Writers who have a purpose in view, were it only a reversion to principles familiar in the past because they are eternal, should always clear the ground.  Now every one who, in the domain of ideas, brings his stone by pointing out an abuse, or setting a mark on some evil that it may be removed—­every such man is stigmatized as immoral.  The accusation of immorality, which has never failed to be cast at the courageous writer, is, after all, the last that can be brought when nothing else remains to be said to a romancer.  If you are truthful in your pictures; if by dint of daily and nightly toil you succeed in writing the most difficult language in the world, the word immoral is flung in your teeth.  Socrates was immoral; Jesus Christ was immoral; they both were persecuted in the name of the society they overset or reformed.  When a man is to be killed he is taxed with immorality.  These tactics, familiar in party warfare, are a disgrace to those who use them.  Luther and Calvin knew well what they were about when they shielded themselves behind damaged worldly interests!  And they lived all the days of their life.

When depicting all society, sketching it in the immensity of its turmoil, it happened—­it could not but happen—­that the picture displayed more of evil than of good; that some part of the fresco represented a guilty couple; and the critics at once raised a cry of immorality, without pointing out the morality of another position intended to be a perfect contrast.  As the critic knew nothing of the general plan I could forgive him, all the more because one can no more hinder criticism than the use of eyes, tongues, and judgment.  Also the time for an impartial verdict is not yet come for me.  And, after all, the author who cannot make up his mind to face the fire of criticism should no more think of writing than a traveler should start on his journey counting on a perpetually clear sky.  On this point it remains to be said that the most conscientious moralists doubt greatly whether society can show as many good actions as bad ones; and in the picture I have painted of it there are more virtuous figures than reprehensible ones.  Blameworthy actions, faults and crimes, from the lightest to the most atrocious, always meet with punishment, human or divine, signal or secret.  I have done better than the historian, for I am free.  Cromwell here on earth escaped all punishment but that inflicted by thoughtful men.  And on this point there have been divided schools.  Bossuet even showed some consideration for great regicide.  William of Orange, the usurper, Hugues Capet, another usurper, lived to old age with no more qualms or fears than Henri IV. or Charles I. The lives of Catherine II. and of Frederick of Prussia would be conclusive against any kind of moral law, if they were judged by the twofold aspect of the morality which guides ordinary mortals, and that which is in use by crowned heads; for, as Napoleon said, for kings and statesmen there are the lesser and the higher morality.  My scenes of political life are founded on this profound observation.  It is not a law to history, as it is to romance, to make for a beautiful ideal.  History is, or ought to be, what it was; while romance ought to be “the better world,” as was said by Mme. Necker, one of the most distinguished thinkers of the last century.