This correctness in the representation of inanimate objects is the spirit of the arts of our time: it points to the decadence of lofty poetry and of the true drama; we are content with lesser beauties, when we are impotent to achieve the greater; we imitate armchairs and velvet to perfection, when we are no longer able to paint the expression of the man seated on that velvet and in those armchairs. Nevertheless, once one has descended to that truthfulness of material forms, one finds one's self obliged to reproduce it; for the public, itself materialized, demands it. [Sidenote: Comments on the _Génie._] Meanwhile I was finishing the _Génie du Christianisme_: Lucien asked to see some of the proofs; I sent them to him; he added some rather common-place notes in the margins. Although the success of my big book was as brilliant as that of my little _Atala_, it was nevertheless more widely contested: this was a serious work, in which I no longer fought the principles of the old literature and of philosophy with a novel, but attacked them directly with arguments and facts. The Voltairean empire uttered a cry and flew to arms. Madame de Staël was mistaken as to the future of my religious studies: they brought her the work uncut; she pushed her fingers between the pages, came upon the chapter headed the _Virginité_, and said to M. Adrien de Montmorency[420], who was with her: "Oh Heavens! Our poor Chateaubriand! That will fall to the ground!" The Abbé de Boulogne[421], who was shown some portions of my work before it was sent to press, said to the bookseller who asked his opinion: "If you want to ruin yourself, print that." And the Abbé de Boulogne has since written an all too splendid eulogy of my book.