All five of the Cinq subsequently regretted having issued the Manifeste and repudiated the views sternly and extravagantly expressed therein, but at the time it succeeded in its purpose, which was to cause something of a sensation in the literary community. Although the document had five signatories, Bonnetain was subsequently to reveal that it had actually been written by Rosny, and to allege that Rosny had flatly refused to accept any amendments suggested by his co-signatories. The document was welcomed by the leading French literary critic of the day, Anatole France—a diehard antagonist of the supposed vulgarity of Zolaesque Naturalism—who referred to it in his memoirs of La Vie littéraire (1913) as a Revolutionary Terror, in which Rosny represented “a strict literary Dantonism” while his four companons were mere “Jacobins.” It was also welcomed by Max Nordau, author of the scathing Entartung (1893; tr. as Degeneration), who considered Zola’s Naturalism to be one more symptom of the degeneracy of modern culture—but cited Rosny’s Vamireh (1892; tr. in vol. 4) as evidence that Zola’s former disciples were only deserting the fold in order to descend further into the cultural mire.
The contemporary impact of the Manifeste can be judged by scanning a series of interviews conducted by Jules Huret between three and four years after its publication, initially published in the Echo de Paris and swiftly reprinted in book form by Charpentier as Enquête sur L’Evolution littéraire [An Inquiry Concerning Literary Evolution] (1891), in which Huret attempted to consult all the luminaries of contemporary French literature as to the direction that French literature was currently taking, initially focused on the explicit question “Is Naturalism dying?” and the corollary question of whether, if so, the Naturaliste school was to be reformed, or replaced by a new school derived from authors recently hailed as Psychologues or Symbolistes, or victimized by some other convenient label. Although some of the people to whom Huret wrote asking for an interview sent letters instead of actually seeing him, his subjects were, on the whole, extraordinarily co-operative (with the exception of Guy de Maupassant—described by Huret as “the most unapproachable man in Paris”—who did agree to see him at his home, but then flatly refused to talk about literature).
Given that the Echo de Paris routinely featured work by numerous members of the Grenier’s inner circle—including Rosny and other members of the Cinq—it is not entirely surprising that even the minor writers in that circle were all featured in the book, but it is obvious that Huret’s basic interrogative agenda was set by the Manifeste, and that many of the opinions expressed by the younger writers featured were orientated in relation to it, either for or against. The results were extremely varied—in respect of Naturalism they ranged from Henri Céard’s languid “How can Naturalism die, since it has never existed?” to Paul Alexis’s urgently-dispatched telegram “Naturalism not dead. Letter follows.”—and many of Huret’s respondents were brutally dismissive of the conventional critical assortment of writers into Naturalistes, Psychologues, Symbolistes, etc., as well as being completely at odds when it came to identifying the writers who belonged in each category, but the terms of the argument are sufficiently consistent to determine that all but a tiny minority of the Parisian literati of 1891 knew perfectly how the battlefield was marked out, and judged that the Cinq had established a significant strategic position.
One of the things Huret asked his respondents to do was to name the new writers who would play a significant part in the future evolution of French literature, and Rosny’s name was one of those most often cited. He was not only named by the other four members of the Cinq, Gustave Geffroy and Goncourt himself, but by other “senior” members of the Grenier’s inner circle, including Joris-Karl Huysmans and Paul Hervieu. Cracks in the solidarity of the Cinq were already manifest, however; Bonnetain observed dismissively that “Rosny liked to spoil his enormous talent by an abuse of pharmaceutical neologisms,” while Descaves accused him of having “an incommensurable, mad pride, of which he has no conception” and observed that he was “always preaching” at the Grenier. The latter judgment was not unchallenged, however; Anatole France presumably had it in mind when he wrote a review-essay on Rosny’s work in the same year, focused on Le Termite (1890), in which he declared that: “Whatever anyone may say, M. Rosny is not vain. Neither is he proud. He knows nothing of arrogance… He does not admire himself, but he has an infinite respect for that portion of the divine wisdom which nature has placed in him, and if he is full of himself it is due to stoic virtue. He is a man of great integrity, but difficult to improve.”
