Saved from a Bonfire of Books (Dec 23)

Saved from a Bonfire of Books
If all the books in the world were on fire, some men would risk
their lives to save certain priceless writings: the world’s classics.
Sainte-Beuve here tells why.
(Sainte-Beuve born Dec. 23, 1804.)
Read: Sainte-Beuve’s WHAT IS A CLASSIC? Vol. 32, pp. 121-133

A DELICATE question, to which somewhat diverse solutions
might be given according to times and seasons. An itelli-
gent man suggests it to me, and I intend to try, if not to
solve it, at least to examine and discuss it face to face with my
readers, were it only to persuade them to answer it for themselves,
and, if I can, to make their opinion and mine on the point clear.
And why, in criticism, should we not, from time to time, venture to
treat some of those subjects which are not personal, in which we no
longer speak of some one but of some thing? Our neighbours, the
English, have well succeeded in making of it a special division of
literature under the modest title of "Essays." It is true that in
writing of such subjects, always slightly abstract and moral, it is
advisable to speak of them in a season of quiet, to make sure of our
own attention and of that of others, to seize one of those moments
of calm moderation and leisure seldom granted our amiable France;
even when she is desirous of being wise and is not making revolutions,
her brilliant genius can scarcely tolerate them.
A classic, according to the usual definition, is an old author canonised
by admiration, and an authority in his particular style. The
word classic was first used in this sense by the Romans. With them
not all the citizens of the different classes were properly called
classici, but only those of the chief class, those who possessed an income
of a certain fixed sum. Those who possessed a smaller income
were described by the term infra classem, below the pre-eminent class.
The word classicus was used in a figurative sense by Aulus Gellius,
and applied to writers: a writer of worth and distinction, classicus
assiduusque scriptor, a writer who is of account, has real property,
and is not lost in the proletariate crowd. Such an expression implies
an age sufficiently advanced to have already made some sort of
valuation and classification of literature.
At first the only true classics for the moderns were the ancients.
The Greeks, by peculiar good fortune and natural enlightenment of

mind, had no classics but themselves. They were at first the only
classical authors for the Romans, who strove and contrived to imitate
them. After the great periods of Roman literature, after Cicero and
Virgil, the Romans in their turn had their classics, who became
almost exclusively the classical authors of the centuries which followed.
The middle ages, which were less ignorant of Latin antiquity
than is believed, but which lacked proportion and taste, confused
the ranks and orders. Ovid was placed above Homer, and Boetius
seemed a classic equal to Plato. The revival of learning in the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries helped to bring this long chaos to
order, and then only was admiration rightly proportioned. Thenceforth
the true classical authors of Greek and Latin antiquity stood
out in a luminous background, and were harmoniously grouped on
their two heights.
Meanwhile modern literatures were born, and some of the more
precocious, like the Italian, already possessed the style of antiquity.
Dante appeared, and, from the very first, posterity greeted him as a
classic. Italian poetry has since shrunk into far narrower bounds;
but, whenever it desired to do so, it always found again and preserved
the impulse and echo of its lofty origin. It is no indifferent
matter for a poetry to derive its point of departure and classical
source in high places; for example, to spring from Dante rather than
to issue laboriously from Malherbe.
Modern Italy had her classical authors, and Spain had every right
to believe that she also had hers at a time when France was yet
seeking hers. A few talented writers endowed with originality and
exceptional animation, a few brilliant efforts, isolated, without following,
interrupted and recommenced, did not suffice to endow a
nation with a solid and imposing basis of literary wealth. The idea
of a classic implies something that has continuance and consistence,
and which produces unity and tradition, fashions and transmits
itself, and endures. It was only after the glorious years of Louis
XIV. that the nation felt with tremor and pride that such good
fortune had happened to her. Every voice informed Louis XIV.
of it with flattery, exaggeration, and emphasis, yet with a certain
sentiment of truth. Then arose a singular and striking contradic-


