This is a modern-English version of My Memoirs, Vol. III, 1826 to 1830, originally written by Dumas, Alexandre.
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MY MEMOIRS
BY
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
TRANSLATED BY
E. M. WALLER
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ANDREW LANG
VOL. III
1826 TO 1830
WITH A FRONTISPIECE
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
1907
Alexandre Dumas — aet ca. 28.
Alexandre Dumas — aet ca. 28.
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
I become a fully fledged employé—Bad plays—Thibaut—My studies with him—Where they have been of use to me—Amaury and the consumptives—My reading—Walter Scott—Cooper—Byron—The pleasure of eating sauerkraut at the Parthenon. 1
I become a full-fledged employee—poor performance—Thibaut—my studies with him—how they've helped me—Amaury and the tuberculosis patients—my reading—Walter Scott—Cooper—Byron—the pleasure of eating sauerkraut at the Parthenon. 1
Byron's childhood—His grief at being lame—Mary Duff—The Malvern fortune-teller—How Byron and Robert Peel became acquainted—Miss Parker—Miss Chaworth—Verses on her portrait—Mrs. Musters—Lady Morgan—English Bards and Scotch Reviewers—Byron's letters to his mother—He takes his seat in the House of Lords. 3
Byron's childhood—His sadness about his disability—Mary Duff—The Malvern fortune-teller—How Byron met Robert Peel—Miss Parker—Miss Chaworth—Poems inspired by her portrait—Mrs. Musters—Lady Morgan—English Bards and Scotch Reviewers—Byron's letters to his mother—He takes his seat in the House of Lords. 3
Byron at Lisbon—How he quarrelled with his own countrymen—His poem Childe Harold—His fits of mad folly and subsequent depression—His marriage—His conjugal squabbles—He again quits England—His farewell to wife and child—His life and amours at Venice—He sets out for Greece—His arrival at Missolonghi—His illness and death. 21
Byron in Lisbon—His arguments with his fellow countrymen—His poem Childe Harold—Episodes of madness followed by depression—His marriage—His marital disputes—He leaves England again—His farewell to his wife and child—His life and romances in Venice—His journey to Greece—His arrival in Missolonghi—His illness and death. 21
Usurped celebrity—M. Lemercier and his works—Racan's white hare—Le Fiesque by M. Ancelot—The Romantic artists —Scheffer—Delacroix—Sigalon—Schnetz—Coigniet—Boulanger —Géricault—La Méduse in the artist's studio—Lord Byron's funeral obsequies in England—Sheridan's body claimed for debt. 42
Stolen fame—M. Lemercier and his works—Racan's white hare—Le Fiesque by M. Ancelot—The Romantic artists—Scheffer—Delacroix—Sigalon—Schnetz—Coigniet—Boulanger—Géricault—La Méduse in the artist's studio—Lord Byron's funeral services in England—Sheridan's body claimed for debt. 42
My mother comes to live with me—A Duc de Chartres born to me—Chateaubriand and M. de Villèle—Epistolary brevity—Re-establishment of the Censorship—A King of France should never be ill—Bulletins of the health of Louis XVIII.—His last moments and death—Ode by Victor Hugo—M. Torbet and Napoleon's tomb—La Fayette's voyage to America—The ovations showered upon him. 54
My mother moves in with me—A Duc de Chartres is born to me—Chateaubriand and Mr. de Villèle—Brief letters—Censorship reinstated—A king of France should never be unwell—Bulletins about Louis XVIII’s health—His last moments and death—Ode by Victor Hugo—Mr. Torbet and Napoleon's tomb—La Fayette’s trip to America—The celebrations he received. 54
Tallancourt and Betz—The café Hollandais—My Quiroga cloak—First challenge—A lesson in shooting—The eve of my duel—Analysis of my sensations—My opponent fails to keep his appointment—The seconds hunt him out—The duel—Tallancourt and the mad dog. 65
Tallancourt and Betz—the café Hollandais—My Quiroga cloak—First challenge—A shooting lesson—The night before my duel—Reflecting on my feelings—My opponent doesn't show up—The seconds track him down—The duel—Tallancourt and the wild dog. 65
The Duc d'Orléans is given the title of Royal Highness—The coronation of Charles X.—Account of the ceremony by Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans—Death of Ferdinand of Naples—De La ville de Miremont—Le Cid d'Andalousie—M. Pierre Lebrun—A reading at the camp at Compiègne—M. Taylor is appointed a royal commissioner to the Théâtre-Français—The curé Bergeron—M. Viennet—Two of his letters—Pichat and his Léonidas. 75
The Duke of Orléans receives the title of Royal Highness—The coronation of Charles X.—Account of the ceremony by Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans—Death of Ferdinand of Naples—De La ville de Miremont—Le Cid d'Andalousie—M. Pierre Lebrun—A reading at the camp at Compiègne—M. Taylor is appointed a royal commissioner to the Théâtre-Français—The curé Bergeron—M. Viennet—Two of his letters—Pichat and his Léonidas. 75
Death of General Foy—His funeral—The Royal Highness—Assassination of Paul-Louis Courier—Death of the Emperor Alexander—Comparison of England and Russia—The reason why these two powers have increased during the last century—How Napoleon meant to conquer India. 87
Death of General Foy—His funeral—The Royal Highness—Assassination of Paul-Louis Courier—Death of Emperor Alexander—Comparison of England and Russia—The reason these two powers have grown over the last century—How Napoleon planned to take over India. 87
The Emperor Alexander—Letter from Czar Nicolas to Karamsine—History after the style of Suetonius and Saint-Simon—Catherine and Potemkin—Madame Braniska—The cost of the imperial cab-drive—A ball at M. de Caulaincourt's—The man with the pipe—The emperor's boatman and coachman. 100
The Emperor Alexander—Letter from Czar Nicolas to Karamsine—History written like Suetonius and Saint-Simon—Catherine and Potemkin—Madame Braniska—The cost of the imperial cab ride—A ball at M. de Caulaincourt's—The guy with the pipe—The emperor's boatman and coachman. 100
Alexander leaves St. Petersburg—His presentiments of his death—The two stars seen at Taganrog—The emperor's illness—His last moments—How they learnt of his death in St. Petersburg—The Grand-Duke Constantine—His character and tastes—Why he renounced his right to the imperial throne—Jeannette Groudzenska. 115
Alexander leaves St. Petersburg—His thoughts about his death—The two stars seen at Taganrog—The emperor's illness—His final moments—How news of his death reached St. Petersburg—Grand-Duke Constantine—His personality and preferences—Why he relinquished his claim to the imperial throne—Jeannette Groudzenska. 115
Rousseau and Romieu—Conversation with the porter—The eight hours' candle—The Deux Magots—At what hour one should wind up one's watch—M. le sous-préfet enjoys a joke—Henry Monnier—A paragraph of information—On suppers—On cigars. 131
Rousseau and Romieu—Chat with the doorman—The eight-hour candle—The Deux Magots—What time to set your watch—M. le sous-préfet enjoys a good joke—Henry Monnier—An information paragraph—About dinners—About cigars. 131
The lantern—Le Chasse et l'Amour—Rousseau's part in it—The couplet about the hare—The couplet de facture—How there may be hares and hares—Reception at l'Ambigu—My first receipts as an author—Who Porcher was—Why no one might say anything against Mélesville. 144
The lantern—Le Chasse et l'Amour—Rousseau's involvement in it—The couplet about the hare—The couplet de facture—How there can be hares and hares—Reception at l'Ambigu—My initial earnings as an author—Who Porcher was—Why no one could speak ill of Mélesville. 144
The success of my first play—My three stories—M. Marle and his orthography—Madame Setier—A bad speculation—The Pâtre, by Montvoisin—The Oreiller—Madame Desbordes-Valmore—How she became a poetess—Madame Amable Tastu—The Dernier jour de l'année—Zéphire. 160
The success of my first play—My Three Stories—M. Marle and his spelling—Madame Setier—A bad investment—The Pâtre by Montvoisin—The Oreiller—Madame Desbordes-Valmore—How she became a poet—Madame Amable Tastu—The Dernier jour de l'année—Zéphire. 160
Talma's illness—How he would have acted Tasso—His nephews—He receives a visit from M. de Quélen—Why his children renounced his faith—His death—La Noce et l'Enterrement—Oudard lectures me on my fondness for theatre-going—The capital reply that put the Palais-Royal in a gay humour—I still keep the confidence of Lassagne and de la Ponce—I obtain a success anonymously at the Porte-Saint-Martin. 173
Talma's illness—How he would have performed in Tasso—His nephews—He receives a visit from M. de Quélen—Why his children abandoned his faith—His death—La Noce et l'Enterrement—Oudard gives me a hard time about my passion for theater—The clever comeback that energized the Palais-Royal—I still have the trust of Lassagne and de la Ponce—I achieve anonymous success at the Porte-Saint-Martin. 173
Soulié at the mechanical saw-mill—His platonic love of gold—I desire to write a drama with him—I translate Fiesque—Death of Auguste Lafarge—My pay is increased and my position lowered—Félix Deviolaine, condemned by the medical faculty, is saved by illness—Louis XI. à Péronne—Talma's theatrical wardrobe—The loi de justice et d'amour—The disbanding of the National Guard. 187
Soulié at the mechanical sawmill—His platonic love of gold—I want to collaborate on a play with him—I translate Fiesque—Death of Auguste Lafarge—My salary is raised while my status is lowered—Félix Deviolaine, rejected by the medical faculty, is saved by illness—Louis XI. à Péronne—Talma's acting wardrobe—The loi de justice et d'amour—The disbandment of the National Guard. 187
English actors in Paris—Literary importations—Trente Ans, or la Vie d'un Joueur—The Hamlet of Kemble and Miss Smithson—A bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau—Visit to Frédéric Soulié—He declines to write Christine with me—A night attack—I come across Adèle d'Alvin once more—I spend the night au violon. 198
English actors in Paris—Literary imports—Trente Ans, or The Life of a Gambler—The Kemble and Miss Smithson version of Hamlet—A bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau—Visit to Frédéric Soulié—He refuses to write Christine with me—An overnight encounter—I run into Adèle d'Alvin again—I spend the night in jail. 198
Future landmarks—Compliments to the Duc de Bordeaux—Votes—Cauchois-Lemaire's Orléaniste brochure—The lake of Enghien—Colonel Bro's parrot—Doctor Ferrus—Morrisel—A tip-top funeral cortège—Hunting in full cry—An autopsy—Explanation of the death of the parrot. 207
Future landmarks—Kudos to the Duc de Bordeaux—Votes—Cauchois-Lemaire's Orléaniste brochure—The lake of Enghien—Colonel Bro's parrot—Doctor Ferrus—Morrisel—A high-quality funeral procession—Hunting in full swing—An autopsy—Explaining the parrot's death. 207
Barthélemy and Méry—M. Éliça Gallay—Méry the draught-player and anatomist—L'Épître à Sidi Mahmoud—The Ponthieu library—Soulé—The Villéliade—Barthélemy the printer—Méry the improvisator—The Vœux de la nouvelle année—The pastiche of Lucrèce. 223
