I
need say nothing of the gruesome, repulsive excellence of
that famous scene; it will be enough to remind the reader
that Gilliat is in pursuit of a crab when he is himself
assaulted by the devil fish, and that this, in its way, is
the last touch to the inner significance of the book; here,
indeed, is the true position of man in the universe.
But in LES TRAVAILLEURS, with all its strength, with all its
eloquence, with all the beauty and fitness of its main
situations, we cannot conceal from ourselves that there is a
thread of something that will not bear calm scrutiny. There
is much that is disquieting about the storm, admirably as it
begins. I am very doubtful whether it would be possible to
keep the boat from foundering in such circumstances, by any
amount of breakwater and broken rock. I do not understand
the way in which the waves are spoken of, and prefer just to
take it as a loose way of speaking, and pass on. And lastly,
how does it happen that the sea was quite calm next day? Is
this great hurricane a piece of scene-painting after all?
And when we have forgiven Gilliat's prodigies of strength
(although, in soberness, he reminds us more of Porthos in the
Vicomte de Bragelonne than is quite desirable), what is to be
said to his suicide, and how are we to condemn in adequate
terms that unprincipled avidity after effect, which tells us
that the sloop disappeared over the horizon, and the head
under the water, at one and the same moment? Monsieur Hugo
may say what he will, but we know better; we know very well
that they did not; a thing like that raises up a despairing
spirit of opposition in a man's readers; they give him the
lie fiercely, as they read.
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