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SKETCHES. 365
And I heard him answer: —
“Tn me thou seest a picture of man’s inner development.
I represent the metamorphoses of human life, ascending
and descending in accordance with eternally ruling laws.
What thou seest in me is thy own past, or present, or
future history. Therefore thou learnest of me, whilst thou
lookest into my mirror, or beholdest how this world goes
on. And out of my lesson I create for thee a pleasure.
For I take the flowers of the day, and the stars of the
night, and I dye my robes in Aurora’s roses, in order,
beloved one! to come to thee and make thee happy with
my beauty, by showing thee life’s dark mysteries, making
them light to thee, through my earnestness. On my arms
I raise thee above the earth, and let thee behold the struggle
which agitates man’s bosom. Wherever thou seest powers
wrestling with each other, developing themselves under
liberty’s banner, either for good or for evil; wherever thou
seest life’s most secret history, lighted by the torch of
heavenly love, there also thou seest me — the novel.”
“Yes, the genuine one,” I exclaimed involuntarily.
“ Beautiful Genius! I understand thee, but” .... I un-
derstand also clearly why the world loves the novel so
much, but I learnt to distinguish more keenly between
the genuine and the false; between the enlightened
and the blind imitators of the genius whose words I
have just quoted. I beheld a countless number of novels,
so widely differing from him, that in order to find again
the primeval novel it would be necessary to refer man
from his books to his own life. For even in the most
commonplace human life we discover the metamorphoses
which constitute the nature of the novel —life’s changes,
its transitions. In whose life are there not struggles, if
ever so silent, defeats, and victories? Where do we not
see obligations between people, be they lovers, or brothers
and sisters, married couples, parents or children ? where do
we not see the deepest of all relations, the tenderest, the
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