s to a point of
morbid acuteness, it has given their work a certain feverish beauty. To
Huysmans it has given the exaggerated horror of whatever is ugly and
unpleasant, with the fatal instinct of discovering, the fatal necessity
of contemplating, every flaw and every discomfort that a somewhat
imperfect world can offer for inspection. It is the transposition of the
ideal. Relative values are lost, for it is the sense of the disagreeable
only that is heightened; and the world, in this strange disorder of
vision, assumes an aspect which can only be compared with that of a drop
of impure water under the microscope. 'Nature seen through a
temperament' is Zola's definition of all art. Nothing, certainly, could
be more exact and expressive as a definition of the art of Huysmans.

To realise how faithfully and how completely Huysmans has revealed
himself in all he has written, it is necessary to know the man. 'He gave
me the impression of a cat,' some interviewer once wrote of him;
'courteous, perfectly polite, almost amiable, but all nerves, ready to
shoot out his claws at the least word.' And, indeed, there is something
of his favourite animal about him. The face is grey, wearily alert, with
a look of benevolent malice. At first sight it is commonplace, the
features are ordinary, one seems to have seen it at the Bourse or the
Stock Exchange. But gradually that strange, unvarying expression, that
look of benevolent malice, grows upon you as the influence of the man
makes itself felt. I have seen Huysmans in his office--he is an employe
in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and a model employe; I have seen him
in a cafe, in various houses; but I always see him in memory as I used
to see him at the house of the bizarre Madame X. He leans back on the
sofa, rolling a cigarette between his thin, expressive fingers, looking
at no one and at nothing, while Madame X. moves about with solid
vivacity in the midst of her extraordinary menagerie of _bric-a-brac_.
The spoils of all the world are there, in that incredibly tiny _salon_;
they lie underfoot, they climb up walls, they cling to screens,
brackets, and tables; one of your elbows menaces a Japanese toy, the
other a Dresden china shepherdess; all the colours of the rainbow clash
in a barbaric discord of notes. And in a corner of this fantastic room,
Huysmans lies back indifferently on the sofa, with the air of one
perfectly resigned to the boredom of life. Something is said by my
lea