chapter; but meanwhile I may pick out another,
one that is often to be seen in Balzac's work and that he needed only
too often. It was not the best of his work that needed it; but the
effect I mean is an interesting one in itself, and it appeals to a
critic where it occurs. It shows how a novelist, while in general
seeking to raise the power of his picture by means of drama, will
sometimes reverse the process, deliberately, in order to rescue the
power of his drama from becoming violence. If fiction always aims at
the appearance of truth, there are times when the dramatic method is
too much for it, too searching and too betraying. It leaves the story
to speak for itself, but perhaps the story may then say too much to be
reasonably credible. It must be restrained, qualified, toned down, in
order to make its best effect. Where the action, in short, is likely
to seem harsh, overcharged, romantic, it is made to look less so, less
hazardous and more real, by recourse to the art of the picture-maker.

Balzac, it cannot be denied, had frequent cause to look about him for
whatever means there might be of extenuating, and so of confirming, an
incredible story. His passion for truth was often in conflict with his
lust for marvels, and the manner in which they were mixed is the chief
interest, I dare say, of some of his books. See him, for example, in
the Splendeurs et Miseres des Courtisanes, trying with one hand to
write a novel of Parisian manners, with the other a romance of
mystery, and to do full justice to both. Trompe-la-Mort, the Napoleon
of crime, and Esther, the inspired courtesan, represent the romance,
and Balzac sets himself to absorb the extravagant tale into a study
of actual life. If he can get the tale firmly embedded in a background
of truth, its falsity may be disguised, the whole book may even pass
for a scene of the human comedy; it may be accepted as a piece of
reality, on the same level, say, as Eugenie Grandet or Les Parents
Pauvres. That is evidently his aim, and if only his romance were a
little less gaudy, or his truth not quite so true, he would have no
difficulty in attaining it; the action would be subdued and kept in
its place by the pictorial setting. The trouble is that Balzac's idea
of a satisfying crime is as wild as his hold upon facts is sober, so
that an impossible strain is thrown upon his method of reconciling the
two. Do what he will, his romance remains staringly false in its
contrast wi