Barthélemy and Méry—M. Éliça Gallay—Méry, the board game player and anatomist—L'Épître à Sidi Mahmoud—The Ponthieu library—Soulé—The Villéliade—Barthélemy the printer—Méry the improviser—The Vœux de la nouvelle année—The parody of Lucrèce. 223
I pass from the Secretarial Department to the Record Office—M. Bichet—Wherein I resemble Piron—My spare time—M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison—A scene missing in Distrait—La Peyrouse—A success all to myself. 239
I move from the Secretarial Department to the Record Office—M. Bichet—Where I'm like Piron—My free time—M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison—A scene not included in Distrait—La Peyrouse—A success that is entirely mine. 239
The painter Lethière—Brutus unveiled by M. Ponsard—Madame Hannemann—Gohier—Andrieux—Renaud—Desgenettes—Larrey, Augereau and the Egyptian mummy—Soldiers of the new school—My dramatic education—I enter the offices of the Forestry Department—The cupboard full of empty bottles—Three days away from the office—Am summoned before M. Deviolaine. 250
The painter Lethière—Brutus revealed by M. Ponsard—Madame Hannemann—Gohier—Andrieux—Renaud—Desgenettes—Larrey, Augereau and the Egyptian mummy—Soldiers of the new school—My dramatic training—I walk into the offices of the Forestry Department—The cupboard filled with empty bottles—Three days away from the office—I'm called before M. Deviolaine. 250
Conclusion of Christine—A patron, after a fashion—Nodier recommends me to Taylor—The Royal Commissary and the author of Hécube—Semi-official reading before Taylor—Official reading before the Committee—I am received with acclamation—The intoxication of success—How history is written—M. Deviolaine's incredulity—Picard's opinions concerning my play—Nodier's opinion—Second reading at the Théâtre-Français and definite acceptance. 262
Conclusion of Christine—A supporter, in a way—Nodier refers me to Taylor—The Royal Commissary and the writer of Hécube—Unofficial reading before Taylor—Official reading before the Committee—I'm welcomed with cheers—The thrill of success—How history gets recorded—Mr. Deviolaine's disbelief—Picard's thoughts on my play—Nodier's thoughts—Second reading at the Théâtre-Français and final approval. 262
Cordelier-Delanoue—A sitting of the Athénée—M. Villenave—His family—The one hundred and thirty-two Nantais—Cathelineau—The hunt aux bleus—Forest—A chapter of history—Sauveur—The Royalist Committee—Souchu—The miraculous tomb—Carrier. 278
Cordelier-Delanoue—A meeting at the Athénée—M. Villenave—His family—The one hundred and thirty-two Nantais—Cathelineau—The hunt aux bleus—Forest—A chapter of history—Sauveur—The Royalist Committee—Souchu—The miraculous tomb—Carrier. 278
M. Villenave's house—The master's despotic rule—The savant's coquetry—Description of the sanctuary of the man of science—I am admitted, thanks to an autograph of Buonaparte—The crevice in the wall—The eight thousand folios—The pastel by Latour—Voyages of discovery for an Elzevir or a Faust—The fall of the portrait and the death of the original. 292
M. Villenave's house—The master's authoritarian control—The scholar's flirtation—A description of the scientist's sanctuary—I gain entry, thanks to an autograph of Buonaparte—The crack in the wall—The eight thousand books—The pastel by Latour—Exploratory voyages for an Elzevir or a Faust—The portrait falls and the original dies. 292
First representation of Soulié's Roméo et Juliette—Anaïs and Lockroy—Why French actresses cannot act Juliet—The studies of the Conservatoire—A second Christine at the Théâtre-Français—M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey—Conspiracy against me—I give up my turn to have my play produced—How I found the subject of Henri III.—My opinion of that play. 308
First performance of Soulié's Roméo et Juliette—Anaïs and Lockroy—Why French actresses find it tough to play Juliet—Training at the Conservatoire—A second Christine at the Théâtre-Français—M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey—Plot against me—I step back to let my play be produced—How I found the subject for Henri III.—My thoughts on that play. 308
The reading of Henri III. at M. Villenave's and M. Roqueplan's—Another reading at Firmin's—Béranger is present—A few words about his influence and popularity—Effect produced by my drama—Reception by the Comédie-Française—Struggle for the distribution of parts—M. de Broval's ultimatum—Convicted of the crime of poetry I appeal to the Duc d'Orléans—His Royal Highness withholds my salary—M. Laffitte lends me three thousand francs—Condemnation of Béranger. 318
The reading of Henri III. at M. Villenave's and M. Roqueplan's—Another reading at Firmin's—Béranger is present—A few comments on his influence and popularity—The impact of my play—How it was received by the Comédie-Française—The struggle for casting roles—M. de Broval's ultimatum—Faced with the poetry charge, I turn to the Duc d'Orléans—His Royal Highness holds back my salary—M. Laffitte lends me three thousand francs—Béranger's condemnation. 318
The Duc d'Orléans has my salary stopped—A scribbler (folliculaire)—Henri III. and the Censorship—My mother is seized with paralysis—Cazal—Edmond Halphen—A call on the Duc d'Orléans—First night of Henri III.—Effect is produced on M. Deviolaine—M. de Broval's congratulations. 328
The Duke of Orléans has frozen my salary—A writer (folliculaire)—Henry III. and Censorship—My mother is having a stroke—Cazal—Edmond Halphen—A visit to the Duke of Orléans—Opening night of Henry III.—The impact on Mr. Deviolaine—Mr. de Broval's congratulations. 328
The day following my victory—Henri III. is interdicted—I obtain an audience with M. de Martignac—He removes the interdiction-Les hommes-obstacles—The Duc d'Orléans sends for me into his box—His talk with Charles X. on the subject of my drama—Another scribbler—Visit to Carrel—Gosset's shooting-box and pistols No. 5—An impossible duel. 341
The day after my success—Henri III. is banned—I get a meeting with M. de Martignac—He lifts the ban—Les hommes-obstacles—The Duc d'Orléans invites me to join him in his box—His conversation with Charles X. about my play—Another writer—Visit to Carrel—Gosset's hunting lodge and pistols No. 5—A duel that can't take place. 341
The Arsenal—Nodier's house—The master's profile—The congress of bibliophiles—The three candles—Debureau—Mademoiselle Mars and Merlin—Nodier's family—His friends—In which houses I am at my best—The salon of the Arsenal—Nodier as a teller of tales—The ball and the warming-pan. 351
The Arsenal—Nodier's home—The master's profile—The gathering of book lovers—The three candles—Debureau—Mademoiselle Mars and Merlin—Nodier's family—His friends—In which houses I shine the most—The salon of the Arsenal—Nodier as a storyteller—The ball and the warming-pan. 351
Oudard transmits to me the desires of the Duc d'Orléans—I am appointed assistant librarian—How this saved His Highness four hundred francs—Rivalry with Casimir Delavigne—Petition of the Classical School against Romantic productions—Letter of support from Mademoiselle Duchesnois—A fantastic dance—The person who called Racine a blackguard—Fine indignation of the Constitutionnel—First representation of Marino Faliero 365
Oudard informs me of the Duc d'Orléans' wishes—I’ve been appointed assistant librarian—How this saved His Highness four hundred francs—Competition with Casimir Delavigne—Petition from the Classical School against Romantic works—Letter of support from Mademoiselle Duchesnois—An amazing dance—The person who called Racine a blackguard—The strong outrage of the Constitutionnel—First performance of Marino Faliero 365
Mesmerism—Experiment during a trance—I submit to being mesmerised—My observation upon it—I myself start to mesmerise—Experiment made in a diligence—Another experiment in the house of the procureur de la République of Joigny—Little Marie D****—Her political predictions—I cure her of fear. 380
Mesmerism—Experiment during a trance—I allow myself to be mesmerized—My observations about it—I begin to mesmerize—Experiment done in a carriage—Another experiment at the home of the procureur de la République of Joigny—Little Marie D****—Her political predictions—I help her overcome her fear. 380
Fresh trials of newspaper editors—The Mouton-enragé—Fontan—Harel's witticism concerning him—The Fils de l'Homme before the Police Court—The author pleads his cause in verse—M. Guillebert's prose—Prison charges at Sainte-Pélagie—Embarrassment of the Duc d'Orléans about a historical portrait—The two usurpations. 395
Newspaper editors face fresh struggles—The Mouton-enragé—Fontan—Harel's joke about him—The Fils de l'Homme in front of the Police Court—The author defends himself in verse—M. Guillebert's prose—Prison charges at Sainte-Pélagie—The Duc d'Orléans' embarrassment over a historical portrait—The two usurpations. 395
The things that are the greatest enemies to the success of a play—The honesty of Mademoiselle Mars as an actress—Her dressing-room—The habitués at her supper-parties—Vatout—Denniée—Becquet—Mornay—Mademoiselle Mars in her own home—Her last days on the stage—Material result of the success of Henri III.—My first speculation—The recasting of Christine—Where I looked for my inspiration—Two other ideas. 408
The greatest enemies to a play's success—The honesty of Mademoiselle Mars as an actress—Her dressing room—The regulars at her supper parties—Vatout—Denniée—Becquet—Mornay—Mademoiselle Mars in her own home—Her final days on stage—The tangible results of the success of Henri III.—My first gamble—The reworking of Christine—Where I sought my inspiration—Two other ideas. 408
Victor Hugo—His birth—His mother—Les Chassebœuf and les Cornet—Captain Hugo—The signification of his name—Victor's godfather—The Hugo family in Corsica—M. Hugo is called to Naples by Joseph Bonaparte—He is appointed colonel and governor of the province of Avellino—Recollections of the poet's early childhood—Fra Diavolo—Joseph, King of Spain—Colonel Hugo is made a general, count, marquis and major-domo—The Archbishop of Tarragona—Madame Hugo and her children in Paris—The convent of Feuillantines. 420
Victor Hugo—His birth—His mother—Les Chassebœuf and les Cornet—Captain Hugo—The meaning of his name—Victor's godfather—The Hugo family in Corsica—Mr. Hugo is called to Naples by Joseph Bonaparte—He becomes colonel and governor of Avellino—Memories of the poet's early childhood—Fra Diavolo—Joseph, King of Spain—Colonel Hugo is promoted to general, count, marquis, and major-domo—The Archbishop of Tarragona—Madame Hugo and her children in Paris—The convent of Feuillantines. 420
Departure for Spain—Journey from Paris to Bayonne—The treasure—Order of march of the convoy—M. du Saillant—M. de Cotadilla—Irun—Ernani—Salinas—The battalion of écloppés (cripples)—Madame Hugo's supplies of provisions—The forty Dutch grenadiers—Mondragon—The precipice—Burgos—Celadas—Alerte—The queen's review. 435
Departure for Spain—Journey from Paris to Bayonne—The treasure—Order of march of the convoy—Mr. du Saillant—Mr. de Cotadilla—Irun—Ernani—Salinas—The battalion of écloppés (wounded)—Madame Hugo's provisions—The forty Dutch grenadiers—Mondragon—The cliff—Burgos—Celadas—Alerte—The queen's review. 435