tion: those men of whom Perrault was the chief, the men who were
most smitten with the marvels of the age of Louis the Great, who
even went the length of sacrificing the ancients to the moderns,
aimed at exalting and canonising even those whom they regarded as
inveterate opponents and adversaries. Boileau avenged and angrily
upheld the ancients against Perrault, who extolled the moderns—
that is to say, Corneille, Moliere, Pascal, and the eminent men of
his age, Boileau, one of the first, included. Kindly La Fontaine,
taking part in the dispute in behalf of the learned Huet, did not
perceive that, in spite of his defects, he was in his turn on the point
of being held as a classic himself.
Example is the best definition. From the time France possessed
her age of Louis XIV. and could contemplate it at a little distance,
she knew, better than by any arguments, what to be classical meant.
The eighteenth century, even in its medley of things, strengthened
this idea through some fine works, due to its four great men. Read
Voltaire’s Age of Louis XIV., Montesquieu’s Greatness and Fall of
the Romans, Buffon’s Epochs of Nature, the beautiful pages of
reverie and natural description of Rousseau’s Savoyard Vicar, and
say if the eighteenth century, in these memorable works, did not
understand how to reconcile tradition with freedom of development
and independence. But at the beginning of the present century and
under the Empire, in sight of the first attempts of a decidedly new
and somewhat adventurous literature, the idea of a classic in a few
resisting minds, more sorrowful than severe, was strangely narrowed
and contracted. The first Dictionary of the Academy (1694) merely
defined a classical author as "a much-approved ancient writer, who
is an authority as regards the subject he treats." The Dictionary of
the Academy of 1835 narrows that definition still more, and gives
precision and even limit to its rather vague form. It describes
classical authors as those "who have become models in any language
whatever," and in all the articles which follow, the expressions,
models, fixed rules for composition and style, strict rules of art to
which men must conform, continually recur. That definition of
classic was evidently made by the respectable Academicians, our
predecessors, in face and sight of what was then called romantic—

that is to say, in sight of the enemy. It seems to me time to renounce
those timid and restrictive definitions and to free our mind
of them.
A true classic, as I should like to hear it defined, is an author who
has enriched the human mind, increased its treasure, and caused it to
advance a step; who has discovered some moral and not equivocal
truth, or revealed some eternal passion in that heart where all seemed
known and discovered; who has expressed his thought, observation,
or invention, in no matter what form, only provided it be broad and
great, refined and sensible, sane and beautiful in itself; who has
spoken to all in his own peculiar style, a style which is found to be
also that of the whole world, a style new without neologism, new
and old, easily contemporary with all time.
Such a classic may for a moment have been revolutionary; it may
at least have seemed so, but it is not; it only lashed and subverted
whatever prevented the restoration of the balance of order and
If it is desired, names may be applied to this definition which I
wish to make purposely majestic and fluctuating, or in a word, allembracing.
I should first put there Corneille of the Polyeucte, Cinna,
and Horaces. I should put Moliere there, the fullest and most complete
poetic genius we have ever had in France. Goethe, the king
of critics, said:—
"Moliere is so great that he astonishes us afresh every time we
read him. He is a man apart; his plays border on the tragic, and no
one has the courage to try and imitate him. His Avare, where vice
destroys all affection between father and son, is one of the most
sublime works, and dramatic in the highest degree. In a drama
every action ought to be important in itself, and to lead to an action
greater still. In this respect Tartuffe is a model. What a piece of
exposition the first scene is! From the beginning everything has an
important meaning, and causes something much more important to
be foreseen. The exposition in a certain play of Lessing that might
be mentioned is very fine, but the world only sees that of Tartuffe
once. It is the finest of the kind we possess. Every year I read a
play of Moliere, just as from time to time I contemplate some
engraving after the great Italian masters."

