Born in Amiens... Paul Bourget was a pupil at the Lycee Louis le Grand, and then followed a course at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes, intending to devote himself to Greek philology. He, however, soon gave up linguistics for poetry, literary criticism, and fiction. When yet a very young man, he became a contributor to various journals and reviews, among others to the ‘Revue des deux Mondes, La Renaissance, Le Parlement, La Nouvelle Revue’, etc. He has since given himself up almost exclusively to novels and fiction, but it is necessary to mention here that he also wrote poetry. His poetical works comprise: ‘Poesies (1872-876), La Vie Inquiete (1875), Edel (1878), and Les Aveux (1882)’.
With riper mind and to far better advantage, he appeared a few years later in literary essays on the writers who had most influenced his own development—the philosophers Renan, Taine, and Amiel, the poets Baudelaire and Leconte de Lisle; the dramatist Dumas fils, and the novelists Turgenieff, the Goncourts, and Stendhal. Brunetiere says of Bourget that “no one knows more, has read more, read better, or meditated, more profoundly upon what he has read, or assimilated it more completely.” So much “reading” and so much “meditation,” even when accompanied by strong assimilative powers, are not, perhaps, the most desirable and necessary tendencies in a writer of verse or of fiction. To the philosophic critic, however, they must evidently be invaluable; and thus it is that in a certain self-allotted domain of literary appreciation allied to semi-scientific thought, Bourget stands to-day without a rival. His ‘Essais de Psychologie Contemporaine (1883), Nouveaux Essais (1885), and Etudes et Portraits (1888)’ are certainly not the work of a week, but rather the outcome of years of self-culture and of protracted determined endeavor upon the sternest lines. In fact, for a long time, Bourget rose at 3 a.m. and elaborated anxiously study after study, and sketch after sketch, well satisfied when he sometimes noticed his articles in the theatrical ‘feuilleton’ of the ‘Globe’ and the ‘Parlement’, until he finally contributed to the great ‘Debats’ itself. A period of long, hard, and painful probation must always be laid down, so to speak, as the foundation of subsequent literary fame. But France, fortunately for Bourget, is not one of those places where the foundation is likely to be laid in vain, or the period of probation to endure for ever and ever.
'In fiction, Bourget carries realistic observation beyond the externals (which fixed the attention of Zola and Maupassant) to states of the mind: he unites the method of Stendhal to that of Balzac. He is always interesting and amusing. He takes himself seriously and persists in regarding the art of writing fiction as a science. He has wit, humor, charm, and lightness of touch, and ardently strives after philosophy and intellectuality—qualities that are rarely found in fiction. It may well be said of M. Bourget that he is innocent of the creation of a single stupid character. The men and women we read of in Bourget’s novels are so intellectual that their wills never interfere with their hearts.
'The list of his novels and romances is a long one, considering the fact that his first novel, ‘L’Irreparable,’ appeared as late as 1884. It was followed by ‘Cruelle Enigme (1885); Un Crime d’Amour (1886); Andre Cornelis and Mensonges (1887); Le Disciple (1889); La Terre promise; Cosmopolis (1892), crowned by the Academy; Drames de Famille (1899); Monique (1902)’; his romances are ‘Une Idylle tragique (1896); La Duchesse Bleue (1898); Le Fantome (1901); and L’Etape (1902)’.
‘Le Disciple’ and ‘Cosmopolis’ are certainly notable books. The latter marks the cardinal point in Bourget’s fiction. Up to that time he had seen environment more than characters; here the dominant interest is psychic, and, from this point on, his characters become more and more like Stendhal’s, “different from normal clay.” Cosmopolis is perfectly charming. Bourget is, indeed, the past-master of “psychological” fiction.
'To sum up: Bourget is in the realm of fiction what Frederic Amiel is in the realm of thinkers and philosophers—a subtle, ingenious, highly gifted student of his time. With a wonderful dexterity of pen, a very acute, almost womanly intuition, and a rare diffusion of grace about all his writings, it is probable that Bourget will remain less known as a critic than as a romancer. Though he neither feels like Loti nor sees like Maupassant—he reflects.
It is Bourget's The Disciple (1889) we focus on now. It's significance is outlined in this introduction:
'[The] Disciple, (‘Le Disciple’), .... in its eloquent preface, which is the best part of the book, calls upon the young men of the present to shake off the apathy that overcame the author’s own generation after the disheartening siege of 1870. Without this preface, the reader would be likely to set the book down as unwholesome, and not grasp the idea that the character of the disciple is intended as a warning against the habit of analyzing and experimenting with the emotions. The boy’s imagination, drawn out by the brilliant but often enervating literature that comes in the way of all university students, is further stimulated by the works of an agnostic philosopher, who treats exhaustively of the passions. The young man becomes his devoted follower, and makes a practical application of his teachings. In a family where he becomes a tutor he experiments with the affection he inspires in a young girl, and is the direct cause of her death. The philosopher, recognizing the logical outcome of his theory that the scientific spirit demands impartial investigation, even in the things of the mind and heart, feels no small remorse. His disciple escapes the vengeance of the law, only to fall in a duel with the dead girl’s brother. The recluse, who according to the journals was the original of the character of the philosopher, died in Paris in 1896. Unlike the philosopher, he was a lifelong botanist, devoting all his energies to that science, so that the points of resemblance between the real and the fictitious professor are mostly external. Both lived near the Jardin des Plantes, their sole recreation consisting in looking at the animals. Both held aloof from society, never marrying, and practicing the severest economy. When an officer of the Legion of Honor sought the botanist to confer the red ribbon upon him, he found that member of the Institute on the point of cooking his dinner, and unwilling to admit him to his garret. In the story, the mice that overrun the garret, the caprices of Ferdinand, and a pet rooster kept by the concierge, are the only enlivening elements. But the holes and corners in the region of the Jardin des Plantes, and the exquisite vistas of the Observatory and Luxembourg Garden, have never been better described.'
And this quotation from this novel illustrates several points above--
The disciple thinks, about the professor's daughter. '"It is the law of the world," I reasoned, "that all existence should be a conquest, executed and maintained by the strongest at the expense of the feeblest. That is as true of the moral universe as of the physical. There are some souls of prey as there are wolves, tigers and hawks.''
Parallels between the physical and moral is a scientific approach, and "souls of prey", has a subtle grace. These components of a French fin de siecle world view must be instructive, because they are also our own world.
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