Segovia—M. de Tilly—The Alcazar—The doubloons—The castle of M. de la Calprenède and that of a Spanish grandee—The bourdaloue—Otero—The Dutchmen again—The Guadarrama—Arrival at Madrid—The palace of Masserano—The comet—The College—Don Manoël and Don Bazilio—Tacitus and Plautus—Lillo—The winter of 1812 to 1813—The Empecinado—The glass of eau sucrée—The army of merinoes—Return to Paris. 450
Segovia—M. de Tilly—The Alcazar—The doubloons—The castle of M. de la Calprenède and that of a Spanish grandee—The bourdaloue—Otero—The Dutchmen again—The Guadarrama—Arrival at Madrid—The palace of Masserano—The comet—The College—Don Manoël and Don Bazilio—Tacitus and Plautus—Lillo—The winter of 1812 to 1813—The Empecinado—The glass of eau sucrée—The army of merinoes—Return to Paris. 450
The college and the garden of the Feuillantines—Grenadier or general—Victor Hugo's first appearance in public—He obtains honourable mention at the Academy examination—He carries off three prizes in the Jeux Floraux—Han d'Islande—The poet and the bodyguard—Hugo's marriage—The Odes et Ballades—Proposition made by cousin Cornet. 466
The college and the garden of the Feuillantines—Grenadier or general—Victor Hugo's first public appearance—He receives honorable mention at the Academy examination—He wins three prizes in the Jeux Floraux—Han d'Islande—The poet and the bodyguard—Hugo's marriage—The Odes et Ballades—Proposal from cousin Cornet. 466
Léopoldine—The opinions of the son of the Vendéenne—The Delon conspiracy—Hugo offers Delon shelter—Louis XVIII. bestows a pension of twelve hundred francs on the author of the Odes et Ballades—The poet at the office of the director-general des postes—How he learns the existence of the cabinet noir—He is made a chevalier of the Legion d'honneur—Beauchesne-Bug-Jargal—The Ambassador of Austria's soirée—Ode à la Colonne—Cromwell—How Marion Delorme was written. 480
Léopoldine—The perspective of the son of the Vendéenne—The Delon conspiracy—Hugo offers refuge to Delon—Louis XVIII grants a pension of twelve hundred francs to the author of the Odes et Ballades—The poet at the office of the director-general of the post—How he discovers the existence of the cabinet noir—He becomes a chevalier of the Legion d'honneur—Beauchesne-Bug-Jargal—The soirée of the Ambassador of Austria—Ode à la Colonne—Cromwell—How Marion Delorme was written. 480
Reading of Marion Delorme at the house of Devéria—Steeplechase of directors—Marion Delorme is stopped by the Censorship—Hugo obtains an audience with Charles X.—His drama is definitely interdicted—They send him the brevet of a pension, which he declines—He sets to work on Hernani and completes it in twenty-four days. 496
Reading of Marion Delorme at Devéria's house—A race of directors—Marion Delorme is banned by the Censorship—Hugo manages to secure a meeting with Charles X.—His play is officially prohibited—They send him the pension certificate, which he rejects—He begins working on Hernani and finishes it in twenty-four days. 496
The invasion of barbarians—Rehearsals of Hernani—Mademoiselle Mars and the lines about the lion—The scene over the portraits—Hugo takes away from Mademoiselle Mars the part of Doña Sol—Michelot's flattering complaisance to the public—The quatrain about the cupboard—Joanny. 507
The invasion of outsiders—Rehearsals of Hernani—Mademoiselle Mars and the lines about the lion—The scene over the portraits—Hugo takes the role of Doña Sol from Mademoiselle Mars—Michelot's flattering eagerness to please the audience—The quatrain about the cupboard—Joanny. 507
Alfred de Vigny—The man and his works—Harel, the manager at the Odéon—Downfall of Soulié's Christine—Parenthesis about Lassailly—Letter of Harel, with preface by myself and postscript by Soulié—I read my Christine at the Odéon—Harel asks me to put it into prose—First representation of the More de Venise—The actors and the papers. 521
Alfred de Vigny—The man and his works—Harel, the manager at the Odéon—The decline of Soulié's Christine—A note about Lassailly—Letter from Harel, with my preface and a postscript by Soulié—I read my Christine at the Odéon—Harel asks me to adapt it into prose—First performance of the More de Venise—The actors and the press. 521
Citizen-general Barras—Doctor Cabarrus introduces me to him—Barras's only two regrets—His dinners—The Princess de Chimay's footman—Fauche-Borel—The Duc de Bordeaux makes a mess—History lesson given to an ambassador—Walter Scott and Barras—The last happiness of the old directeur—His death. 535
Citizen-general Barras—Doctor Cabarrus introduces me to him—Barras's only two regrets—His dinners—The Princess de Chimay's footman—Fauche-Borel—The Duc de Bordeaux makes a mess—History lesson given to an ambassador—Walter Scott and Barras—The last happiness of the old directeur—His death. 535
THE MEMOIRS OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
I become a fully fledged employé—Bad plays—Thibaut—My studies with him—Where they have been of use to me—Amaury and the consumptives—My reading—Walter Scott—Cooper—Byron—The pleasure of eating Sauerkraut at the Parthenon
I became a full-time employee—Terrible performances—Thibaut—My studies with him—How they've benefited me—Amaury and the people with tuberculosis—My reading—Walter Scott—Cooper—Byron—The joy of having Sauerkraut at the Parthenon
On 1 January 1824 I was promoted from being one of the supernumerary clerks at twelve hundred francs per annum to the position of being a regular employé at fifteen hundred. I considered this a most flourishing condition of affairs, and thought that it was now time to send for my mother. I had not seen her for nine months, and the long separation began to grieve me. During these nine months I had made a sad discovery, which it was quite as well I should make, namely, that I had not learnt anything at all that I needed to learn, in order to further my progress in the career I wished to take up. But this did not discourage me, for I felt satisfied that I was now, once for all, firmly established in Paris and that I should not starve, thanks to my 125 francs per month; so I redoubled my zeal, and, ceasing to think of the limit of time I had fixed wherein to attain my end, I resolved to use it in applying myself to study.
On January 1, 1824, I was promoted from being one of the extra clerks earning twelve hundred francs a year to becoming a regular employee at fifteen hundred. I considered this a great improvement, and I thought it was finally time to invite my mother to visit. I hadn’t seen her in nine months, and the long separation was starting to weigh on me. During those nine months, I made a frustrating realization: I hadn’t learned anything I actually needed to progress in the career I wanted. But this didn’t discourage me; I felt confident that I was now, for the long term, settled in Paris and that I wouldn’t go hungry, thanks to my 125 francs a month. So, I increased my efforts and, instead of focusing on the time I had set to reach my goals, I decided to dedicate myself to studying.
Unfortunately, after subtracting my office hours, very little time remained to me. I had to be at the Palais-Royal by half-past ten in the morning, and we did not leave until five in the[Pg 2] evening. Moreover, there was a peculiar function connected with the secretary's office, which did not hold with respect to any other office. Either Ernest or I had to return, from eight till ten o'clock in the evening, while the Duc d'Orléans lived at Neuilly, in order to attend to what was called the portefeuille; and the Duc d'Orléans, being fond of a country life, spent three-quarters of the year at Neuilly. The task was not a difficult one, but it was imperative; it consisted in sending off by courier to the Duc d'Orléans the evening papers and his day's letters, and in receiving in return the orders for the next day. This meant a loss of two hours in the evening, and, of course, made it impossible to go to any play except at the Théâtre-Français, which adjoined our offices. It is but fair to say that M. Oudard, who had three tickets a day at his disposal for any seat in the theatre, sometimes indulged us with one of them—an act of generosity hardly ever displayed except when poor plays were on. Still, the expression "poor plays" must only be understood to mean the days when neither Talma nor Mademoiselle Mars was acting. But, since I wanted to go to the theatre for purposes of study, those days of poor plays were often profitable exhibitions for me. Then, too, I entered into an arrangement with Ernest by which each of us had his week, and, in this way, we secured fifteen free nights per month.
Unfortunately, after deducting my office hours, I had very little time left. I had to be at the Palais-Royal by 10:30 in the morning, and we didn’t leave until 5 in the[Pg 2] evening. Plus, there was a specific duty tied to the secretary's office that didn’t apply to any other office. Either Ernest or I had to go back from 8 to 10 in the evening while the Duc d'Orléans was living in Neuilly, to take care of what was called the portefeuille; and since the Duc d'Orléans enjoyed country living, he spent three-quarters of the year in Neuilly. The job wasn’t hard, but it was essential; it involved sending the evening papers and his day’s letters to the Duc d'Orléans by courier and getting the orders for the next day in return. This meant losing two hours in the evening, making it impossible to attend any plays except at the Théâtre-Français, which was next to our offices. It’s fair to mention that M. Oudard, who had three tickets a day for any seat in the theater, sometimes treated us to one of them—usually only when the plays weren’t very good. However, "poor plays" only referred to the days when neither Talma nor Mademoiselle Mars were performing. But since I wanted to go to the theater for study purposes, those so-called poor plays often turned out to be valuable experiences for me. Additionally, I made an arrangement with Ernest so that each of us had a week to go, which gave us fifteen free nights a month.
I had made the acquaintance of a young doctor, named Thibaut; he had no practice at that time, although he was not without ability. One cure he brought about made his reputation, and another his fortune. He cured Félix Deviolaine—the young cousin of whom I have several times spoken and of whom I shall have occasion to speak again—of a chest complaint that had reached the last stages, by means of inducing articular rheumatism, which drew off the inflammation; and by sheer skill he managed to cure the Marquise de Lagrange, whom he accompanied to Italy, of a chronic affection which was considered incurable. When the marquise was restored to perfect health, she was so grateful that she married him, and they both live to-day on their estates near[Pg 3] Gros-Bois. As Thibaut has the control of a fortune of forty to fifty thousand livres income, he no longer practises the craft of medicine except to benefit his flowers and fruits.
