
must be looked upon as a moralist; a moralist indulgent, no doubt
— such indulgence was the finest flower of his inexhaustible
knowledge of life —yet a moralist in the same sense in which
Shakespeare and Moli�re are moralists. Moreover, Lesage has no
cynical Blas forcing him to confine the subject-matter of his
novel to such naturalistic notations as were the stockin-trade
of the Goncourts and, to a large extent, of Zola.
He had notably no such bias, either “cynical” or “moral,” as has
wittingly altered the reports of so many British observers of
life, who have regarded the pursuit of literature as a mission,
to be accepted with a high and strenuous purpose, for the
improvement of their fellows. Thus, even a Thackeray wrote first
and foremost for edification. In a recently published letter to
his friend Robert Hall, Thackeray refers as follows to Vanity
Fair:
“I want to leave everybody dissatisfied and unhappy at the end of
the story — we ought all to be with our own and all other
stories. Good God! don’t I see (in that maybe cracked and warped
looking-glass in which I am always looking) my own weaknesses,
wickednesses, lusts, follies, shortcomings? in company, let us
hope, with better qualities about which we will pretermit
discourse. We must lift up our voices about these and howl to a
congregation of fools: so much, at least, has been my endeavour.”
(The Times, July 17, 1911.)
The idea of “howling to a congregation of fools” would have
struck Lesage as a counsel of impertinent illbreeding, or, at all
events, as a grotesque attitude for a self-respecting novelist.
Of course, Thackeray was in the tradition of a literature which
counts among its chief masterpieces the Pilgrim’s Progress; but
if the Puritan point of view is good sociology and good
Tolstoism, it is not necessarily for that reason good art; and it
would even seem to make “good art” a more difficult achievement.
In the great book just mentioned there is no laugh of Tom Jones
to clear the air. Thackeray would have seemed, indeed, in Vanity
Fair to have been more of an artist than his pamphleteering
preoccupations appeared likely to allow him to become. He himself
states his object in that book to have been to indicate in
cheerful terms that we are for the most part an abominably
foolish and selfish people. Incorrigible misanthropist, he sets
out to draw up a savage indictment of the society of his time. He
is cheerful, as cheerful as he knows how to be; but, as he has
resolved to give no one in
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