Anyone reading the Echo de Paris or the Enquête in 1891, therefore, and keeping up with the opinions of the leading critic of the day would have been bound to come to the conclusion that Rosny was an important writer, not only for what he had already accomplished as a “Neo-Naturaliste” but for what he might go on to do in future. When Huret reacted to criticism of his ready-made system of classifying writers as Naturalistes, Psychologues, Décadents et Symbolistes, Parnassiens, etc. by producing a tongue-in-cheek alternative system, he placed Rosny among the “Boxeurs et Savatiers” [Boxers and Kick-Boxers]. The simple fact is, however, that Rosny owed the spectacular reputation he had developed between 1886 and 1890 far more to salon gossip and critical back-scratching than to the actual sales of his books, which were—and remained—rather poor.
Rosny had not only become a regular at Goncourt’s Grenier but had been introduced by Goncourt to other influential writers, most notably Alphonse Daudet, and to other influential salons. Rosny obviously loved that aspect of literary life; the second part of his second volume of literary memoirs is taken up with his nostalgic description of the various salons he attended regularly and the writers he met there; it gives pride of place to Madame Arman de Caillavet’s salon, where he met and cultivated the acquaintance of Anatole France, her long-time lover and some-time collaborator. Some of Rosny’s descriptions take great care to compliment the food served at those salons which took the form of dinners, for which he may well have been exceedingly grateful in the early days—although the reader might occasionally be inspired to wonder how it compared to the fare that Madame Boëx and her four children were eating at home, where they obviously spent a great deal of time in his absence.
What had first inspired M. Giraud to make an offer of 250 francs for a 1000-copy first printing of Nell Horn was an enthusiastic reader’s report, whose author is unidentified in Torches et lumignons, save for the fact that she was female and was said to have been “touched” by it. Rosny affords scant importance to this, save for his gratitude for the part it played in getting his career moving, but it is worth noting that, although almost all the literary critics of the day were male, publishers were keenly aware of the importance of female readers and, in particular, of the fact that it was female readers who found books “touching” who were responsible for the success of a seemingly-new school of fiction centered on the works of Paul Bourget. Bourget, who was identified by Huret and others as the archetypal Psychologue, was a practitioner of a kind of naturalistic fiction that preferred exploring the psychological motivations of characters rather than their morality—whether religiously-defined or not—or their supposed hereditary defects. (Zola’s school of Naturalism was “physiological” rather than “psychological” because it sought to explain its characters’ moral defects or excesses in terms of hereditary factors modified by the social environment.)
It seems probable that Giraud and his employer, Albert Savine—who was then making a determined effort to expand his business—both hoped that Rosny might have the potential to emulate Bourget. Savine must have been delighted when he saw that one of “his” authors was making such rapid progress in Parisian literary society, meeting all the right people. Rosny’s subsequent works turned out to be far less “touching,” even when he tried to bring female characters into the foreground and focus intently on the romantic relationships of his characters, but he did manage to maintain himself in a prominent position in the Parisian literary community,
suggesting that he might become a great success anyway. Savine seems to have maintained his high hopes of Rosny into 1887, following the critical success of Rosny’s second novel, Le Bilateral (1886), but he felt forced to modify his publishing plans considerably in the course of that year.
The short story collection L’Immolation [The Sacrifice] (1887) in which Rosny included “Les Xipéhuz” as the last of five items, following four naturalistic contes cruels, offered a list of volumes “à paraître prochainement,” not one of which actually appeared; they were Nouvelles Londoniennes [Londonian Short Stories], Le Livre étoilé [The Starry Book], La Légende sceptique and Grisailles [Studies in Grey], the last identified as a volume of poetry. Also mentioned as “sous presse” was Les Corneilles [The Crows], which had already appeared as a serial in the Revue Indépendante, one of several periodicals in which Rosny had found a warm welcome thanks to his star status in the Grenier. Its editor, Edouard Dujardin, was a regular at the Grenier, and it was he who published Rosny’s second item of speculative fiction, then called “Tornadres” but later retitled “Le Cataclysme” (1887; tr. in vol. 2 as “The Cataclysm”).