I do not conceal from myself that the definition of the classic I
have just given somewhat exceeds the notion usually ascribed to the
term. It should, above all, include conditions of uniformity, wisdom,
moderation, and reason, which dominate and contain all the others.
Having to praise M. Royer-Collard, M . de Remusat said—"If he derives
purity of taste, propriety of terms, variety of expression, attentive
care in suiting the diction to the thought, from our classics,
he owes to himself alone the distinctive character he gives it all."
It is here evident that the part allotted to classical qualities seems
mostly to depend on harmony and nuances of expression, on graceful
and temperate style: such is also the most general opinion. In this
sense the pre-eminent classics would be writers of a middling order,
exact, sensible, elegant, always clear, yet of noble feeling and airily
veiled strength. Marie-Joseph Chenier has described the poetics of
those temperate and accomplished writers in lines where he shows
himself their happy disciple :—
"It is good sense, reason which does all,—virtue, genius, soul, talent,
and taste.—What is virtue? reason put in practice;—talent? reason
expressed with brilliance;—soul? reason delicately put forth;—and
genius is sublime reason."
While writing those lines he was evidently thinking of Pope,
Boileau, and Horace, the master of them all. The peculiar characteristic
of the theory which subordinated imagination and feeling
itself to reason, of which Scaliger perhaps gave the first sign among
the moderns, is, properly speaking, the Latin theory, and for a long
time it was also by preference the French theory. If it is used appositely,
if the term reason is not abused, that theory possesses some
truth; but it is evident that it is abused, and that if, for instance, reason
can be confounded with poetic genius and make one with it in a
moral epistle, it cannot be the same thing as the genius, so varied
and so diversely creative in its expression of the passions, of the
drama or the epic. Where will you find reason in the fourth book
of the Aineid and the transports of Dido? Be that as it may, the
spirit which prompted the theory, caused writers who ruled their
inspiration, rather than those who abandoned themselves to it, to be
placed in the first rank of classics; to put Virgil there more surely
than Homer, Racine in preference to Corneille. The masterpiece to

which the theory likes to point, which in fact brings together all conditions
of prudence, strength, tempered boldness, moral elevation,
and grandeur, is Athalie. Turenne in his two last campaigns and
Racine in Athalie are the great examples of what wise and prudent
men are capable of when they reach the maturity of their genius
and attain their supremest boldness.
Buffon, in his Discourse on Style, insisting on the unity of design,
arrangement, and execution, which are the stamps of true classical
works, said:—"Every subject is one, and however vast it is, it can
be comprised in a single treatise. Interruptions, pauses, sub-divisions
should only be used when many subjects are treated, when, having
to speak of great, intricate, and dissimilar things, the march of genius
is interrupted by the multiplicity of obstacles, and contracted by the
necessity of circumstances: otherwise, far from making a work more
solid, a great number of divisions destroys the unity of its parts; the
book appears clearer to the view, but the author’s design remains
obscure." And he continues his criticism, having in view Montesquieu’s
Spirit of Laws, an excellent book at bottom, but sub-divided:
the famous author, worn out before the end, was unable to infuse
inspiration into all his ideas, and to arrange all his matter. However,
I can scarcely believe that Buffon was not also thinking, by way of
contrast, of Bossuet’s Discourse on Universal History, a subject vast
indeed, and yet of such an unity that the great orator was able to
comprise it in a single treatise. When we open the first edition,
that of 1681, before the division into chapters, which was introduced
later, passed from the margin into the text, everything is developed in
a single series, almost in one breath. It might be said that the orator
has here acted like the nature of which Buffon speaks, that "he has
worked on an eternal plan from which he has nowhere departed," so
deeply does he seem to have entered into the familiar counsels and
designs of providence.
Are Athalie and the Discourse on Universal History the greatest
masterpieces that the strict classical theory can present to its friends
as well as to its enemies? In spite of the admirable simplicity and
dignity in the achievement of such unique productions, we should
like, nevertheless, in the interests of art, to expand that theory a little,
and to show that it is possible to enlarge it without relaxing the

