Nabob

Alphonse Daudet

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. Daudet once remarked that England was the last of foreign countries to welcome his novels, and that he was surprised at the fact, since for him, as for the typical Englishman, the intimacy of home life had great significance. However long he may have taken to win Anglo-Saxon hearts, there is no question that he finally won them more completely than any other contemporary French novelist was able to do, and that when but a few years since the news came that death had released him from his sufferings, thousands of men and women, both in England and in America, felt that they had lost a real friend. Just at the present moment one does not hear or read a great deal about him, but a similar lull in criticism follows the deaths of most celebrities of whatever kind, and it can scarcely be doubted that Daudet is every day making new friends, while it is as sure as anything of the sort can be that it is death, not estrangement, that has lessened the number of his former admirers.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 06 novembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819937456
• Langue: English

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THE NABOB
by Alphonse Daudet
Translated By W. Blaydes
INTRODUCTION
Daudet once remarked that England was the last offoreign countries to welcome his novels, and that he was surprisedat the fact, since for him, as for the typical Englishman, theintimacy of home life had great significance. However long he mayhave taken to win Anglo-Saxon hearts, there is no question that hefinally won them more completely than any other contemporary Frenchnovelist was able to do, and that when but a few years since thenews came that death had released him from his sufferings,thousands of men and women, both in England and in America, feltthat they had lost a real friend. Just at the present moment onedoes not hear or read a great deal about him, but a similar lull incriticism follows the deaths of most celebrities of whatever kind,and it can scarcely be doubted that Daudet is every day making newfriends, while it is as sure as anything of the sort can be that itis death, not estrangement, that has lessened the number of hisformer admirers.
“Admirers”? The word is much too cold. “Lovers”would serve better, but is perhaps too expansive to be used of aself-contained race. “Friends” is more appropriate becauseheartier, for hearty the relations between Daudet and hisAnglo-Saxon readers certainly were. Whether it was that some of ussaw in him that hitherto unguessed-at phenomenon, a French Dickens—not an imitator, indeed, but a kindred spirit— or that others foundin him a refined, a volatilized “Mark Twain, ” with a flavour ofCervantes, or that still others welcomed him as a writer ofnaturalistic fiction that did not revolt, or finally that most ofus enjoyed him because whatever he wrote was as steeped in theradiance of his own exquisitely charming personality as a pictureof Corot's is in the light of the sun itself— whatever may havebeen the reason, Alphonse Daudet could count before he diedthousands of genuine friends in England and America who were loyalto him in spite of the declining power shown in his latest books,in spite even of the strain which Sapho laid upon theirPuritan consciences.
It is likely that a majority of these friends werewon by the two great Tartarin books and by the chief novels, Fromont , Jack , The Nabob , Kings inExile , and Numa , aided by the artistic sketches andshort stories contained in Letters from my Mill and Monday Tales (Contes du Lundi) . The strong but overwrought Evangelist , Sapho — which of course belongs with thechief novels from the Continental but not from the insular point ofview— and the books of Daudet's decadence, The Immortal , andthe rest, cost him few friendships, but scarcely gained him many.His delightful essays in autobiography, whether in fiction, LePetit Chose (Little What's-his-Name) , or in Thirty Years ofParis and Souvenirs of a Man of Letters , doubtlesssealed more friendships than they made; but they can be almost assafely recommended as the more notable novels to readers who haveyet to make Daudet's acquaintance.
For the man and his career are as unaffectedlycharming as his style, and more of a piece than his elaborate worksof fiction. A sunny Provencal childhood is clouded by familymisfortunes; then comes a year of wretched slavery as usher in aprovincial school; then the inevitable journey to Paris with abrain full of verses and dreams, and the beginning of a life ofBohemian nonchalance, to which we Anglo-Saxons have little that iscomparable outside the career of Oliver Goldsmith. But poorGoldsmith had his pride wounded by the editorial tyranny of a Mrs.Griffiths. Daudet, by a merely pretty poem about a youth and maidenmaking love under a plum-tree, won the protection of the EmpressEugenie, and through her of the Duke de Morny, the prop of theSecond Empire. His life now reads like a fairy-tale inserted bysome jocular elf into that book of dolors entitled The Lives ofMen of Genius . A protege of a potentate not usuallylavish of his favours, and a valetudinarian, he is allowed to flitto Algiers and Corsica, to enjoy his beloved Provence in companywith Mistral, to write for the theatres, and to continue to playthe Bohemian. Then the death of Morny seems to turn the idyl into atragedy, but only for a moment. Daudet's delicate, nervous beautymade his friend Zola think of an Arabian horse, but the poet hadalso the spirit of such a high-bred