Fane: roman de moeurs parisiennes, which was actually the next Rosny book Savine published, as Marc Fane, in 1888, was only mentioned as “en preparation” in the preliminary material to L’Immolation. Savine evidently decided to postpone Les Corneilles—a relatively conventional and somewhat anodyne account of resistance to an arranged marriage—and not to publish the other items at all, presumably in response to the relatively poor continuing sales of the three books he had already published. Although L’Immolation contained advertisements for a second edition of Le Bilateral, accompanied by a sampler of glowing reviews of the first edition, that second edition presumably did not sell very well, and Savine must have deduced from the continuing poor sales of Nell Horn that it would be best to avoid any more works set in London. The other cancellations testify to Savine’s decision to market Rosny purely and simply as a naturalist novelist—probably somewhat to Rosny’s chagrin.
Rosny subsequently arranged the publication of “La Légende sceptique” as a serial in the Revue Indépendante, shortly after Albert Savine had bought that periodical from Dujardin and appointed Rosny on its staff as literary editor. Rosny observes in Torches et lumignons that he spent long hours mulling over the philosophical notions contained in the piece with the new editor Savine had appointed, François Dere, Comte de Nion—presumably as a means of ensuring its welcome, despite its awesome esotericism and peculiarity, and Savine’s reluctance to publish it in volume form. Rosny frankly admits in Torches et lumignons that these were the only possible circumstances in which “La Légende sceptique” could ever have got into print, and he must have been equally well aware that the publication of “Les Xipéhuz” and “Tornadres” had also been the result of exceptional circumstances. He obviously accepted Savine’s reasoning, however reluctantly, with respect to the mysterious Le Livre étoilé, and never bothered to finish Cavernes; as his career achieved lift-off, Rosny obviously made a decision to concentrate more exclusively on the aspect of his literary personality that had won him his valuable friends and influenced some influential people. The decision was undoubtedly wise, in terms of his reputation—but by 1890, when Rosny was at the height of his critical fame, the writing was already on the wall with regard to his marketability in any genre, and he must have been keenly aware of the fact.
Although Rosny obviously had other material in hand from the work he had done in the earlier months of 1885 and from his days in London, Savine had every reason to follow up the publication of Nell Horn with that of Le Bilateral, a novel which must have been entirely written after his relocation to Paris, being based on Rosny’s excursions through the suburbs of that city. In Torches et lumignons the author observed, while talking about his early years in Paris, that “I was a great roamer. Every day I wandered for three or four hours… [I was] almost always on foot, in spite of an innate indolence. But walking did not seem laborious to me; I was drawn on by a daydream force that no longer allowed me to feel tired. I also loved to chat with unknown people—especially revolutionaries.”
Rosny undoubtedly considered the observations he made and the reveries in which he indulged while walking to be an essential component of his creative endeavor, and his conversations with people he met by chance to be the kind of research required of a writer dedicated to quasi-scientific observation. He was, however, evidently interested in what many of his interlocutors had to say—especially the various socialists, anarchists and nihilists, many of them exiles, who had found a refuge in Paris (with whom he could, if necessary, converse in English instead of French). His work in this vein was of interest not merely to Parisians but anyone interested in the awesome complexities of the schism afflicting contemporary socialist thought. A newspaper article Rosny wrote on his findings was translated for publication in America in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine in 1891, and the discussion it generated was probably influential in recommending some of his short fiction for translation, including two of his scientific romances: “L’Autre Monde” was translated in The Chautauquan in 1896 as “The Sixth Sense; or, Another World” and “Nymphée” in The Eclectic in 1908 as “The Warriors of the Waters.”
Rosny was not himself a socialist, and presumably thought that the neo-Naturalist component of his creative personality required a scrupulous philosophical neutrality, so it is not unduly surprising that his judgment of the political activists to whom he talked was that they were unduly single-minded, quite unable to entertain any viewpoint other than their own. Le Bilateral presents a carefully-organized compendium of such “unilateral” characters, subjected to harsh judgment by the character bearing the eponymous nickname, who is allegedly highly unusual in being a complex and essentially contradictory individual, able to see matters from multiple viewpoints.