tension. Goethe, whom I like to quote on such a subject, said:—
"I call the classical healthy, and the romantic sickly. In my opinion
the Nibelungen song is as much a classic as Homer. Both are healthy
and vigorous. The works of the day are romantic, not because they
are new, but because they are weak, ailing, or sickly. Ancient works
are classical not because they are old, but because they are powerful,
fresh, and healthy. If we regarded romantic and classical from those
two points of view we should soon all agree."
Indeed, before determining and fixing the opinions on that matter,
I should like every unbiassed mind to take a voyage round the world
and devote itself to a survey of different literatures in their primitive
vigour and infinite variety. What would be seen? Chief of all a
Homer, the father of the classical world, less a single distinct individual
than the vast living expression of a whole epoch and a
semi-barbarous civilisation. In order to make him a true classic, it
was necessary to attribute to him later a design, a plan, literary invention,
qualities of atticism and urbanity of which he had certainly
never dreamed in the luxuriant development of his natural inspirations.
And who appear by his side? August, venerable ancients, the
AEschyluses and the Sophocles, mutilated, it is true, and only there to
present us with a debris of themselves, the survivors of many others
as worthy, doubtless, as they to survive, but who have succumbed
to the injuries of time. This thought alone would teach a man of
impartial mind not to look upon the whole of even classical literatures
with a too narrow and restricted view; he would learn that the
exact and well-proportioned order which has since so largely prevailed
in our admiration of the past was only the outcome of artificial
And in reaching the modern world, how would it be? The greatest
names to be seen at the beginning of literatures are those which
disturb and run counter to certain fixed ideas of what is beautiful
and appropriate in poetry. For example, is Shakespeare a classic?
Yes, now, for England and the world; but in the time of Pope he was
not considered so. Pope and his friends were the only pre-eminent
classics; directly after their death they seemed so for ever. At the
present time they are still classics, as they deserve to be, but they
are only of the second order, and are for ever subordinated and rele-


gated to their rightful place by him who has again come to his own
on the height of the horizon.
It is not, however, for me to speak ill of Pope or his great disciples,
above all, when they possess pathos and naturalness like Goldsmith
: after the greatest they are perhaps the most agreeable writers
and the poets best fitted to add charm to life. Once when Lord
Bolingbroke was writing to Swift, Pope added a postscript, in which
he said—"I think some advantage would result to our age, if we
three spent three years together." Men who, without boasting, have
the right to say such things must never be spoken of lightly: the
fortunate ages, when men of talent could propose such things, then
no chimera, are rather to be envied. The ages called by the name of
Louis XIV. or of Queen Anne are, in the dispassionate sense of the
word, the only true classical ages, those which offer protection and a
favourable climate to real talent. We know only too well how in
our untrammelled times, through the instability and storminess of
the age, talents are lost and dissipated. Nevertheless, let us acknowledge
our age’s part and superiority in greatness. True and sovereign
genius triumphs over the very difficulties that cause others to fail:
Dante, Shakespeare, and Milton were able to attain their height and
produce their imperishable works in spite of obstacles, hardships and
tempests. Byron’s opinion of Pope has been much discussed, and the
explanation of it sought in the kind of contradiction by which the
singer of Don Juan and Childe Harold extolled the purely classical
school and pronounced it the only good one, while himself acting
so differently. Goethe spoke the truth on that point when he remarked
that Byron, great by the flow and source of poetry, feared
that Shakespeare was more powerful than himself in the creation
and realisation of his characters. "He would have liked to deny it;
the elevation so free from egoism irritated him; he felt when near
it that he could not display himself at ease. He never denied Pope,
because he did not fear him; he knew that Pope was only a low wall
by his side."
If, as Byron desired, Pope’s school had kept the supremacy and a
sort of honorary empire in the past, Byron would have been the
first and only poet in his particular style; the height of Pope’s wall
shuts out Shakespeare’s great figure from sight, whereas when