I became friends with a young doctor named Thibaut. At that time, he didn’t have a practice, but he had talent. One successful treatment built his reputation, and another secured his wealth. He cured Félix Deviolaine—the young cousin I’ve mentioned several times and will mention again—of a severe chest ailment by inducing articular rheumatism, which relieved the inflammation. Through sheer skill, he also cured the Marquise de Lagrange, whom he accompanied to Italy, of a chronic condition that was thought to be incurable. Once the marquise regained her health, she was so grateful that she married him, and they now live on their estate near[Pg 3] Gros-Bois. Since Thibaut manages a fortune of forty to fifty thousand livres in income, he no longer practices medicine except to tend to his flowers and fruits.
But, at this period, Thibaut, like Adolphe and myself, was penniless; we were both his patients, and, pecuniarily speaking, very bad ones. How came we to be Thibaut's patients? I will explain. In 1823 and 1824 it was all the fashion to suffer from chest complaint; everybody was consumptive, poets especially; it was good form to spit blood after each emotion that was at all inclined to be sensational, and to die before reaching the age of thirty. Of course, Adolphe and I, both young, tall and thin, considered we were fully entitled to this privilege, and many people who knew us agreed we had some right thereto. I have now lost all claim to this distinction, but, to be fair towards Adolphe, he still has his; for now, at forty-six, he is just as tall and as thin as he was then, when he was twenty-one.
But at this time, Thibaut, like Adolphe and me, was broke; we were both his patients and, financially speaking, terrible ones. How did we end up as Thibaut's patients? Let me explain. In 1823 and 1824, it was trendy to have a chest illness; everyone seemed to be struggling with consumption, especially poets. It was fashionable to cough up blood after any intense emotion and to die before turning thirty. Of course, Adolphe and I, both young, tall, and slim, felt completely entitled to this privilege, and many people who knew us agreed we had some right to it. I've now lost any claim to that distinction, but to be fair to Adolphe, he still has his; at forty-six, he's just as tall and thin as he was at twenty-one.
Thibaut knew everything of which I was ignorant, so he undertook my education, and it was no light task. We spent nearly all our evenings together in a tiny room in the rue du Pélican, which looked out on the passage Véro-Dodat. I was a hundred yards off the Palais-Royal, so it was the easiest thing imaginable to go from my quarters to make up my packet for the courier. In the morning, I often accompanied Thibaut to the Hôpital de la Charité, where I picked up a little knowledge of physiology and anatomy, although I have never been able to overcome my aversion towards operations and dead bodies. From these visits accrued a certain amount of medical and surgical knowledge, which has often come in very usefully in my novel-writing. As, for example, in Amaury, where I traced the various phases of a lung disease in my heroine, Madeleine, with such accuracy that once I was paid the compliment of a visit from M. Noailles, who came to ask me to stop the run of this novel in the Presse. His daughter and his son-in-law, who were both in the same stage of consumption, had recognised their precise symptoms in Madeleine's illness, and both waited impatiently each morning[Pg 4] for the paper, to know whether M. d'Avrigny's daughter was going to die or not. As M. d'Avrigny's daughter had been condemned to death both by fate and by her author, the feuilleton was interrupted and, to comfort the two poor invalids, I improvised, in manuscript, a conclusion which raised their hopes, but which, alas! did not restore them to health. The feuilleton was not resumed until after their death. The readers of the Presse had noticed the interruption, but were ignorant of its cause. Now they know.
Thibaut knew everything I didn't, so he took on the job of teaching me, which was no easy task. We spent almost every evening together in a small room on rue du Pélican, overlooking passage Véro-Dodat. I was just a hundred yards from the Palais-Royal, so it was super easy for me to run back to my place and prepare my package for the courier. In the mornings, I often went with Thibaut to the Hôpital de la Charité, where I picked up a bit of knowledge about physiology and anatomy, even though I've never been able to shake my dislike for surgeries and dead bodies. From these visits, I gained some medical and surgical knowledge that has been pretty helpful in my novel writing. For instance, in Amaury, I described the stages of a lung disease in my heroine, Madeleine, with such accuracy that I once received a visit from M. Noailles, who came to ask me to stop publishing this novel in the Presse. His daughter and son-in-law, who were both at the same stage of tuberculosis, had recognized their exact symptoms in Madeleine's illness and eagerly awaited each morning[Pg 4] to see if M. d'Avrigny's daughter was going to survive. Since M. d'Avrigny's daughter was doomed both by fate and by me, the feuilleton was halted, and to comfort the two poor patients, I quickly wrote an ending in manuscript that gave them hope, but unfortunately, it didn't bring them back to health. The feuilleton didn't continue until after they passed away. The readers of the Presse noticed the pause but didn't know why. Now they do.
I have said that I went with Thibaut to the Hôpital de la Charité most mornings, from six to seven o'clock. In the evening, we studied physics and chemistry in his room; and it was in his room that I made my first study of the poisons used by Madame de Villefort in Monte-Cristo—a study which I followed and perfected later, with Ruolz.
I mentioned that I went with Thibaut to the Hôpital de la Charité most mornings, from six to seven o'clock. In the evenings, we studied physics and chemistry in his room; it was there that I first studied the poisons used by Madame de Villefort in Monte-Cristo—a study that I later continued and improved upon with Ruolz.
A good-looking young neighbour named Mademoiselle Walker, who was a milliner, used to join us in our researches. Like la Fontaine's hen, she failed to set Thibaut and me at variance, although she tried all sorts of devices, but happily none was successful, and we all three managed to keep on friendly terms.
A good-looking young neighbor named Mademoiselle Walker, who was a hat maker, used to join us in our research. Like la Fontaine's hen, she couldn't get Thibaut and me to argue, even though she tried all sorts of tricks. Thankfully, none of them worked, and the three of us stayed on good terms.
I owe much to Thibaut for teaching me method in working, as well as for actual knowledge. I will relate later how Thibaut, whose name is several times quoted in l'Histoire de dix ans, by Louis Blanc, was obliged, by reason of his relationship with the family of Maréchal Gérard, to play a certain part in the Revolution of July.
I owe a lot to Thibaut for showing me how to work methodically, as well as for the knowledge he shared. I'll explain later how Thibaut, who is mentioned several times in l'Histoire de dix ans by Louis Blanc, had to play a specific role in the July Revolution because of his connection to the family of Maréchal Gérard.
At Lassagne's persuasion I branched out in other directions, and began a course of reading. Walter Scott came first. The first novel I read by the "Scottish Bard," as he was then called, was Ivanhoe. Accustomed to the mild plots of Madame Cottin, or to the eccentric pranks of the author of the Barons de Felsheim and of the Enfant du Carnaval, it took me some time to get used to the rude, uncouth ways of Gurth the swineherd, and to the facetious jokes of Wamba, Cedric's jester. But when the author introduced me to the old Saxon's romantic dining-hall; when I had seen the fire[Pg 5] on the hearth, fed by a whole oak tree, with its light sparkling on the monk and on the dress of the unknown pilgrim; when I saw all the members of the family of the thane take their places at the long oak board, from the head of the castle, the king of his territory, to the meanest servitor; when I saw the Jew Isaac in his yellow cap, and his daughter Rebecca in her gold corselet; when the tourney at Ashby had given me a foretaste of the powerful sword-shakes and lance-thrusts that I should again come across in Froissart, oh! then, little by little, the clouds that had veiled my sight began to lift, I saw open out before me more extended horizons than any that had appeared to me when Adolphe de Leuven worked these changes in my provincial imagination that I have already mentioned.
At Lassagne's urging, I started exploring new interests and began reading. Walter Scott was first. The first novel I read by the "Scottish Bard," as he was known, was Ivanhoe. Used to the gentle plots of Madame Cottin or the quirky antics of the author of the Barons de Felsheim and Enfant du Carnaval, it took me a while to adjust to the rough, awkward nature of Gurth the swineherd, and the witty jokes of Wamba, Cedric's jester. But when the author took me to the old Saxon's romantic dining hall; when I saw the fire[Pg 5] on the hearth, fueled by an entire oak tree, casting its light on the monk and the mysterious pilgrim; when I witnessed the members of the thane's family taking their seats at the long oak table, from the head of the castle, the ruler of his land, to the lowliest servant; when I spotted the Jew Isaac in his yellow cap and his daughter Rebecca in her gold corset; when the tournament at Ashby gave me a preview of the powerful sword strikes and lance thrusts I would encounter again in Froissart—oh! then, slowly but surely, the clouds that had obscured my vision began to clear, revealing broader horizons than I had ever imagined when Adolphe de Leuven sparked these changes in my provincial imagination that I’ve mentioned before.
Next followed Cooper, with his big forests, his vast prairies, his boundless oceans, his Pioneers, his Prairie, his Redskins—three masterpieces of description, wherein absence of substance is well concealed beneath wealth of style, so that one goes the whole way through a novel of his, like the apostle, upon ground ever ready to yawn open and swallow one up, and yet, nevertheless, one is upheld, not by faith but by style, from the first page to the last.
Next came Cooper, with his expansive forests, huge prairies, endless oceans, his Pioneers, his Prairie, his Redskins—three masterpieces of description, where the lack of substance is skillfully hidden beneath a richness of style, so that reading one of his novels feels like walking on the edge of a deep pit, ready to swallow you whole, yet, despite this, you're supported, not by faith but by style, from the first page to the last.
Then came Byron—Byron, lyric and dramatic poet, who died at Missolonghi just when I was beginning to study him in Paris. There had been a tremendous rage over Lord Byron for some time; the glory of the poet had derived fresh glamour from the Greek camp bivouacs; his name would henceforth be associated with those of the famous Greeks of old; not only would Byron be spoken of as akin to Sir Walter Scott and Chateaubriand, but in the same breath as the names of Mavrocordato, Odysseus and Canaris.
Then came Byron—Byron, the lyrical and dramatic poet, who died in Missolonghi just as I was starting to study him in Paris. There had been a huge fascination with Lord Byron for a while; the poet's glory had gained new allure from the Greek battle camps; his name would now be linked with those of the famous Greeks of the past; not only would Byron be mentioned alongside Sir Walter Scott and Chateaubriand, but also in the same breath as Mavrocordato, Odysseus, and Canaris.
One day, before the world even knew that the famous poet was ill, we read in the papers as follows:—
One day, before anyone even knew that the famous poet was sick, we read in the newspapers as follows:—
"MISSOLONGHI, 20 April
"MISSOLONGHI, April 20
"Our town presents a most touching spectacle; we have all gone into mourning, for our illustrious benefactor died at six o'clock yesterday evening, the 19th instant."
"Our town is in a very emotional state; we have all gone into mourning because our great benefactor died at six o'clock yesterday evening, the 19th."
