He is a terrible example of "Le fils a papa." I don't know why it is
that a vicious writer, absolutely lacking in reverence, can hold one's
attention so much better than a kindly one can. In this book Daudet
simply smashes idols, tears down illusions, dances gleefully on sacred
traditions, and I lay awake half the night reading him,--and forgot the
advancing Germans. The book comes down only to 1880, so most of the men
he writes about are dead, and most of them, like Victor Hugo, for
example, come off very sadly.
Well, I am reconciled to living a long time now,--much longer than I
wanted to before this awful thing came to pass,--just to see all the
mighty good that will result from the struggle. I am convinced, no
matter what happens, of the final result. I am sure even now, when the
Germans have actually crossed the frontier, that France will not be
crushed this time, even if she be beaten down to Bordeaux, with her back
against the Bay of Biscay. Besides, did you ever know the English
bulldog to let go? But it is the horror of such a war in our times that
bears so heavily on my soul. After all, "civilization" is a word we
have invented, and its meaning is hardly more than relative, just as is
the word "religion.
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