Shakespeare reigns and rules in all his greatness, Byron is only
In France there was no great classic before the age of Louis X I V . ;
the Dantes and Shakespeares, the early authorities to whom, in times
of emancipation, men sooner or later return, were wanting. There
were mere sketches of great poets, like Mathurin Regnier, like Rabelais,
without any ideal, without the depth of emotion and the
seriousness which canonises. Montaigne was a kind of premature
classic, of the family of Horace, but for want of worthy surroundings,
like a spoiled child, he gave himself up to the unbridled fancies of
his style and humour. Hence it happened that France, less than any
other nation, found in her old authors a right to demand vehemently
at a certain time literary liberty and freedom, and that it was more
difficult for her, in enfranchising herself, to remain classical. However,
with Moliere and La Fontaine among her classics of the great
period, nothing could justly be refused to those who possessed courage
and ability.
The important point now seems to me to be to uphold, while extending,
the idea and belief. There is no receipt for making classics;
this point should be clearly recognised. T o believe that an author
will become a classic by imitating certain qualities of purity, moderation,
accuracy, and elegance, independently of the style and inspiration,
is to believe that after Racine the father there is a place for
Racine the son; dull and estimable role, the worst in poetry. Further,
it is hazardous to take too quickly and without opposition the place
of a classic in the sight of one’s contemporaries; in that case there is
a good chance of not retaining the position with posterity. Fontanes
in his day was regarded by his friends as a pure classic; see how at
twenty-five years’ distance his star has set. How many of these precocious
classics are there who do not endure, and who are so only
for a while! We turn round one morning and are surprised not to
find them standing behind us. Madame de Sevigne would wittily
say they possessed but an evanescent colour. With regard to classics,
the least expected prove the best and greatest: seek them rather in
the vigorous genius born immortal and flourishing for ever. Apparently
the least classical of the four great poets of the age of Louis
XIV. was Moliere; he was then applauded far more than he was

esteemed; men took delight in him without understanding his
worth. After him, La Fontaine seemed the least classical: observe
after two centuries what is the result for both. Far above Boileau,
even above Racine, are they not now unanimously considered to
possess in the highest degree the characteristics of an all-embracing
morality ?
Meanwhile there is no question of sacrificing or depreciating anything.
I believe the temple of taste is to be rebuilt; but its reconstruction
is merely a matter of enlargement, so that it may become the
home of all noble human beings, of all who have permanently increased
the sum of the mind’s delights and possessions. As for me,
who cannot, obviously, in any degree pretend to be the architect or
designer of such a temple, I shall confine myself to expressing a few
earnest wishes, to submit, as it were, my designs for the edifice.
Above all I should desire not to exclude any one among the worthy,
each should be in his place there, from Shakespeare, the freest of
creative geniuses, and the greatest of classics without knowing it, to
Andrieux, the last of classics in little. "There is more than one
chamber in the mansions of my Father;" that should be as true of
the kingdom of the beautiful here below, as of the kingdom of
Heaven. Homer, as always and everywhere, should be first, likest a
god; but behind him, like the procession of the three wise kings of
the East, would be seen the three great poets, the three Homers, so
long ignored by us, who wrote epics for the use of the old peoples of
Asia, the poets Valmiki, Vyasa of the Hindoos, and Firdousi of the
Persians: in the domain of taste it is well to know that such men exist,
and not to divide the human race. Our homage paid to what is
recognized as soon as perceived, we must not stray further; the eye
should delight in a thousand pleasing or majestic spectacles, should
rejoice in a thousand varied and surprising combinations, whose apparent
confusion would never be without concord and harmony.
The oldest of the wise men and poets, those who put human morality
into maxims, and those who in simple fashion sung it, would converse
together in rare and gentle speech, and would not be surprised
at understanding each other’s meaning at the very first word. Solon,
Hesiod, Theognis, Job, Solomon, and why not Confucius, would
welcome the cleverest moderns, La Rochefoucauld and La Bruyere,

who, when listening to them, would say "they knew all that we
know, and in repeating life’s experiences, we have discovered nothing."
On the hill, most easily discernible, and of most accessible
ascent, Virgil, surrounded by Menander, Tibullus, Terence, Fenelon,
would occupy himself in discoursing with them with great
charm and divine enchantment: his gentle countenance would shine
with an inner light, and be tinged with modesty; as on the day when
entering the theatre at Rome, just as they finished reciting his verses,
he saw the people rise with an unanimous movement and pay to
him the same homage as to Augustus. Not far from him, regretting
the separation from so dear a friend, Horace, in his turn, would
preside (as far as so accomplished and wise a poet could preside)
over the group of poets of social life who could talk although they
sang,—Pope, Boileau, the one become less irritable, the other less
fault-finding. Montaigne, a true poet, would be among them, and
would give the finishing touch that should deprive that delightful
corner of the air of a literary school. There would La Fontaine
forget himself, and becoming less volatile would wander no more.
Voltaire would be attracted by it, but while finding pleasure in it
would not have patience to remain. A little lower down, on the
same hill as Virgil, Xenophon, with simple bearing, looking in no
way like a general, but rather resembling a priest of the Muses,
would be seen gathering round him the Attics of every tongue and
of every nation, the Addisons, Pellissons, Vauvenargues—all who
feel the value of an easy persuasiveness, an exquisite simplicity, and
a gende negligence mingled with ornament. In the centre of the
place, in the portico of the principal temple (for there would be
several in the enclosure), three great men would like to meet often,
and when they were together, no fourth, however great, would
dream of joining their discourse or their silence. In them would be
seen beauty, proportion in greatness, and that perfect harmony which
appears but once in the full youth of the world. Their three names
have become the ideal of art—Plato, Sophocles, and Demosthenes.
Those demi-gods honoured, we see a numerous and familiar company
of choice spirits who follow, the Cervantes and Molieres,
practical painters of life, indulgent friends who are still the first of
benefactors, who laughingly embrace all mankind, turn man’s ex-


