blind agitation caused mostly by hunger and complicated by love and ferocity does not deserve either by its beauty, or its morality, or its possible results, the artistic fuss made over it.  It may be consoling—­for human folly is very bizarre—­but it is scarcely honest to shout at those who struggle drowning in an insignificant pool:  You are indeed admirable and great to be the victims of such a profound, of such a terrible ocean!

And Daudet was honest; perhaps because he knew no better—­but he was very honest.  If he saw only the surface of things it is for the reason that most things have nothing but a surface.  He did not pretend—­perhaps because he did not know how—­he did not pretend to see any depths in a life that is only a film of unsteady appearances stretched over regions deep indeed, but which have nothing to do with the half-truths, half-thoughts, and whole illusions of existence.  The road to these distant regions does not lie through the domain of Art or the domain of Science where well-known voices quarrel noisily in a misty emptiness; it is a path of toilsome silence upon which travel men simple and unknown, with closed lips, or, maybe, whispering their pain softly—­only to themselves.

But Daudet did not whisper; he spoke loudly, with animation, with a clear felicity of tone—­as a bird sings.  He saw life around him with extreme clearness, and he felt it as it is—­thinner than air and more elusive than a flash of lightning.  He hastened to offer it his compassion, his indignation, his wonder, his sympathy, without giving a moment of thought to the momentous issues that are supposed to lurk in the logic of such sentiments.  He tolerated the little foibles, the small ruffianisms, the grave mistakes; the only thing he distinctly would not forgive was hardness of heart.  This unpractical attitude would have been fatal to a better man, but his readers have forgiven him.  Withal he is chivalrous to exiled queens and deformed sempstresses, he is pityingly tender to broken-down actors, to ruined gentlemen, to stupid Academicians; he is glad of the joys of the commonplace people in a commonplace way—­and he never makes a secret of all this.  No, the man was not an artist.  What if his creations are illumined by the sunshine of his temperament so vividly that they stand before us infinitely more real than the dingy illusions surrounding our everyday existence?  The misguided man is for ever pottering amongst them, lifting up his voice, dotting his i’s in the wrong places.  He takes Tartarin by the arm, he does not conceal his interest in the Nabob’s cheques, his sympathy for an honest Academician plus bete que nature, his hate for an architect plus mauvais que la gale; he is in the thick of it all.  He feels with the Duc de Mora and with Felicia Ruys—­and he lets you see it.  He does not sit on a pedestal in the hieratic and imbecile pose of some cheap god whose greatness consists in being too stupid to care.  He cares immensely for his Nabobs, his kings, his book-keepers, his Colettes, and his Saphos.  He vibrates together with his universe, and with lamentable simplicity follows M. de Montpavon on that last walk along the Boulevards.