ABSTRACT
The hundred years that have now elapsed since his death, plus the thousands of miles that stretch between his grave at Pere-Lachaise and our commemoration in America, give a better measure of Balzac's accomplishment than anything the author could add in the way of tribute or reappraisal. Chronology can help to account for both, by reminding us that he was born in the year of Napoleon's coup d'etat, while Proust was born in the year of the Commune. The glamor that aristocracy held for the latter was largely an emanation from the past. The virtue that the former saw in the bourgeoisie lay in its continuous struggle for recognition. The parallel can be extended farther, but perhaps the author has pushed it far enough to suggest that the works of both writers could be grouped very closely together in the imaginary museum of criticism, where personal considerations are neutralized and historical contingencies are transcended.
