Response to a Writer’s Letter in Jutrzenka, January 3, 1862

Correspondence

Warsaw, 15 December 1861

Mr. Medard’s reply to our letter dated 15 November has not, in the least, surprised us; we had indeed expected it, exactly in the form in which it is composed. The excuse of the author in response to the charges presented against him is one more piece of evidence that goodwill is always the driving force behind what our writers pronounce; even when pointing out the faults of our fellow-believers, they don’t look at the means but only aim confidently to achieve their goals.

Therefore, it is our turn today to explain the reasons behind our somewhat acrid commentaries against Mr. Medard in our previous letter, because somebody might conjecture, especially after having read the author’s defense, that we have challenged the freedom to highlight the flaws of the lower classes of our coreligionists, whether in a novel or on the stage, and that thereby, holding noli nos tangere as our motto, we consider ourselves independent of the laws of satire.

Such thoughts have always been, and remain, remote from us.

We know all too well the imperfections of our lower-class fellow-believers; we know that their glaring distinction in attire, speech, and mores from the progressive class should be subject to radical measures of reform; but is it appropriate, as it were, to mimic their mannerisms and language in novels and on the stage to achieve these measures? We do not think so.

The class against which the missiles of satire are delivered is, regretfully, unenlightened to such an extent that it cannot benefit from the satire; in turn, one who is involuntarily condemned to read such pieces feels painfully affected by the insinuations that exceed the limits of satire. Why, therefore, acquiesce to the uncertain if, leaving the resolution of such an issue of social importance to time, one may expect a far quicker result?

Instead of mocking the speech of street peddlers, had the authors of social satire respectfully admonished those of our coreligionists who have sealed themselves off into their own “selves,” and forgotten their duties toward their impoverished brethren, and for whom there is nothing sacred on this earth save for wealth; then, not only would we not feel offended but, indeed, we would be grateful to them for their willingness.¹ Yet, alas! the role of satire has hitherto been confined to mimicry of the language of those strata of society that, doomed by fate to be isolated within the nation, have proven incapable of accepting this cardinal foundation of progress and civilization. A detail so important, justifying the existing state of affairs, has been completely neglected by the writers of social satire: they took things as they appeared to them in nature . . . and hence, their satirical pieces could not inspire confidence and propitiate adherents: every instance of their appearance was regarded, although unfairly, as a symptom of their being part of a coterie, malice, et inde irae.

Today, with such vehement attempts to improve the behavior of all strata of our society, there is no way for satire not to achieve a position corresponding to its vocation; today, I am saying, we ought to maintain a watchful eye on it, so that it may never deviate, even for a moment, from its designated track, and instead of being a proselytising master, turn into a caustic crank.

We have come out against Mr. Medard’s tale for the sole reason that it has again brought before our eyes those traditional figures who speak in a weirdly distorted language; for we suspect underlying malevolence in this somewhat overly passionate representation of them that is seemingly betrayed by the astringent tone in a few of the sections. But the author’s defense has convinced us that we prejudged this story, and considered as animosity that which apparently ensued from the author’s intent to render the presented picture conspicuously as an accurate photograph . . . therefore, now changing our previous presumption, we must remind Mr. Medard that what we look for in a novel is, primarily, beauty, and that even realism clothed in a vestment of fantasy ought not to dazzle with its bareness; otherwise, apart from being a Flemish picture, a given story could have no other advantage.