Old Friends, Epistolary Parody

This was the idea which suggested the following little essays in parody. In making them the writer, though an assiduous and veteran novel reader, had to recognise that after all he knew, on really intimate and friendly terms, comparatively few people in the Paradise of Fiction. Setting aside the dramatic poets and their creations, the children of Molière and Shakspeare, the reader of novels will find, may be, that his airy friends are scarce so many as he deemed. We all know Sancho and the Don, by repute at least; we have all our memories of Gil Blas; Manon Lescaut does not fade from the heart, nor her lover, the Chevalier des Grieux, from the remembrance. Our mental picture of Anna Karénine is fresh enough and fair enough, but how few can most of us recall out of the myriad progeny of George Sand! Indiana, Valentine, Lélia, do you quite believe in them, would you know them if you met them in the Paradise of Fiction? Noun one might recognise, but there is a haziness about La Petite Fadette. Consuelo, let it be admitted, is not evanescent, oblivion scatters no poppy over her; but Madame Sand’s later ladies, still more her men, are easily lost in the forests of fancy. Even their names with difficulty return to us, and if we read the roll-call, would Horace and Jacques cry Adsum like the good Colonel? There are living critics who have all Mr. George Meredith’s heroines and heroes and oddities at their finger ends, and yet forget that musical name, like the close of a rich hexameter, Clare Doria Forey. But this is a digression; it is perhaps admitted that George Sand, so great a novelist, gave the world few characters who live in and are dear to memory. We can just fancy one of her dignified later heroines, all self-renunciation and rural sentiment, preaching in vain to that real woman, Emma Bovary. Her we know, her we remember, as we remember few, comparatively, of Balzac’s thronging faces, from La Cousine Bette to Séraphitus Séraphita. Many of those are certain to live and keep their hold, but it is by dint of long and elaborate preparation, description, analysis. A stranger intermeddleth not with them, though we can fancy Lucien de Rubempré let loose in a country neighbourhood of George Sand’s, and making sonnets and love to some rural châtelaine, while Vautrin might stray among the ruffians of Gaboriau, a giant of crime. Among M. Zola’s people, however it may fare with others, I find myself remembering few: the guilty Hippolytus of “La Curée,” the poor girl in “La Fortune des Rougon,” the Abbé Mouret, the artist in “L’Oeuvre,” and the half idiotic girl of the farm house, and Hélène in “Un Page d’Amour.” They are not amongst M. Zola’s most prominent creations, and it must be some accident that makes them most memorable and recognisable to one of his readers.