Byron had died at the age of thirty-seven, like Raphael; he had died during the Easter celebrations, and thirty-seven volleys were fired—one for each year of his life—in every town, spreading the news of his death from Thrace to the Piræus, and from Epeirus to the Asiatic coasts.
Byron passed away at the age of thirty-seven, just like Raphael; he died during the Easter celebrations, and thirty-seven gun salutes were fired—one for each year of his life—in every town, spreading the news of his death from Thrace to Piraeus, and from Epirus to the Asian coasts.
Courts of justice, public offices and shops were closed for three days; for three days dancing, public amusements and the sound of musical instruments were forbidden; and the public mourning lasted for three weeks.
Courts, government offices, and stores were closed for three days; for three days, dancing, public entertainment, and music were prohibited; and the public mourning lasted for three weeks.
Poor Byron! he only desired to fight and to help to win a victory, or, if conquered, to die arms in hand. As a general, it would have given him great joy to lead the Souliotes at the siege of Lepanto; Lepanto, the land of Don Juan and of Charles the Fifth, seemed to him a fitting name with which to link his own; it was a noble land to bleed for and to die in.
Poor Byron! He just wanted to fight and help win a victory or, if defeated, to die with his arms in hand. As a general, it would have made him very happy to lead the Souliotes at the siege of Lepanto; Lepanto, the land of Don Juan and Charles the Fifth, seemed like the perfect name to connect with his own; it was a noble place to bleed for and to die in.
But he was not to realise that happiness; he died at Missolonghi, and it was he who made an unknown land famous, instead of himself receiving lustre from a sacred land; people say, "Byron died at Missolonghi," not "Missolonghi, the place where Byron died."
But he was not meant to experience that happiness; he died in Missolonghi, and it was he who made an unknown land famous, rather than gaining glory from a sacred land; people say, "Byron died in Missolonghi," not "Missolonghi, the place where Byron died."
The great man had no notion that, in dying for the Greeks, he was only dying so that Europe, as the Duc d'Orléans once expressed it to me, might have the pleasure of eating sauerkraut at the foot of the Parthenon!
The great man had no idea that, by dying for the Greeks, he was just dying so that Europe, as the Duc d'Orléans once told me, could enjoy eating sauerkraut at the base of the Parthenon!
Poor immortal bard, who died in the hope that the news of his death would resound through all hearts! what would he have said if he could have heard, as I rushed in, the newspaper containing the fatal notice in my hand, crying despairingly, "Byron is dead," one of the assistants in our office ask, "Who was Byron?" Such a question caused me both pain and pleasure mixed; I had, then, found someone even more ignorant than myself, and he one of the chief clerks in the office. Had it been only an ordinary copying clerk I should not have felt so consoled.
Poor immortal bard, who passed away hoping that news of his death would touch everyone’s heart! What would he have said if he could have heard me rush in with the newspaper in hand, shouting in despair, "Byron is dead," and one of the assistants in our office asking, "Who was Byron?" Such a question brought me a strange mix of pain and pleasure; I had found someone even more ignorant than I was, and he was one of the main clerks in the office. If it had only been a regular copying clerk, I wouldn't have felt so comforted.
This unlooked for death of one of the greatest poets of the time made a deep impression upon me; I felt instinctively[Pg 7] that Byron was more than a poet, that he was one of those leaders whose inspired utterances, in the silence of the night and in the obscurity in which art lives, are heard throughout all nations, whose shining rays lighten the whole world. Such men are usually not only prophets but also martyrs. They create from out their own sufferings the divine thoughts which act as incentives to others; it is at the spectacle of their own tortures that they utter cries which clutch the heart. Had Prometheus or Napoleon been poets, think what verses each would have engraved on his rock of doom!
This unexpected death of one of the greatest poets of the time really struck me; I felt instinctively[Pg 7] that Byron was more than just a poet, that he was one of those leaders whose inspired words, in the stillness of the night and in the shadows where art exists, resonate across all nations, whose bright rays illuminate the entire world. Such individuals are often not only prophets but also martyrs. They create divine ideas from their own pain, which serve as motivation for others; it is in witnessing their own struggles that they cry out in ways that touch the heart. If Prometheus or Napoleon had been poets, imagine what verses each would have carved into his stone of fate!
We will try, then, to give an account of the sufferings of this man, who was driven from his own country as though he were a Barabbas, to die for the Greeks as Christ did for the Jews.
We will attempt to recount the struggles of this man, who was forced out of his homeland as if he were a Barabbas, to die for the Greeks just as Christ did for the Jews.
Death must be passed through before there can be transfiguration.
Death has to be experienced before there can be transformation.
CHAPTER II
Byron's childhood—His grief at being lame—Mary Duff—The Malvern fortune-teller—How Byron and Robert Peel became acquainted—Miss Parker—Miss Chaworth—Verses on her portrait—Mrs. Musters—Lady Morgan—English Bards and Scotch Reviewers—Byron's letters to his mother—He takes his seat in the House of Lords
Byron's childhood—His feelings about being disabled—Mary Duff—The fortune-teller from Malvern—How Byron met Robert Peel—Miss Parker—Miss Chaworth—Poems inspired by her portrait—Mrs. Musters—Lady Morgan—English Bards and Scotch Reviewers—Byron's letters to his mother—He officially joins the House of Lords
Byron was born on 22 January 1788, of so ancient and noble a family that it could take rank with many royal families. At his birth, the child who was predestined to become so famous had his foot dislocated and no one noticed the fact. This accident made him lame, and we shall see what an influence this infirmity had upon his life.
Byron was born on January 22, 1788, into such an ancient and noble family that it could be compared to many royal families. At his birth, the child who was destined to become so famous had a dislocated foot, but no one noticed it. This accident left him lame, and we’ll see how much this disability affected his life.
Four celebrated men belonging to the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries were lame: Maréchal Soult, M. de Talleyrand, Walter Scott and Lord Byron. A woman writer has said that "Byron would have given half his fame if he could but have been as proud of his feet as he was of his hands." We are assured that Juno's bird, the peacock, forgot his rich plumage and uttered a cry of distress every time he looked down at his feet. And Byron, king of poets, who had a good deal of the peacock about him, was not more philosophical than that king of birds.
Four famous men from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries had disabilities: Maréchal Soult, M. de Talleyrand, Walter Scott, and Lord Byron. A female writer remarked that "Byron would have given half his fame if he could have been as proud of his feet as he was of his hands." We're told that Juno's bird, the peacock, forgot its beautiful feathers and cried out in distress whenever it looked down at its feet. And Byron, the king of poets, who had quite a bit of the peacock in him, was no more philosophical than that king of birds.
"What a beautiful child!" some lady once remarked, when Byron was three years old and she saw him, whip in hand, playing at his nurse's knee; "but what a pity he is crippled!"
"What a beautiful child!" a lady once commented when Byron was three years old and she saw him, whip in hand, playing at his nurse's knee; "but what a shame he's crippled!"
The child turned round, lifted up his whip and lashed the woman with all his might. "Dinna say that!" he said.
The child turned around, raised his whip, and struck the woman with all his strength. "Don't say that!" he said.
His mother, strange to say, never understood how proud the child was. Byron was misunderstood by the two beings who,[Pg 9] when they understand a man, can shed most happiness upon his life—his mother and his wife. Byron's mother, as we have said, never realised the child's pride, and used to call him "my lame boy."
His mother, strangely enough, never understood how proud the kid was. Byron was misunderstood by the two people who,[Pg 9] when they really get to know a man, can bring the most happiness into his life—his mom and his wife. Byron's mom, as we've mentioned, never recognized her child's pride and used to call him "my lame boy."
If you would learn what this flaw in maternal love cost the lad, read what Arnold says in the first scene of The Deformed Transformed:—
If you want to understand what this flaw in maternal love cost the boy, check out what Arnold says in the first scene of The Deformed Transformed:—
"A Forest
Enter ARNOLD and his mother BERTHA
Bert.
Out, hunchback!
Arn.
I was born so, mother!
Bert.
Out,
Thou incubus! Thou nightmare! Of seven sons,
The sole abortion!
Arn.
Would that I had been so,
And never seen the light!
Bert.
I would so too!
But as thou hast—hence, hence—and do thy best!
That back of thine may bear its burthen; 'tis
More high, if not so broad as that of others.
Arn.
It bears its burthen:—but, my heart! Will it
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother?
I love, or, at the least, I loved you: nothing
Save you, in nature, can love aught like me.
You nursed me—do not kill me!"
"A Forest"
Enter ARNOLD and his mom BERTHA
Bert.
Get out of here, hunchback!
Arn.
I was born like this, mom!
Bert.
Go away,
You monster! You nightmare! Out of seven sons,
You're the only one who failed!
Arn.
I wish I had never been born.
And never had to see the light!
Bert.
I want that too!
But since you are—get out, get out—and give it your all!
That back of yours might be heavy; it’s
Higher, though perhaps not as wide as others.
Arn.
It can handle its load:—but, my goodness! Will it
Can you handle everything you're dealing with, Mom?
I love you, or at least I used to: nothing __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
In this world, can anyone love like I do?
"You raised me—please don’t ruin me!"
At the age of five Byron was sent to school in Aberdeen, where they paid but five shillings a quarter for him. I had thought no child had ever been educated more cheaply than I had; but I was mistaken, and I present my congratulations to Byron as a brother at least in poverty.
At the age of five, Byron was sent to school in Aberdeen, where they paid just five shillings a quarter for him. I used to think no child had ever been educated more cheaply than I had; but I was wrong, and I extend my congratulations to Byron as a sibling at least in poverty.
Although the future poet spent a whole year in this school, one of his biographers tells us he hardly managed to learn his letters. I had this further advantage over Byron that my mother taught me to read: God gave me at least half of what Byron was denied—a good mother.
Although the future poet spent an entire year at this school, one of his biographers tells us he barely learned his letters. I had this additional advantage over Byron: my mother taught me how to read. God gave me at least half of what Byron was missing—a good mother.
From the school at Aberdeen, Byron passed to the university of the same town. Alas! he was one of the worst scholars, and was always at the bottom of his class. Many of[Pg 10] his schoolfellows can tell stories of the jokes which his masters made at his expense.
From the school in Aberdeen, Byron moved on to the university in the same town. Unfortunately, he was one of the worst students and consistently ranked at the bottom of his class. Many of[Pg 10] his classmates can share stories about the jokes his teachers made at his expense.
In 1798 the old Lord Byron died. He had been a roué of quality, who had had any number of love affairs and duels. He killed his friend Chaworth in one of his duels—an event which was to have its influence upon his son's life too.
