A biting satirical essay by Octave Mirbeau examining the absurdity of manufactured public opinion through the lens of a patriotic art controversy in Belle Époque France. Sharp wit meets cultural criticism as Mirbeau skewers politicians, painters, and the press.
For a moment there, we had hoped—if you can call it hope—that M. Déroulède, having tired of militant politics and patriotic jigs, would devote himself henceforth to literature and gently see out his days writing romance novels. That’s generally how grand public passions end, after all. You have played a noisy, compromising role in some social movement or political escapade; you have failed spectacularly; naturally, disenchantment follows. But we don’t belong to a century that has made advertising the supreme ideal of life for nothing—the best, surest lever to fortune. Soon enough comes the consoling thought that all is not lost, that one might yet capitalise on one’s acquired and now pacified notoriety in some new line of practical activity, some other branch of profitable industry. So some take to flogging wines or pharmaceutical products; others, romance novels—exhausting work that pays, or should pay, since the publicity takes care of itself without need of agencies, and there’s no shortage of mugs. M. Déroulède, repentant and disgusted, had therefore written a romance. The Duchess d’Uzès, after her monarchist débacles and millions lost, had announced she would write one between hunting calls and various statues of Joan of Arc, whilst M. Chincholle, scaling the pure metaphysical heights, was inscribing bitter, profound thoughts in the imperishable marble of words. Favourable omens, charming method—for no one is forced to read novels, which neither disturb our peace nor constrain our liberty. We were tranquil; once again, we had begun to breathe.
Alas, it seems the lure of “stirring things up” holds irresistible, unrepentant charms. M. Déroulède soon found himself out of place in literary Platonism, bored stiff in this sentimental dénouement devoid of epic deeds. And here he is, throwing himself more noisily than ever into hazardous adventures. Those who know M. Déroulède insist his sincerity is complete, his enthusiasm spontaneous, his honesty indisputable and generous. From a personal standpoint, this is certainly meritorious, and I commend him for these virtues; but from a general standpoint, one might prefer M. Déroulède to have less honesty and more silence. Really now, must one spell it out?… He’s getting on our nerves a bit.
For honestly, it’s inadmissible that one man alone—however pure his intentions, however respectable his madness—should periodically create embarrassments and dangers for his country, cause the stock market to tumble, unsettle business, put all Europe’s diplomats on edge, revive the anguish of a cursed past, and, on the pretext that he doesn’t care for the music, tyrannically throw himself across our artistic pleasures and intellectual needs. Grand sentiments—apparently these are grand sentiments—have lost much of their former prestige, even their moral significance. Cornelian heroics are no longer in fashion. We barely tolerate them in the theatre, where they don’t make money anyway and bore us senseless, appearing as they do so false, ridiculous, barbarous and outdated. We are not about to grant them a preponderance in life, in national life, whose anachronism is shocking and belongs only in the Cluny Museum. Modern inquiry has demonstrated brilliantly that what was once deemed sublime was in reality merely the explosion of crude instincts and the result of savage habits. Heroes, stripped by philosophical criticism of the poetry that the distance of centuries maintained around their remote images, seem to us, in sum, rather disagreeable brutes. And I believe it’s high time we took decisive preventive measures against heroism—which, properly considered, has been throughout history nothing but the legitimised, exalted form of banditry—and against its social excesses.
⁂
Now that the emotion stirred by the events we all know has quite subsided, one can speak of them, I think, with all the irreverence these events warrant. What struck me most was the role that the press, the painters, the advice-givers who were not lacking in this inconceivable affair, so benevolently attributed to public opinion. During those fortnight of agitation, there was talk of nothing but public opinion. Never had it been so invoked; everyone appealed to it, for and against. Public opinion wanted this, didn’t want that. Public opinion was wounded by M. Detaille and satisfied by M. Puvis de Chavannes, whom we would have liked to see soaring above all these petty quarrels; it marched with M. Roll and turned its back on M. Bonnat. M. Tony Robert-Fleury invoked it favourably, as did M. Montenard unfavourably. Now, I attempted to discover what public opinion is, where it resides, and how it manifests itself. I approached people I took care to select from different classes, habits, education, and political parties, whose assembly corresponded fairly well to the rather vague idea one has of this chimera: public opinion. I received no enlightenment. What emerged clearly from this inquiry was the absolute indifference all these people felt towards whether painters exhibited their canvases in Berlin or not. To my formal, precise questions, not one expressed a favourable or unfavourable view on this burning matter of state, which all regarded as a private affair, a matter of personal preference with which one had no right to meddle.
“However,” I insisted, “if I’m not mistaken, you are indeed what’s called public opinion? And you can’t be unaware that you’ve energetically pronounced against sending paintings to Germany.”
“Good Lord!” they exclaimed in astonishment, in chorus, “that’s news to us… The painters can exhibit in hell if it amuses them. It’s none of our business.”
Still, one of these fragments of public opinion deigned to be more explicit; and as he has the reputation of a great sage, I note his response here:
“I’d have been quite surprised,” he told me, “if the painters hadn’t ended up causing us some bother. Those people can’t do anything simply. There are no worse hams, none noisier or more tiresome. The slightest trifle immediately assumes considerable proportions with them; from a wisp of straw they make a naval cannon. How they irritate us every year with their salons, their juries, their medals of honour. Yet it’s probable—it was so simple—that if M. Déroulède hadn’t intervened in the debate with that discretion for which he is known, things would have passed off this time in the most decent fashion. But there you are, the row was primed, the opportunity unique to put on another show. They seized it with joy. One after another, they had to affirm—some through their patriotism, others through their philosophy—to confide in us a load of idle things we never asked for and which cannot interest us.
Really now, how is my honour as a Frenchman engaged by the fact that painters will or won’t exhibit in Paris? How too is France’s artistic triumph compromised by an abstention? But we know all the painters; our ears are worn out with their names, their works, their prizes, their luxury, their glory. Their salons, oh yes, I know them; those great commercial halls, those great shops, those great bazaars where so much hideousness spreads itself, so much mediocrity, so much rubbish… Look here, every year at the Palace of Industry, they hold a gastronomic exhibition. There’s everything in that exhibition—clocks, velocipedes, pianos, waterproof boots, life-belts, improved braces, everything except gastronomy. Well, the painters’ salons produce a similar effect on me… There’s everything there too—paintings, statues, engravings, architecture, everything except art. No, you know, the painters are getting on our nerves rather more than is reasonable. That’s all I can tell you on the question… And believe me, that’s all the morality these past days’ events can bear… The painters are getting on our nerves rather more than is reasonable… We don’t ask them for patriotism, we ask them for good painting… Yes, but there you are, that’s more difficult.”
“You’re severe,” I said… “Still, with all that, I still don’t know where public opinion is.”
“Public opinion?” my interlocutor replied… “It’s whoever shouts loudest… And since whoever shouts loudest is generally M. Déroulède… it’s M. Déroulède who is public opinion all by himself… It’s always been thus. Since societies have existed and especially since universal suffrage has functioned, public opinion has never been anything but the opinion of one bold individual. And since this individual’s opinion has been diametrically opposed to the confused interests, the uncertain aspirations of the masses, one must admire the secret of human affairs, and ask God in our prayers to preserve us from heroes.”
“And from patriotic painters.”
This is one of 50+ rare French literary texts translated into English for the first time on this site.
Léon Hennique Novel 