steed. Years of conscientiousliterary labour followed, cheered by marriage with a woman ofgenius capable of supplementing him in his weakest points, and thenthe war with Prussia and its attendant horrors gave him the largerand deeper view of life and the intensified patriotism— in short,the final stimulus he needed. From the date of his first greatsuccess— Fromont, Jr. , and Risler, Sr. — glory and wealthflowed in upon him, while envy scarcely touched him, so unspoiledwas he and so continuously and eminently lovable. One seemed to seein his career a reflection of his luminous nature, a revised mythof the golden touch, a new version of the fairy-tale of the fairmouth dropping pearls. Then, as though grown weary of the idyllicromance she was composing, Fortune donned the tragic robes ofNemesis. Years of pain followed, which could not abate the spiritsor disturb the geniality of the sufferer, but did somewhat abatethe power and disturb the serenity of his work. Then came theinevitable end of all life dramas, whether comic or romantic ortragic, and friends who had known him stood round his grave andlistened sadly to the touching words in which Emile Zola expressednot merely his own grief but that of many thousands throughout thecivilized world. Here was a life more winsome, more appealing, morecomplete than any creation of the genius of the man that lived it—a life which, whether we know it in detail or not, explains in partthe fascination Daudet exerts upon us and the conviction we cherishthat, whatever ravages time may make among his books, the memory oftheir writer will not fade from the hearts of men. Many Frenchmenhave conquered the world's mind by the power or the subtlety oftheir genius; few have won its heart through the catholicity, thebroad sympathy of their genius. Daudet is one of these few; indeed,he is almost if not quite the only European writer who has of lateachieved such a triumph, for Tolstoi has stern critics as well assteadfast devotees, and has won most of his disciples as moralistand reformer. But we must turn from Daudet the man to Daudet theauthor of The Nabob and other memorable novels.
If this were a general essay and not anintroduction, it would be proper to say something of Daudet's earlyattempts as poet and dramatist. Here it need only be remarked thatit is almost a commonplace to insist that even in his later novelshe never entirely ceased to see the outer world with the eyes of apoet, to delight in colour and movement, to seize every opportunityto indulge in vivid description couched in a style more swift andbrilliant than normal prose aspires to. This bent for description,together with the tendency to episodic rather than sustainedcomposition and the comparative weakness of his character drawing—features of his work shortly to be discussed— partly explains hisfailure, save in one or two instances, to score a real triumph withhis plays, but does not explain his singular lack of sympathy withactors. Nor was he able to win great success with his first book ofimportance, Le Petit Chose , delightful as that mixture ofautobiography and romance must prove to any sympathetic reader. Hewas essentially a romanticist and a poet cast upon an age ofnaturalism and prose, and he needed years of training and suchexperience as the Prussian invasion gave him to adjust himself tohis life-work. Such adjustment was not needed for Tartarin deTarascon , begun shortly after Le Petit Chose , becausesubtle humour of the kind lavished in that inimitable creation andin its sequels, while implying observation, does not necessarilyimply any marked departure from the romantic and poetic points ofview.
The training Daudet required for his novels he gotfrom the sketches and short stories that occupied him during thelate sixties and early seventies. Here again little in the way ofcomment need be given, and that little can express the generalverdict that the art displayed in these miniature productions isnot far short of perfect. The two principal collections, Lettresde mon Moulin and Contes du Lundi , together with Artists' Wives (Les Femmes d'Artistes) and parts at least of Robert Helmont , would almost of themselves suffice to putDaudet high in the ranks of the writers who charm without leavingupon one's mind the slightest suspicion that they are weak. It istrue that Daudet's stories do not attain the tremendousimpressiveness that Balzac's occasionally do, as, for example, in La Grande Breteche , nor has his clear-cut art the almostdisconcerting firmness, the surgeon-like quality of Maupassant's;but the author of the ironical Elixir of Father Gaucher andof the pathetic Last Class , to name no others, couldcertainly claim with Musset that his glass was his own, and had noreason to concede its smallness.
As we have seen, the production of Fromont jeuneet Risler aine marked the beginning of Daudet's more thantwenty years of successful novel-writing. His first elaborate studyof Parisian life, while it indicated no advance of the art offiction, deserved its popularity because, in spite of the manycriticisms to which it was open, it was a thoroughly readable andoften a moving book. One character, Delobelle, the played-out actorwho is still a hero to his pathetic wife and daughter, wasconstructed on effective lines— was a personage worthy of Dickens.The vile heroine, Sidonie, was bad enough to excite disgustedinterest, but, as Mr. Henry James pointed out later, she was noteffective to the extent her creator doubtless hoped. She paledbeside Valerie Marneffe, though, to be sure, Daudet knew betterthan to attempt to depict any such quee