In 1798, the old Lord Byron passed away. He had been a high-class womanizer with countless love affairs and duels. He killed his friend Chaworth in one of these duels—an event that would also impact his son's life.
Two years before, young Byron had paid a visit to the Scotch Highlands, from whence he derived that love of high peaks, shared by eagles and poets, which made him later sing the praises of the Alps, the Apennines and Parnassus.
Two years earlier, young Byron visited the Scottish Highlands, where he developed a love for high peaks, shared by eagles and poets, that later inspired him to praise the Alps, the Apennines, and Parnassus.
It was during this tour our Dante met his Beatrice; her name was Mary Duff, and she was only eight years old.
It was during this tour that Dante met his Beatrice; her name was Mary Duff, and she was just eight years old.
The old Lord Byron died at Newstead Abbey, and Byron was his heir. He left Aberdeen with his mother. They sold their furniture for seventy-five pounds sterling—another point of similarity between us (I hope I may be pardoned my comparisons, I shall not have much pride in pressing them further)—and they reached Newstead. There they put the young man under the care of a quack doctor called Lavemde to try and cure his foot, for this infirmity occupied the greatest portion of his thoughts. As it was seen that the young lord's lameness was neither better nor worse for this charlatan's treatment, he was sent to London, where he was entrusted for his physical requirements to Dr. Baillie, and for his moral equipment to Dr. Glennie. There, both doctors had a certain measure of success, for Dr. Glennie had the satisfaction, after having put him on the way, of beholding his pupil surpass all his contemporaries, in letters and poetry.
The old Lord Byron passed away at Newstead Abbey, and Byron inherited his title. He left Aberdeen with his mother. They sold their furniture for seventy-five pounds sterling—another point of similarity between us (I hope you’ll forgive my comparisons; I won’t take pride in pushing them further)—and they arrived at Newstead. There, they placed the young man under the care of a quack doctor named Lavemde to try to fix his foot, as this issue consumed most of his thoughts. Since it was evident that the young lord’s lameness wasn’t getting any better or worse from this charlatan’s treatment, he was sent to London, where he was referred to Dr. Baillie for his physical issues and to Dr. Glennie for his moral guidance. Both doctors had some success, as Dr. Glennie took pride in seeing his pupil excel in letters and poetry, surpassing all his peers.
Dr. Baillie managed to cure his foot sufficiently to enable him to wear an ordinary boot, so that his lameness did not seem more than a slight limp. Great was the proud youth's joy, and he communicated it to his nurse, whom he greatly loved.
Dr. Baillie was able to treat his foot well enough for him to wear a regular boot, so his lameness only showed as a slight limp. The young man was immensely happy, and he shared that joy with his nurse, whom he loved very much.
In 1801, when he was thirteen, Byron followed his mother to Cheltenham, where the view of the Malvern Hills, recalling his first visit to the Highlands, made a deep impression upon him, especially as he saw them in the early morning and[Pg 11] evening. When he and his mother were out riding together they learnt from the country people of a celebrated sorceress of those parts, and Lady Byron took a fancy to consult her. She said nothing of the lad, and introduced herself to the witch as an unmarried woman. But the sorceress shook her head.
In 1801, when he was thirteen, Byron followed his mother to Cheltenham, where the view of the Malvern Hills reminded him of his first trip to the Highlands and really impressed him, especially when he saw them in the early morning and[Pg 11] evening. When he and his mother went riding together, they heard from the locals about a famous sorceress in the area, and Lady Byron decided to consult her. She didn’t mention her son and introduced herself to the witch as an unmarried woman. But the sorceress just shook her head.
"You are not a maid," she said; "you have been a wife and are now a widow; you have a son who will be in danger of being poisoned before he has attained his majority; he will marry twice, and the second time it will be with a foreigner."
"You’re not a maid," she said. "You’ve been a wife and are now a widow; you have a son who might be in danger of being poisoned before he turns eighteen. He’ll marry twice, and the second time it’ll be to someone from another country."
We shall see directly that, if he was not exactly poisoned, he was in fear of being so, and it is well known that, if he did not marry a second time, at all events he found a beautiful Venetian lady of rank who made up to him for his first marriage, save in the recollection of its unhappiness.
We will see clearly that, even if he wasn't actually poisoned, he was definitely afraid of being poisoned. It's well known that, even if he didn't remarry, he found a beautiful, high-status Venetian lady who compensated for his first marriage, except for the memories of its unhappiness.
From Dr. Glennie's tutelage, Byron proceeded to Harrow. Dr. Drury was then headmaster, and he was the first to detect some few faint glimpses of what the poet would one day become.
From Dr. Glennie's teaching, Byron moved on to Harrow. Dr. Drury was the headmaster at that time, and he was the first to catch a few early signs of what the poet would eventually become.
"Here I made my first verses," said Byron, "they were received but coldly; but, in revenge, I fought glorious battles at Harrow: I only lost one fight out of every seven!"
"Here I wrote my first poems," said Byron, "they were met with indifference; but to get back at them, I fought epic battles at Harrow: I only lost one fight out of every seven!"
It was at Harrow that he made the acquaintance of Sir Robert Peel, and the way in which they became fast friends gives some idea of the character of Byron.
It was at Harrow that he met Sir Robert Peel, and the way they became close friends gives some insight into Byron's character.
One of their comrades, taller and stronger than they, with whom consequently they had no dealings, was discovered by Byron thrashing poor Peel.
One of their teammates, taller and stronger than them, with whom they had no interactions, was found by Byron beating up poor Peel.
Byron came up and said—
Byron approached and said—
"How many more blows do you mean to give Robert?"
"How many more hits are you planning to give Robert?"
"What business is it of yours?" retorted the combatant. "Why do you ask such a question?"
"What business is it of yours?" the fighter shot back. "Why do you ask that?"
"Because, if you please, executioner, I will take half the blows you intend for him and will return them to you later, you understand, when I am bigger."
"Because, if you don’t mind, executioner, I will take half the hits you plan for him and will return them to you later, you get it, when I’m bigger."
After Harrow, the young man went to finish his education at the University of Cambridge; but he was ever impatient of[Pg 12] regular study, just as he was of ordinary modes of enjoyment: the only thing he learnt was how to swim; his only recreation was the training of a bear.
After Harrow, the young man went on to complete his education at the University of Cambridge; however, he was always frustrated by[Pg 12] traditional studying, just like he was with typical forms of entertainment: the only thing he actually learned was how to swim, and his only hobby was training a bear.
In 1806, when he was eighteen, he joined his mother at Newstead. The relations between mother and son were not at all of a tender nature; on the contrary, the two were nearly always quarrelling. One of these quarrels even went so far one day that each in turn called at a chemist's, within five minutes of one another, to inquire if he had sold the other poison, and, on being told not, begged him not to do so. Besides little Mary Duff, with whom he fell in love when he was nine, Byron conceived a passion when he was twelve for his cousin, Miss Parker, for whom he composed his first verses. They were lost, and the poet never remembered what they were. Miss Parker died, and gave place to Miss Chaworth, the daughter of the man whom old Lord Byron had killed. But this time it was the real passion of budding manhood, tender and deep, and it left its mark for the rest of his life. Miss Chaworth was beautiful, charming in manner and wealthy.
In 1806, when he was eighteen, he rejoined his mother at Newstead. The relationship between mother and son was anything but loving; in fact, they were almost always arguing. One particular fight escalated so much that they both ended up stopping by a pharmacy within five minutes of each other to ask if the chemist had sold the other poison, and when told he hadn't, they each asked him not to. Besides little Mary Duff, whom he fell in love with at nine, Byron developed a crush on his cousin, Miss Parker, when he was twelve, and he wrote his first poems for her. Those poems were lost, and the poet never remembered what they were. Miss Parker passed away, making way for Miss Chaworth, the daughter of the man whom old Lord Byron had killed. But this time, it was the genuine passion of young adulthood, tender and profound, and it left a lasting impression on him. Miss Chaworth was beautiful, charming, and wealthy.
"Alas!" said Byron, "our union would have wiped out the recollection of the blood shed between our fathers; it would have reunited two rich estates and two beings who would have agreed well enough together, and then—and then—Ah, well, God knows what might have happened!"
"Unfortunately!" said Byron, "our partnership would have erased the memory of the blood spilled between our families; it would have brought together two wealthy estates and two people who would have gotten along just fine, and then—and then—Oh, who knows what could have happened!"
But Byron was lame; he was obliged to avoid all kinds of exercise that could expose his deformity, and consequently dancing. Now Miss Chaworth was particularly fond of dancing, and Byron would stand, leaning against a corner by the door or against the chimneypiece, his arms crossed, frowning, with his lips curled with anger, whilst the music carried far away from him the girl he loved, some dancer more lucky than he leading her through the figures of a quadrille or guiding her in the whirl of a valse. Once, someone said to Mary Chaworth—
But Byron had a limp; he had to avoid any kind of physical activity that might reveal his disability, including dancing. Miss Chaworth loved to dance, and Byron would stand against a corner by the door or the mantelpiece, arms crossed, frowning, his lips curled in frustration, while the music took the girl he loved far away from him, some luckier dancer leading her through the steps of a quadrille or spinning her in a waltz. Once, someone said to Mary Chaworth—
"Do you know that Byron seems deeply in love with you?"
"Did you know that Byron seems really in love with you?"
"Well, what does it matter to me?" replied Mary.
"Well, what do I care?" replied Mary.
"What! do you mean what you say?"
"What! Do you really mean what you’re saying?"
"Of course I do. Do you really think I could care for that lame boy?"
"Of course I do. Do you really think I would care about that pathetic guy?"
Byron heard both questions and answers, and he said it was as though a dagger had struck him to the heart. These words were uttered at midnight; but he rushed out of the house like a madman and ran without stopping to Newstead, where, on arrival, he fell nearly fainting from exhaustion.
Byron heard both the questions and the answers, and he said it felt like a dagger had pierced his heart. These words were spoken at midnight; but he rushed out of the house like a madman and ran nonstop to Newstead, where he arrived nearly fainting from exhaustion.
And yet, the disdainful Miss Chaworth having one day sent her portrait to him, Byron, in exchange, sent her the following verses:—
And yet, the arrogant Miss Chaworth one day sent her portrait to him, and in return, Byron sent her these verses:—
TO MARY
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE
"This faint resemblance of thy charms,
Though strong as mortal art could give,
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
Here I can trace the locks of gold
Which round thy snowy forehead wave,
The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould,
The lips which made me beauty's slave.
Here I can trace—ah, no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter's art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.
Here I behold its beauteous hue;
But where's the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Like Luna o'er the ocean playing?
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
Save her who placed thee next my heart.
She placed it, sad, with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
[Pg 14]Held every sense in fast control.
Through hours, through years, through time, 'twill cheer;
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
And meet my fond expiring gaze."
TO MARY
GETTING HER PICTURE
"This faint likeness of your beauty,
Though as strong as human skill could manage,
Disarms my heart of all its fears,
Revives my hopes, and makes me want to live.
Here I can see the golden hair
That's cascading around your fair forehead,
The cheeks that were shaped by beauty,
The lips that made me a slave to it.
Here I can see—oh, no! that eye,
Whose blue floats like liquid fire,
Must defy the artist's craft,
And should make him give up the task.
Here I can see its beautiful hue;
But where's the light so sweetly drifting,
That gave a glow to that blue,
Like the moon playing over the ocean?
Sweet copy! far more precious to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling though you are,
Than all the living forms could be,
Except for her who placed you close to my heart.
She placed it, sadly, with unnecessary fear,
Worried that time might shake my uncertain soul,
Unaware that her image there
[Pg 14]Held every sense in tight control.
Through hours, through years, through time, it will bring joy;
My hope, in dark moments, will be lifted;
In life's final struggle, it will appear,
And meet my loving, fading gaze."
A year later, Miss Chaworth married.
A year later, Miss Chaworth got married.
"Pull out your handkerchief, my son," Lady Byron said to the lad, one day on returning home.
"Take out your handkerchief, my son," Lady Byron said to the boy one day when they got home.
"What for, mother?"
"What's that for, Mom?"
"Because I have bad news for you."
"Because I have some bad news for you."
"What is it?"
"What's that?"
"Miss Chaworth is married."
"Miss Chaworth is married now."
Byron drew his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose, and with that expression of sarcasm which he knew so well how to assume at certain times, he said—
Byron pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose, and with that sarcastic expression he was so good at adopting sometimes, he said—
"Is that all?"
"Is that everything?"
"Isn't it enough?" asked Lady Byron, who knew well enough the real pain he was concealing beneath that apparent indifference.
"Isn't it enough?" asked Lady Byron, who understood the real pain he was hiding behind that apparent indifference.
"Enough to make me shed tears? No indeed!" and Byron put his handkerchief back into his pocket.
"Is that enough to make me cry? Definitely not!" and Byron put his handkerchief back in his pocket.
When Lady Byron had announced to her son in this callous, mocking way his adored Mary's marriage, and Byron had put on a smiling appearance of indifference to the news, returning his handkerchief to his pocket unwet by a tear, the poor youth went to his own room heart-broken, and, taking up in his hand the portrait of his unfaithful sweetheart, the poet tried to comfort the lover, inviting himself to mourn, lashing his passion into words.
When Lady Byron told her son in such a cruel and mocking way about his beloved Mary’s marriage, and Byron pretended to be indifferent, putting his handkerchief back in his pocket without a tear, the poor young man went to his room, heartbroken. He picked up the portrait of his unfaithful sweetheart, and the poet tried to console the lover, giving himself permission to grieve, pouring his emotions into words.
Hence resulted those mournful sighings of a broken heart addressed to Mrs. Musters:—
Hence resulted those sad sighs of a broken heart directed to Mrs. Musters:—
TO A LADY
"Oh! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
[Pg 15]For then my peace had not been broken.
To thee these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But now thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another.
Perhaps his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him
Yet let my rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid!
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor hope, nor memory yield their aid,
But pride may teach me to forget thee.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matron's fears,
These thoughtless strains to passion's measures—
If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:—
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;
And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,—
For then it beat but to adore thee.
But now I seek for other joys:
To think would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise
[Pg 16]I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
Yet, even in these a thought will steal
In spite of every vain endeavour,—
And friends might pity what I feel,—
To know that thou art lost for ever."
To a woman
"Oh! If my fate had been tied to yours,
As this promise once seemed to represent,
I wouldn’t have made these mistakes,
[Pg 15]Because my peace wouldn’t have been shattered.
To you, I owe these early missteps,
To you, the wise and critical ones:
They know my faults, but don’t realize
It was you who broke the chains of love.
Once, my soul was pure like yours,
And could hide all its rising desires;
But now your promises no longer stand,
Given by you to someone else.
I could possibly ruin his peace,
And spoil the happiness that awaits him,
Yet I’ll let my rival smile with joy,
Because for your sake, I can’t hate him.
Ah! Now that your angelic form has left,
My heart can’t find rest with anyone;
What it sought only in you,
It sadly tries to find in many.
So farewell, deceitful girl!
It’s pointless and fruitless to regret you;
Neither hope nor memory can help,
But pride might teach me to forget you.
Yet all these wasted years,
This tiring cycle of dull pleasures;
These different loves, these worries of age,
These careless efforts to fit passion’s rhythm—
If you were mine, everything would be quiet:—
This cheek, now pale from wild excess,
Would never have been flushed with passion,
But would have bloomed in peaceful domesticity.
Yes, once the countryside was sweet,
Because Nature seemed to smile at you;
And once, my heart hated deceit—
Because it only beat to adore you.
But now I look for other joys:
Thinking would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless crowds and empty noise,
[Pg 16]I manage to conquer some of my sadness.
Yet, even in these, a thought will slip in,
Despite every futile effort—
And friends might pity what I feel—
To know that you are lost forever."
Alas! Miss Chaworth was not, as Mrs. Musters, to be happier in her marriage than the man she had forsaken. She married John Musters, Esq., in the August of 1805, and lived miserably until 1832, when she died in as melancholy a way as she had lived. A band of insurgents from Nottingham came and set fire to Colwick Hall, where she lived. She and her daughter took refuge in a potting-shed, and, being already in poor health, she took cold and fell ill, and died practically of the same complaint that Byron had died of eight years before.
Unfortunately, Miss Chaworth wasn't any happier in her marriage than the man she had left behind, Mrs. Musters. She married John Musters, Esq., in August 1805 and lived unhappily until 1832, when she died in as sad a manner as she had lived. A group of rebels from Nottingham came and set fire to Colwick Hall, where she resided. She and her daughter sought refuge in a potting shed, and with her already poor health, she caught a cold, fell ill, and died from the same illness that Byron had succumbed to eight years earlier.
As Byron says in the second verse of his poem to Mrs. Musters, it was in consequence of the rupture of his friendship with Miss Chaworth that he flung himself exclusively into the pursuit of pleasure. He flirted, rode, gambled, kept dogs, took up swimming, fencing and pistol-shooting.
As Byron mentions in the second verse of his poem to Mrs. Musters, it was due to the breakdown of his friendship with Miss Chaworth that he threw himself entirely into seeking pleasure. He flirted, rode horses, gambled, had dogs, and took up swimming, fencing, and pistol shooting.
But he found time to write a book called Hours of Idleness in the midst of all these revels and athletic exercises. He had just published this book when Lady Morgan, with whom I was to become acquainted thirty years afterwards, met him for the first time.
But he managed to write a book called Hours of Idleness while enjoying all those parties and athletic activities. He had just released this book when Lady Morgan, who I would meet thirty years later, encountered him for the first time.
This is her description of the meeting:—
This is her description of the meeting:—
"Suddenly my dazzled looks were arrested by an exceedingly beautiful young man. His expression was taciturn, and yet there seemed as much shyness as scorn in it. He was alone, and stood in a corner near a door, with his arms folded across his breast, and one felt that although he was in the middle of an animated and brilliant crowd, yet he did not belong to it.
"Suddenly, my attention was caught by an incredibly handsome young man. His expression was serious, yet it conveyed both shyness and disdain. He was by himself, standing in a corner near a door with his arms crossed over his chest, and it was clear that even though he was surrounded by a lively and dazzling crowd, he didn’t quite fit in."
"'How do you do, Lord Byron?' a pretty young creature, dressed in the height of the fashion, asked him.
"'How do you do, Lord Byron?' a pretty young woman, dressed in the latest fashion, asked him."
"Lord Byron! At that word all the brave Byrons that had belonged to English and French chivalry rose before my mind; but I did not know that the handsome youth who was their descendant was destined to give an even greater right to the[Pg 17] name for the admiration of posterity than the most valiant knight of France, or than the most loyal cavalier of England who had ever borne the same name. Fame spread very slowly in our province of Tirerag; and although Lord Byron had already taken the first step in that career which was to end in the triumphant acknowledgment of his wonderful genius, and the injustice and ingratitude of his fellow-countrymen, I knew nothing of this future fame then, when I heard the name of Byron, save what prompted me to say to myself, the 'Go, hang thyself, Byron,' of Henry IV."
"Lord Byron! Just hearing that name brought to mind all the brave Byrons who had been part of English and French chivalry; but I didn’t realize that the handsome young man who was their descendant was set to give an even greater reason for future generations to admire the[Pg 17] name than the most valiant knight of France or the most loyal cavalier of England who ever carried the same name. Fame spread very slowly in our province of Tirerag; and although Lord Byron had already taken the first step on a path that would end in the triumphant recognition of his incredible talent and the unfairness and ingratitude of his fellow countrymen, I knew nothing of this future fame at the time I heard the name Byron, apart from the thought that made me say to myself, 'Go, hang yourself, Byron,' from Henry IV."
Poor Lady Morgan! she was not happy in her historical quotations! but what matters it? she did not look too closely into them. It was Biron without the y whose head Henry cut off; and it was of Crillon that he wrote, "Go, hang thyself!"
Poor Lady Morgan! She wasn’t happy with her historical quotes! But what does it matter? She didn’t examine them too closely. It was Biron without the y whose head Henry cut off; and it was Crillon that he wrote, "Go, hang yourself!"
But the literary fame Byron lacked was soon to be given him by the critics. The Edinburgh Review, in an article written by Mr. Brougham, who afterwards became Lord Brougham, attacked the young poet violently.
But the literary fame that Byron didn't have was soon to be bestowed upon him by the critics. The Edinburgh Review, in an article written by Mr. Brougham, who later became Lord Brougham, harshly criticized the young poet.
Lord Byron's life was destined to be one continuous fight. Born lame, he persevered until he became the finest swimmer, the best shot and the most dauntless horse-rider of his time. The world denied his genius, so he made up his mind he would become the first poet of his age.
Lord Byron's life was meant to be one ongoing struggle. Born with a disability, he worked hard until he became the best swimmer, the best marksman, and the most fearless horse rider of his time. The world overlooked his talent, so he decided he would become the greatest poet of his era.
His response to the article in the Edinburgh Review was that terrible satire hurled at his critics under the title of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, at the head of which appeared these two epigrams from Shakespeare and Pope:—
His response to the article in the Edinburgh Review was that harsh satire aimed at his critics titled English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, which featured these two epigrams from Shakespeare and Pope:—
"I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers!"—Shakespeare.
"Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too."—Pope.
"I would rather be a kitten and make little meow sounds!
Than be one of these same meter ballad writers!"—Shakespeare.
