re, by
the waves of the time, but he was too stoutly anchored at his work to
feel the winds.

In 1832 "Louis Lambert" followed the "Peau de Chagrin," the first in the
long list of his masterpieces. He describes "Louis Lambert" as "a work
in which I have striven to rival Goethe and Byron, Faust and Manfred. I
don't know whether I shall succeed, but the fourth volume of the
'Philosophical Tales' must be a last reply to my enemies and give the
presentiment of an incontestable superiority. You must therefore forgive
the poor artist his fatigue [he is writing to his sister], his
discouragements, and especially his momentary detachment from any sort
of interest that does not belong to his subject. 'Louis Lambert' has
cost me so much work! To write this book I have had to read so many
books! Some day or other, perhaps, it will throw science into new paths.
If I had made it a purely learned work, it would have attracted the
attention of thinkers, who now will not drop their eyes upon it. But if
chance puts it into their hands, perhaps they will speak of it!" In this
passage there is an immense deal of Balzac--of the great artist who was
so capable at times of self-deceptive charlatanism. "Louis Lambert," as
a whole, is now quite unreadable; it contains some admirable
descriptions, but the "scientific" portion is mere fantastic verbiage.
There is something extremely characteristic in the way Balzac speaks of
its having been optional with him to make it a "purely learned" work.
His pretentiousness was simply colossal, and there is nothing surprising
in his wearing the mask even _en famille_ (the letter we have just
quoted from is, as we have said, to his sister); he wore it during his
solitary fifteen-hours sessions in his study. But the same letter
contains another passage, of a very different sort, which is in its way
as characteristic:

Yes, you are right. My progress is real, and my infernal
courage will be rewarded. Persuade my mother of this too, dear
sister; tell her to give me her patience in charity; her
devotion will be laid up in her favor. One day, I hope, a
little glory will pay her for everything. Poor mother, that
imagination of hers which she has given me throws her for ever
from north to south and from south to north. Such journeys tire
us; I know it myself! Tell my mother that I love her as when I
was a child. As I write you these lines my tears start--tears
o