principle it is, that he is
thus burying his nose in them. Of course he presently reflects that he
has not broken open a cabinet nor violated a desk, but that these
repositories have been very freely and confidently emptied into his lap.
The two stout volumes of the "Correspondence de H. de Balzac,
1819-1850,"[1] lately put forth, are remarkable, like many other French
books of the same sort, for the almost complete absence of editorial
explanation or introduction. They have no visible sponsor; only a few
insignificant lines of preface and the scantiest possible supply of
notes. Such as the book is, in spite of its abruptness, we are thankful
for it; in spite, too, of our bad conscience. What we mean by our bad
conscience is the feeling with which we see the last remnant of charm,
of the graceful and the agreeable, removed from Balzac's literary
physiognomy. His works had not left much of this favoring shadow, but
the present publication has let in the garish light of full publicity.
The grossly, inveterately professional character of all his activity,
the absence of leisure, of contemplation, of disinterested experience,
the urgency of his consuming money-hunger--all this is rudely exposed.
It is always a question whether we have a right to investigate a man's
life for the sake of anything but his official utterances--his results.
The picture of Balzac's career which is given in these letters is a
record of little else but painful processes, unrelieved by reflections
or speculations, by any moral or intellectual emanation. To prevent
misconception, however, we hasten to add that they tell no disagreeable
secrets; they contain nothing for the lovers of scandal. Balzac was a
very honest man, but he was a man almost tragically uncomfortable, and
the unsightly underside of his discomfort stares us full in the face.
Still, if his personal portrait is without ideal beauty, it is by no
means without a certain brightness, or at least a certain richness of
coloring. Huge literary ogre as he was, he was morally nothing of a
monster. His heart was capacious, and his affections vigorous; he was
powerful, coarse, and kind.

The first letter in the series is addressed to his elder sister, Laure,
who afterward became Mme. de Surville, and who, after her illustrious
brother's death, published in a small volume some agreeable
reminiscences of him. For this lady he had, especially in his early
years, a passionate affection. He had in 18