perience to gaiety, and know the powerful workings of a sensible,
hearty, and legitimate joy. I do not wish to make this description,
which if complete would fill a volume, any longer. In the middle
ages, believe me, Dante would occupy the sacred heights: at the feet
of the singer of Paradise all Italy would be spread out like a garden;
Boccaccio and Ariosto would there disport themselves, and Tasso
would find again the orange groves of Sorrento. Usually a corner
would be reserved for each of the various nations, but the authors
would take delight in leaving it, and in their travels would recognise,
where we should least expect it, brothers or masters. Lucretius,
for example, would enjoy discussing the origin of the world and the
reducing of chaos to order with Milton. But both arguing from their
own point of view, they would only agree as regards divine pictures
of poetry and nature.
Such are our classics; each individual imagination may finish the
sketch and choose the group preferred. For it is necessary to make
a choice, and the first condition of taste, after obtaining knowledge
of all, lies not in continual travel, but in rest and cessation from
wandering. Nothing blunts and destroys taste so much as endless
journeyings; the poetic spirit is not the Wandering Jew. However,
when I speak of resting and making choice, my meaning is not that
we are to imitate those who charm us most among our masters in
the past. Let us be content to know them, to penetrate them, to
admire them; but let us, the late-comers, endeavour to be ourselves.
Let us have the sincerity and naturalness of our own thoughts, of
our own feelings; so much is always possible. T o that let us add
what is more difficult, elevation, an aim, if possible, towards an
exalted goal; and while speaking our own language, and submitting
to the conditions of the times in which we live, whence we derive
our strength and our defects, let us ask from time to time, our brows
lifted towards the heights and our eyes fixed on the group of
honoured mortals: what would they say of us?
But why speak always of authors and writings? Maybe an age
is coming when there will be no more writing. Happy those who
read and read again, those who in their reading can follow their
unrestrained inclination! There comes a time in life when, all our
journeys over, our experiences ended, there is no enjoyment more

delightful than to study and thoroughly examine the things we
know, to take pleasure in what we feel, and in seeing and seeing
again the people we love: the pure joys of our maturity. Then it is
that the word classic takes its true meaning, and is defined for every
man of taste by an irresistible choice. Then taste is formed, it is
shaped and definite; then good sense, if we are to possess it at all, is
perfected in us. We have neither more time for experiments, nor a
desire to go forth in search of pastures new. We cling to our friends,
to those proved by long intercourse. Old wine, old books, old friends.
We say to ourselves with Voltaire in these delightful lines:—"Let
us enjoy, let us write, let us live, my dear Horace! . . . I have lived
longer than you: my verse will not last so long. But on the brink
of the tomb I shall make it my chief care—to follow the lessons of
your philosophy—to despise death in enjoying life—to read your
writings full of charm and good sense—as we drink an old wine
which revives our senses."
In fact, be it Horace or another who is the author preferred, who
reflects our thoughts in all the wealth of their maturity, of some one
of those excellent and antique minds shall we request an interview
at every moment; of some one of them shall we ask a friendship
which never deceives, which could not fail us; to some one of them
shall we appeal for that sensation of serenity and amenity (we have
often need of it) which reconciles us with mankind and with ourselves

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: