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Black Republic of Letters

Note - Maurice Barrès

Maurice Barrès (1862-1923) was a French writer and Boulangiste politician. Learn more about Maurice Barrès.

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Literary Chat (Continued)

Personal and emotional poetry, however it is dressed up, naturally belongs to the young. Sully-Prudhomme seems to have given us the most modern and the most exact example, but Sully-Prudhomme is far from being impersonal and his philosophy can be profound without ceasing to be emotional. Mr. Lorenzo, however, gave us a lovely definition of poetry that he conceives as "severe in form and thought, rich in images and harmony, animated with a unique breath, sober nevertheless and full of a sincere and content emotion, not whirling and sentimental, reserved for an elite public..." but why go on to proscribe personal poetry and give Leconte de Lisle as the ideal for the youth!

Far be it from us to diminish the splendid talent of the poet, but we don't hope and still less believe that his marmoreal poetry would be that of the youth. Would you like the original witness of a young English author, with a very French and even Parisian spirit? "Reading Leconte de Lisle produces in me," said he,"the effect of a stroll along the Palace of Justice."

A little cold, isn't it?

And indeed, whatever one says or does, at the age of twenty, one needs life and emotion, and poetry with a burning heart. It's that kind that we will always sing, at the moment when, setting aside our posture and our theories, we wish to become ourselves once again. You're not speaking to Paul Astier nor to Maurice Barrès, my dear fellow, you've taken care to specify, you're not speaking to the exception, but to the mass of the intelligent and sincere youth.

Well, this one, who doesn't care what people think and bravely plays his part, needs poetry that is intimate, personal and emotional in order to throw his dreams, desires and sufferings into. If the weight or the sadness of existence overwhelms us more today than it did in the past, greater and more powerful must be the stream of poetry with which we must replenish ourselves; if our hours are less filled with madness, joy, and love, this is no reason to deny that they exist, and for an hour of love one needs a poet! That is why our eternal Musset will remain! Musset, whom the current fashion would demolish, who you also demolish! Have you not written that "he rhymed with cowardice" (do you like Mr. Théodore de Banville better?) "that he was poor in imagination and ideas," and, in a word, "that he was not a poet"?

I will not dare to insist, my dear fellow, for fear of ending on a cruel note (you will consider me a bit late, no?... I have no shame!) because, on the contrary, I want to congratulate you for this serious analysis on the contemporary youth that you attempted. Our ideas are not the same; however I believe I sense sincerity in you, a very generous conviction, and maybe we're less far apart than we believe—in any case, if your theories are debatable, the same cannot be said about the very likeable talent with which you were able to articulate them.

Paul Montal
Negrophobia There are three or four chroniclers in the Parisian press who, whenever they're short on material, republish or invent a more or less witty farce of which black people invariably bear the cost.

I admit that in the first instances this caused me some annoyance, even a bit of sadness. I found it difficult to understand how men—who are not fundamentally bad—could find any pleasure in cruelly and cheerfully denigrating other men who had never done them any harm. But I noticed that the more black people showed sensitivity to these pleasant calumnies, the more their detractors hounded them. And I concluded that scornful silence was still the best response to them.

The Gavrochian spirit of Paris has been much vaunted. It is a fact that nowhere else do ordinary people have such quick wit and livelier repartee. However, I believe that certain subjects are like certain dishes: you can't add any salt to them at all—whether in Attica or Paris. And when, in the streets, a brave worker or a youngster, after staring at you with his most clever look, fires off a witty remark like, “You're not white, are you?”, there's nothing else to do but shrug your shoulders. Sometimes one is even almost touched by the candour with which people ask the most absurd questions. Thus, not long ago, a black woman heard one of her white friends ask her this shocking question: "Is your blood black too?"

But, not content with filling the Paris newspapers with their absurd nonsense, many negrophobic scribblers feed those in the provinces and abroad. So their efforts to find something witty become lamentable. Recently, the Indépendance Belge published an endlessly repeated anecdote, that they present as fact about a young Haitian. Concluding the facetious story, the narrator had some scruples, and he added: "In fact, as I recall, the story is from 18__, but it is so funny that it is still worth repeating." Such cynicism is completely disarming. I don't have the honour of knowing this chronicler of the Indépendance Belge, but in the future, I pray of him, when he's short on material, he should come to La Fraternité: we'll point out some very interesting subjects for him to cover.

Likewise, journalists and their readers should show some appreciation for black people, who periodically save them from boredom. Some even owe them for more positive services. I will cite just one example: Mr. Maurice Barrès. But the anecdote deserves to be told in full; it is Mr. Barrès himself who recounts it. He had become acquainted with a young black man whom he often met at the library. “This black man revered Mr. Shœlcher with ardent devotion because he had contributed to the abolition of slavery, and he was saddened that he did not know him.” Mr. Barrès was touched: “My brother,” he said, “I will introduce you to Mr. Shœlcher, even though I do not have the honour of knowing him. Here is my card. Take my name and go interview him. If you learn anything interesting, we will publish it in my newspaper.”

The black man returned with no information.

"Didn't you interview Mr. Schœlcher?" "Oh! I was too overwhelmed, I cried the whole time."

I think Mr. Barrès was poking fun at his readers, or that the black man in question was poking fun at him... But let's move on.

“My friend,” exclaimed the deputy-philosopher, slightly offended, “you have made me look foolish!”

This is where Mr. Barrés was mistaken. He had been portrayed in a rather favourable light. "Some time later, the Boulangist events took place. Several people spoke harshly about the young deputy. Mr. Schœlcher was there, but said nothing. He was asked to join in the criticism, but they couldn't make him speak. And as they insisted, he said, ‘Oh no, I love Negroes too much!’"

Isn't it delicious?

We know what a striking number of clichés must be spent to fill the rut of a prejudice. There is no point in complaining about the facts. Colour prejudice—the most ferocious and inept of all—is an error that the past generation was fed as, and from which even those who were bottle-fed were not exempt. The new generation, who was better able to appreciate us, and with whom many of us sat side-by-side in the college benches, is getting rid of it little by little and without effort. And one can hope that by the end of this century, racial prejudice will be a thing of the past. In the meantime, our duty is never to depart from the strictest correctness. Without lamenting the gratuitous insults to which we may still be subjected, let us seek to win the sympathy of the crowd through our behaviour. Fraternity cannot be decreed, it must enter peacefully into habits. And Providence has not made us independent of the judgements of other men for a simple reason: that she made us to live in their society.

Benito Sylvain

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Maurice Barrès