In those years his
books, with their odour of incense, made the small, flat inhabitants of
the sacristy wainscotting venture out of their chinks in the wall in
delight; but they obtained no applause elsewhere.
It was only after his death that it could occur to a morbid seeker after
originality, with a bitter almond in place of a heart, like Huysmans, to
make his half-mad hero, Des Esseintes, who is terrified of the light,
find satisfaction in the challenges to common sense that Hello wrote.
Hello was a poor wretch who, in the insane conviction that he himself
was a genius, filled his writings with assertions concerning the
marvellous, incomprehensible nature of genius, and always took up the
cudgels on its behalf. During the Empire, his voice was drowned. It was
only a score of years later that the new Catholic reaction found it to
their advantage to take him at his word and see in him the genius that
he had given himself out to be. He was as much a genius as the madman in
the asylum is the Emperor.
III.
A few days after my arrival, I called upon Taine and was cordially
received. He presented me with one of his books and promised me his
great work, _De l'Intelligence_, which was to come out in a few
days, conversed with me for an hour, and invited me to tea the following
evening.
Pages:
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376