Although Rosny’s commitment to a revisionist form of Naturalism in several of his early works controlled the way that contemporary critics evaluated him, and still colors critical evaluations offered today, his work was always highly idiosyncratic. In the interview he gave to Jules Huret, Paul Hervieu declared that Rosny was not a Naturalist at all, but that even such supposedly realistic works as Daniel Valgraive were “hatched in supernaturalist regions of hallucination or dream.” Paul Margueritte also denied in his interview that Rosny should be characterized as a Naturalist, arguing that he “merits a separate epithet, specifying all that he brings of the new and the human.” Rosny always took care to stress the bilateralism of his personality and the importance of its “poetic” or “chimerical” elements. In Torches et lumignons he wrote, stridently:
“I have always considered realism as a fragmentary aspect of literature; from my earliest works on, one will find more fantastic essays than realistic essays: Les Xipéhuz, Tornadres and La Légende sceptique are as far away as possible from realism. In consequence, the label of naturalist, applied to me, seemed to me to be an insult, and almost a calumny. I have never applied it to myself. If it had not been for that baroque manifesto, even ignorant Parisian critics would not have classified in so narrow a category a writer who interested himself in the entire universe, in all times, and in all dreams.”
Even if one leaves aside the other components of Rosny’s personality and work, there is no doubt that his brand of Naturalism was far from Zolaesque—or, for that matter, Goncourtian. As M. Giraud’s reader had obviously observed, in addition to its Mayhewesque detailing of the wretchedness of life in London’s “underworld,” Nell Horn contains a strong dose of sentimentality, especially in its treatment of the heroine. In the same way, in addition to its wealth of detail about the myriad schools of revolutionary thought lurking in the back streets of Paris, Le Bilateral contains a much stronger dose of philosophical analysis and judgment than was strictly in accordance with scrupulous observation, even of the theoretically-loaded variety licensed by Zola. By far the most idiosyncratic aspect of Rosny’s Naturalism
was, however, the influence of his equally-idiosyncratic fascination with science—which was, of course, also the progenitor of his adventures in scientific romance.
Rosny makes no attempt in Torches et lumignons to explain exactly what he was trying to accomplish in his early days as a writer, but the replies he gave to Huret’s questions when he was interviewed for the Enquête do offer an account of the sort of revision of which, in his opinion, Naturalism stood in need. After having judged that Zola had spoiled his work with an “excess of triumphant materialism,” while setting Goncourt aside as a vital pioneer and Daudet as a unique artist whose supposed association with the school was largely accidental, Rosny claims that what is necessary to carry the tradition forward is “a more complex, broader literature…a progress toward the enlargement of the human mind, a more profound, more analytical and more accurate comprehension of the entire universe and the humblest individuals, acquired by the science and philosophy of modern times.” In his view, the Psychologues were too narrow in their approach, as Zola’s hereditary theories had been, while nothing had yet come out of the Symbolist school but “a new stock of metaphors.”
For Rosny, a scientific account of human nature had to include the insights of other sciences too, and must not be overly introspective, being obliged to consider people in the broadest possible context, both in time and space. For him, physical anthropology was a vital science, because it placed contemporary human nature and behavior in a context that extended back beyond history into prehistory, and thus to the entire evolutionary process that had produced humankind. As a Frenchman, his version of evolutionary theory owed at least as much to the Chevalier de Lamarck as to Charles Darwin, and it had a marked “ecological” component that was arguably ahead of his time, which gave him a distinctive view of humankind’s place in Earthly nature. He was equally insistent on the importance of a human being’s relationship with the findings of astronomy; unlike Camille Flammarion, the great popularizer of astronomy, who had become convinced that the stars were important to humans because humans would one day have the chance to live elsewhere in the universe, thanks to serial reincarnation, the thoroughly materialistic Rosny thought that they were of vital importance anyway, simply by providing a measuring-device by virtue of which humans could appreciate the true magnitude of creation—a magnitude that inspired him to a kind of metaphysical extrapolation very different from Flammarion’s, and allowed him to develop an even more distinctive view of humankind’s place in Cosmic nature.
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