stinctly below any
genuine assent; for Balzac never wishes us really to forget, though he
occasionally forgets himself, that his most lifelike characters are
imaginary. But in certain subordinate topics he seems to make a higher
demand on our faith. He is full of more or less fanciful heresies, and
labours hard to convince us either that they are true or that he
seriously holds them. This is what I mean by mystification, and one
fears to draw a line as to which he was probably far from clear himself.
Thus, for example, he is a devout believer in physiognomy, and not only
in its obvious sense; he erects it into an occult science. Lavater and
Gall, he says, 'prove incontestably' that ominous signs exist in our
heads. Take, for example, the chasseur Michu, his white face injected
with blood and compressed like a Calmuck's; his ruddy, crisp hair; his
beard cut in the shape of a fan; the noble forehead which surmounts and
overhangs his sunburnt, sarcastic features; his ears well detached, and
possessing a sort of mobility, like those of a wild animal; his mouth
half open, and revealing a set of fine but uneven teeth; his thick and
glossy whiskers; his hair, close in front, long on the sides and behind,
with its wild, ruddy hue throwing into relief the strange and fatal
character of the physiognomy; his short, thick neck, designed to tempt
the hatchet of the guillotine: these details, so accurately
photographed, not only prove that M. Michu was a resolute, faithful
servant, capable of the profoundest secresy and the most disinterested
attachment, but for the really skilful reader of mystic symbols foretell
his ultimate fate--namely, that he will be the victim of a false
accusation. Balzac, however, ventures into still more whimsical
extremes. He accepts, in all apparent seriousness, the theory of his
favourite, Mr. Shandy, that a man's name influences his character. Thus,
for example, a man called Minoret-Levrault must necessarily be 'un
elephant sans trompe et sans intelligence,' and the occult meaning of Z.
Marcas requires a long and elaborate commentary. Repeat the word Marcas,
dwelling on the first syllable, and dropping abruptly on the second, and
you will see that the man who bears it must be a martyr. The zigzag of
the initial implies a life of torment. What ill wind, he asks, has blown
upon this letter, which in no language (Balzac's acquaintance with
German was probably limited) commands more than fifty words? The name