An Iceland Fisherman

felt, studied, and discussed. The authorwas one who, with a power which no one had wielded before him, carriedoff his readers into exotic lands, and whose art,

ic school. Truth now soaredon unhampered pinions, and the reading world was completely won by theunsurpassed intensity and faithful accuracy with which he depicted theall

ession, added indeed to hissuccess. He actually had seen that which he was describing, he hadlived that which he was relating. What in any other man would haveseemed but research

se. Our Breton sailors and ourBasque mountaineers were not less foreign to the Parisian drawing-roomthan was Aziyade or the little Rahahu. One claimed to have a knowledgeof Br

ce continues to cloakitself in its own individuality and to remain a mystery to the rest ofthe world. One trait alone

France may be considered the supreme sanction: hewas elected to membership in the French A

he seemed to be one without predecessor andwithout a master. It may be well here to inquire

is due largely to insufficient knowledge ofthe language's resources, and to a study of French literature whichdoes not extend beyond the seventeenth century. Without going back tothe Duke of Orleans and to Villon, one need only read a few of thepoets of the sixteenth century to be struck by the prominence given toNature in their writings. Nothing is more delightful than Ronsard'sword-paintings of his sweet country of Vendome. Until the day ofMalherbe, the didactic Regnier and the Calvinistic Marot are the onlytwo who could be said to give colour to the preco

ir, the appeal, filled with anguish, of a heartthat is troubled and which oft has sought peace and alleviation amidthe cold indifference of inanimate things. The small place given toNature in the French literature of the seventeenth century is not tobe ascribed to

convinced of the nobility and, I dare say it, of the sovereignty ofman, or was more inclined to look upon the latter as a beinginde

ation, in which nothing figured save his relations withGod. This twofold training elevated his soul and fortified his will,but wrenched him violently from all communion with Nature. This is thestandpoint from which we must view the heroes of Corneille, if wewould understand those extraordinary souls which, always at thehighest degree of tension,

f religious discipline, and when method wasintroduced into the study of scientific proble

ebauch. It is none the less a fact that the author of /LaNouvelle Heloise/ was the first to blend the moral life of man withhis exterior surroundings. He felt the savage beauty and grandeur ofthe mountains of Switzerland, the grace of the Savoy horizons, and themore familiar elegance of

u's disciples in Fran

e of /Paul and Virginia/ was thefirst example of exoticism in literature; and thereby it excited thecurio

to have favoured sombre landscapes, stormyand tragical. The entire romantic school was born from him, VictorHugo and George Sand, Theophile Gautier who draws from the Frenchtongue resources unequalled in wealth and colour, an

of a tranquil and monotonous Nature. The storms of heaven mustrespond to the storms of their soul; and it is a fact that all thesegreat writers, Byron as well as Victor Hugo, have not so muchcontemplated

of Nature, one of its very expressions, like animals andplants, mountain forms and sky tints. His characters are what they areonly because they i

whose primitivepassions are singularly similar to those of animals. He is happy inthe isles of the Pacific or on the border

o place inhis life and thought. M. Paul Bourget's heroes might live withoutdistinction in Newport or in Monte Carlo; they take r

s, and which have preserved,with their native tongue, the individuality of their character. He metRamuntcho

ar-stretching sea. Europe ends here, and beyond remains only thebroad expanse of the ocean. The poor people who dwell here are silentand tenacious: their heart is full of tenderness and of dreams. Yann,the Icel

ife is as simple as theirsoul. /Aziyade/, /The Romance of a Spahi/, /An Iceland Fisherman/,/Ramuntcho/, all pre

bsorbs the miserableruins which we leave behind us. No one better than Loti has everbrought out the frailty of all thin

whichthey live is foreign to us. What saddens us is not their history, butthe undefinable impression that our pleasures are nothing and that weare but an accident. This is a thought common to the d

he accompl

riking charm and intense life which are to be found in those ofLoti. I can find no other reason for this than that which I havesuggested above: the landscape, in Hugo's and in Gautier's scenes, isa background

inquire how Loti contrived t

tatement wasactually quite credible, for the foundation and basis of M. Loti reston a naive simplicity which makes him very sensitive to the things ofthe outside world, and gives him a perfec

act his attention; but while ever ready to act and alwaysunoccupied, he thinks, he dreams, he listens to the voices of the sea;and everything about him is of interest to him, the shape of theclouds, the as

nce, and which seemed to have no end; a moving expanse which struckme with mortal vertigo; . . . above was stretched out full a sky allof one piece, of a dark gray colour like a heavy mantle; very, veryfar away, in unmeasurable depths of horizon, could be seen a break, anopening between sea and sky, a long empty crack, of a light paleyellow." He felt a sadness unspeakable, a sense of desolate solitude

oted, almost a century before, that "the weather was good," that "thewind was favourable," and that "doradoes or gilt-heads were passingnear the ship."He was passionately fond of music. He had few comrades, and hisimagination was of the exalted kind. His first ambition was to be aminister, then a missionary; and finally he decided to become

tes, "might be compared to a camera,filled with sensitive plates." This power of vision permitted him toapprehend only the appearance of things, not their reality; h

nny impressions. It was only later that hebecame acquainted with Brittany. She inspired him at

ne morning he published them, and from the very first the readingpublic was won. He related his adventures and his own romance. Thequestion could then be raised whether his skill and art would prove asconsumm

he quasi animal life of the Pacific, the burning passions ofAfrica, are painted with a vigour of imagination never witnessedbefore his advent, /An Iceland Fisherman/ shines forth withincomparable brilliancy. Som

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