Is that stoicist idea of the half-pagan Christianity of the Renaissance very comforting, and do devout souls find consolation therein?  The ambitious man, the rascal, the tyrant, the rake, all those haughty sinners who abuse life, and whom Death holds by the hair, are destined to be punished, without doubt; but are the blind man, the beggar, the madman, the poor peasant, recompensed for their long life of misery by the single reflection that death is not an evil for them?  No!  An implacable melancholy, a ghastly fatality, overshadows the artist’s work.  It resembles a bitter imprecation upon the fate of mankind.

There truly do we find the grievous satire, the truthful picture of the society Holbein had under his eyes.  Crime and misfortune, those are what impressed him; but what shall we depict, we artists of another age?  Shall we seek in the thought of death the reward of mankind in the present day?  Shall we invoke it as the punishment of injustice and the guerdon of suffering?

No, we have no longer to deal with Death, but with Life.  We no longer believe either in the nothingness of the tomb or in salvation purchased by obligatory renunciation; we want life to be good because we want it to be fruitful.  Lazarus must leave his dunghill, so that the poor may no longer rejoice at the death of the rich.  All must be happy, so that the happiness of some may not be a crime and accursed of God.  The husbandman as he sows his grain must know that he is working at the work of life, and not rejoice because Death is walking beside him.  In a word, death must no longer be the punishment of prosperity or the consolation of adversity.  God did not destine death as a punishment or a compensation for life; for he blessed life, and the grave should not be a refuge to which it is permitted to send those who cannot be made happy.

Certain artists of our time, casting a serious glance upon their surroundings, strive to depict grief, the abjectness of poverty, Lazarus’s dunghill.  That may be within the domain of art and philosophy; but, by representing poverty as so ugly, so base, and at times so vicious and criminal a thing, do they attain their end, and is the effect as salutary as they could wish?  We do not dare to say.  We may be told that by pointing out the abyss that yawns beneath the fragile crust of opulence, they terrify the wicked rich man, as, in the time of the Danse Macabre, they showed him its yawning ditch, and Death ready to wind its unclean arms about him.  To-day, they show him the thief picking his lock, the assassin watching until he sleeps.  We confess that we do not clearly understand how they will reconcile him with the humanity he despises, how they will move his pity for the sufferings of the poor man whom he fears, by showing him that same poor man in the guise of the escaped felon and the burglar.  Ghastly Death, gnashing his teeth and playing the violin in the productions of Holbein and his predecessors, found it impossible in that guise to convert the perverse and to comfort their victims.  Is it not a fact that the literature of our day is in this respect following to some extent in the footsteps of the artists of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance?