The real,but carefully concealed character of Raoul Nathan is of a piece with his public career.He is a comedian in good faith,selfish as if the State were himself,and a very clever orator.No one knows better how to play off sentiments,glory in false grandeurs,deck himself with moral beauty,do honor to his nature in language,and pose like Alceste while behaving like Philinte.His egotism trots along protected by this cardboard armor,and often almost reaches the end he seeks.Lazy to a superlative degree,he does nothing,however,until he is prodded by the bayonets of need.He is incapable of continued labor applied to the creation of a work;but,in a paroxy** of rage caused by wounded vanity,or in a crisis brought on by creditors,he leaps the Eurotas and attains to some great triumph of his intellect.After which,weary,and surprised at having created anything,he drops back into the marasmus of Parisian dissipation;wants become formidable;he has no strength to face them;and then he comes down from his pedestal and compromises.
Influenced by a false idea of his grandeur and of his future,--the measure of which he reckons on the noble success of one of his former comrades,one of the few great talents brought to light by the revolution of July,--he allows himself,in order to get out of his embarrassments,certain laxities of principle with persons who are friendly to him,--laxities which never come to the surface,but are buried in private life,where no one ever mentions or complains of them.The shallowness of his heart,the impurity of his hand,which clasps that of all vices,all evils,all treacheries,all opinions,have made him as inviolable as a constitutional king.Venial sins,which excite a hue and cry against a man of high character,are thought nothing of in him;the world hastens to excuse them.Men who might otherwise be inclined to despise him shake hands with him,fearing that the day may come when they will need him.He has,in fact,so many friends that he wishes for enemies.
Judged from a literary point of view,Nathan lacks style and cultivation.Like most young men,ambitious of literary fame,he disgorges to-day what he acquired yesterday.He has neither the time nor the patience to write carefully;he does not observe,but he listens.Incapable of constructing a vigorously framed plot,he sometimes makes up for it by the impetuous ardor of his drawing.He "does passion,"to use a term of the literary argot;but instead of awaking ideas,his heroes are simply enlarged individualities,who excite only fugitive sympathies;they are not connected with any of the great interests of life,and consequently they represent nothing.
Nevertheless,Nathan maintains his ground by the quickness of his mind,by those lucky hits which billiard-players call a "good stroke."He is the cleverest shot at ideas on the fly in all Paris.His fecundity is not his own,but that of his epoch;he lives on chance events,and to control them he distorts their meaning.In short,he is not TRUE;his presentation is false;in him,as Comte Felix said,is the born juggler.Moreover,his pen gets its ink in the boudoir of an actress.
Raoul Nathan is a fair type of the Parisian literary youth of the day,with its false grandeurs and its real misery.He represents that youth by his incomplete beauties and his headlong falls,by the turbulent torrent of his existence,with its sudden reverses and its unhoped-for triumphs.He is truly the child of a century consumed with envy,--a century with a thousand rivalries lurking under many a system,which nourish to their own profit that hydra of anarchy which wants wealth without toil,fame without talent,success without effort,but whose vices force it,after much rebellion and many skirmishes,to accept the budget under the powers that be.When so many young ambitions,starting on foot,give one another rendezvous at the same point,there is always contention of wills,extreme wretchedness,bitter struggles.
In this dreadful battle,selfishness,the most overbearing or the most adroit selfishness,gains the victory;and it is envied and applauded in spite,as Moliere said,of outcries,and we all know it.
When,in his capacity as enemy to the new dynasty,Raoul was introduced in the salon of Madame de Montcornet,his apparent grandeurs were flourishing.He was accepted as the political critic of the de Marsays,the Rastignacs,and the Roche-Hugons,who had stepped into power.Emile Blondet,the victim of incurable hesitation and of his innate repugnance to any action that concerned only himself,continued his trade of scoffer,took sides with no one,and kept well with all.He was friendly with Raoul,friendly with Rastignac,friendly with Montcornet.
"You are a political ********,"said de Marsay,laughing,when they met at the Opera."That geometric form,my dear fellow,belongs only to the Deity,who has nothing to do;ambitious men ought to follow curved lines,the shortest road in politics."Seen from a distance,Raoul Nathan was a very fine meteor.Fashion accepted his ways and his appearance.His borrowed republicanism gave him,for the time being,that Jansenist harshness assumed by the defenders of the popular cause,while they inwardly scoff at it,--a quality not without charm in the eyes of women.Women like to perform prodigies,break rocks,and soften natures which seem of iron.
Raoul's moral costume was therefore in keeping with his clothes.He was fitted to be what he became to the Eve who was bored in her paradise in the rue du Rocher,--the fascinating serpent,the fine talker with magnetic eyes and harmonious motions who tempted the first woman.No sooner had the Comtesse Marie laid eyes on Raoul than she felt an inward emotion,the violence of which caused her a species of terror.The glance of that fraudulent great man exercised a physical influence upon her,which quivered in her very heart,and troubled it.