"We have such shameless poets; and yet it's true,
There are just as crazy, reckless critics too."—Pope.
When Byron had hurled this lance, he could not draw back. He had pledged himself heart and soul to poetry, he had taken upon him the mantle of Nessus which was to consume him but also to immortalise him. And yet he hesitated for[Pg 18] a brief period. By birth he had a right to sit in the House of Lords, and he decided he would take his seat there. If his aristocratic peers received him cordially, who knew what might happen? He might give up everything, even the idea of his journey to Persia with his friend Hobhouse, to follow his schoolfellow Robert Peel in a political career. It should all depend on a smile or a hand-shake; and for such an acknowledgment he would fling away the pen that had written the Hours of Idleness and English Bards and Scotch Reviewers; for a smile and a hand-shake he would bid farewell to games, betting, races, drunkenness, and break himself off from those youthful follies in which he had tried to drown the memory of Miss Chaworth; he would leave them all, even the woman who had followed him to Brighton dressed as a man, whose scandalous presence had roused the indignation of the prudish English aristocracy!
When Byron threw this lance, he couldn't pull back. He had committed himself fully to poetry, taking on the burden of Nessus that would consume him but also make him immortal. Yet, he hesitated for[Pg 18] a moment. By birth, he had the right to sit in the House of Lords, and he decided he would take his seat there. If his aristocratic peers welcomed him warmly, who knew what could happen? He might give up everything, even the plan to journey to Persia with his friend Hobhouse, to follow his schoolmate Robert Peel into a political career. It all depended on a smile or a handshake; and for such recognition, he would throw away the pen that had written the Hours of Idleness and English Bards and Scotch Reviewers; for a smile and a handshake, he would say goodbye to games, betting, races, drinking, and distance himself from those youthful follies in which he had tried to drown the memory of Miss Chaworth; he would leave them all behind, even the woman who followed him to Brighton dressed as a man, whose scandalous presence had shocked the uptight English aristocracy!
It was at this crisis he wrote to his mother the following letter, which shows what a degree of coldness existed between mother and son:—
It was during this tough time that he wrote the following letter to his mother, which reveals the level of distance between them:—
"TO THE HONOURABLE LADY BYRON
"TO THE HONOURABLE LADY BYRON
"NEWSTEAD ABBEY, NOTTS
October 7, 1808"NEWSTEAD ABBEY, NOTTS
October 7, 1808"DEAR MADAM,—I have no beds for the Hansons or anybody else at present. The Hansons sleep at Mansfield. I do not know that I resemble Jean Jacques Rousseau. I have no ambition to be like so illustrious a madman—but this I know, that I shall live in my own manner, and as much alone as possible. When my rooms are ready I shall be glad to see you: at present it would be improper and uncomfortable to both parties. You can hardly object to my rendering my mansion habitable, notwithstanding my departure for Persia in March (or May at farthest), since you will be tenant till my return; and in case of any accident (for I have already arranged my will to be drawn up the moment I am twenty-one), I have taken care you shall have the house and manor for life, besides a sufficient income. So you see my improvements are not entirely selfish.—Adieu. Believe me, yours very truly,
BYRON"DEAR MADAM,—I currently have no beds available for the Hansons or anyone else. The Hansons are staying at Mansfield. I don’t think I’m like Jean Jacques Rousseau. I have no desire to be such a well-known eccentric—but I do intend to live my life as independently as possible. When my rooms are ready, I’ll be glad to see you; right now, it wouldn’t be appropriate or comfortable for either of us. You can hardly object to me making my home livable, especially since I plan to go to Persia in March (or by May at the latest), and you will be the tenant until I return. Just in case anything happens (I’ve already arranged for my will to be written as soon as I turn twenty-one), I’ve made sure you will have the house and manor for life, along with a decent income. So, my renovations aren’t entirely selfish.—Adieu. Believe me, yours very truly,
BYRON"
In another letter to his mother, dated 6 March 1809, he adds:—
In another letter to his mother, dated March 6, 1809, he adds:—
"What you say is all very true: come what may, Newstead and I stand or fall together. I have now lived on the spot, I have fixed my heart upon it, and no pressure, present or future, shall induce me to barter the last vestige of our inheritance. I have that pride within me which will enable me to support difficulties. I can endure privations; but could I obtain in exchange for Newstead Abbey the first fortune in the country, I would reject the proposition. Set your mind at ease on that score; Mr. Hanson talks like a man of business on the subject,—I feel like a man of honour, and I will not sell Newstead. I shall get my seat on the return of the affidavits from Carhais, in Cornwall, and will do something in the House soon: I must dash, or it is all over. My Satire must be kept secret for a month; after that you may say what you like on the subject. Lord Carlisle has used me infamously, and refused to state any particulars of my family to the Chancellor. I have lashed him in my rhymes, and perhaps his lordship may regret not being more conciliatory. They tell me it will have a sale; I hope so, for the bookseller has behaved well, as far as publishing well goes.—Believe me, etc.,
BYRON"What you say is completely true: no matter what happens, Newstead and I stand together. I've lived here and have become attached to it, and no pressure, now or in the future, will make me give up the last piece of our inheritance. I have the pride within me that will help me face challenges. I can handle hardships; but if someone offered me the biggest fortune in the country for Newstead Abbey, I would turn it down. You can relax about that; Mr. Hanson talks about it like a businessman—I think like a man of honor, and I won’t sell Newstead. I’ll reclaim my seat from the affidavits from Carhais, in Cornwall, and I’ll do something in the House soon: I need to hurry, or it’ll all be over. My Satire must stay secret for a month; after that, feel free to say whatever you want about it. Lord Carlisle has treated me terribly and refused to share any details about my family with the Chancellor. I’ve lashed out at him in my poems, and maybe he’ll regret not being more accommodating. I’ve heard it will sell well; I hope so because the bookseller has been good about publishing it well.—Believe me, etc.,
BYRON"P.S.—You shall have a mortgage on one of the farms."
"P.S.—You'll have a mortgage on one of the farms."
But Byron was doomed in advance. He had the greatest difficulty in obtaining the papers necessary to establish his title to the peerage, and, three days after writing the above letter—that is to say, on 9 March 1809, six weeks after having attained his majority—he presented himself in the House of Lords.
But Byron was already doomed. He had a really hard time getting the documents he needed to prove his claim to the peerage, and three days after writing the letter above—that is to say, on March 9, 1809, six weeks after turning eighteen—he showed up in the House of Lords.
As we have said, upon this test his whole career was to depend. As he told his mother, his Satire was to be kept a secret for a month longer, and if he were well received by his illustrious colleagues, it was to remain unpublished and the poet unknown.
As we mentioned, his entire career depended on this test. He told his mother that his Satire had to stay a secret for another month, and if his esteemed colleagues accepted it well, it would stay unpublished, and he would remain unknown as a poet.
It was the will of Providence that these aristocrats should be unjust towards this young man, this boy, nay, more than unjust, cruel.
It was the will of Providence that these aristocrats should be unfair to this young man, this boy, and even more than unfair, cruel.
He entered the House alone, and looked calm, although his face was deadly pale; not one kindly glance encouraged him, not a single hand was held out towards his; he searched in vain for a single friendly look throughout that illustrious assembly, but all heads were turned away.
He walked into the House by himself, looking calm, even though his face was ghostly pale; not a single friendly glance greeted him, and no one reached out a hand toward him. He looked in vain for just one friendly face in that distinguished crowd, but every head was turned away.
He then made up his mind. He, Lord Byron, would make a fresh claim to nobility for his posterity, since his present title to it was slighted by his contemporaries. He published his Satire, and set out, with Mr. Hobhouse, in the June of that same year 1809.
He then decided. He, Lord Byron, would establish a new claim to nobility for his future generations, since his current title was disregarded by his peers. He published his Satire and set out with Mr. Hobhouse in June of that same year, 1809.
CHAPTER III
Byron at Lisbon—How he quarrelled with his own countrymen—His poem Childe Harold—His fits of mad folly and subsequent depression—His marriage—His conjugal squabbles—He again quits England—His farewell to wife and child—His life and amours at Venice—He sets out for Greece—His arrival at Missolonghi—His illness and death
Byron in Lisbon—How he debated with his fellow countrymen—His poem Childe Harold—His wild behavior and later sadness—His marriage—His marital conflicts—He leaves England again—His farewell to his wife and child—His life and romances in Venice—He travels to Greece—His arrival in Missolonghi—His illness and death
The first news received from the poet-traveller was from Lisbon, and it bore the mark of that gloomy spirit of mockery which, when fully developed, becomes genius.
The first update we got from the poet-traveler came from Lisbon, and it carried the weight of that dark, mocking spirit that, when fully formed, turns into genius.
The letter was addressed to Mr. Hodgson, and began in the following strain:—
The letter was addressed to Mr. Hodgson and started with the following tone:—
"I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and talk bad Latin to the monks, who understand it, as it is like their own,—and I goes into society (with my pocket-pistols), and I swims in the Tagus all across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears Portugese, and have got a diarrhœa and bites from the mosquitoes. But what of that? Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a pleasuring."
"I'm really happy here because I love oranges and speak broken Latin to the monks, who get it since it's close to their own. I hang out (with my pocket pistols), I swim across the Tagus all at once, ride a donkey or a mule, curse in Portuguese, and deal with diarrhea and mosquito bites. But who cares? People looking for fun shouldn't expect to be comfortable."
And yet, while he was mocking in this fashion, he could write such mournful lines as these in Childe Harold:—
And yet, while he was mocking like this, he could write such sorrowful lines as these in Childe Harold:—
CANTO I
IX
"And none did love him: though to hall and bower
He gather'd revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer.
Yea! none did love him—not his lemans dear—
But pomp and power alone are woman's care,
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.
[Pg 22]
X
Childe Harold had a mother—not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel:
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
XI
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line."
CANTO I
IX
"Nobody loved him, even though he brought __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__."
Together, party-goers from near and far,
He knew they were just temporary flatterers;
The heartless supporters of current happiness.
Yes! Nobody loved him—not even his close lovers—
Women only care about wealth and power,
And where these shine, love finds a match;
Young women, like moths, are always drawn to the light,
And money makes its way where angels might despair.
[Pg 22]
X
Childe Harold had a mother—one who was not forgotten,
Even though he stayed away from her when he left;
A sister he cared about, but didn’t see.
Before his journey began:
If he had friends, he didn’t say farewell to any.
But don’t think he had a heart of stone:
Those of you who understand what it means to cherish
Some close people will sadly come to understand
Such goodbyes can break the heart they hope to mend.
XI
His home, his land, his belongings, his wealth,
The stunning women he liked,
With their big blue eyes, light hair, and delicate hands,
Could shake the purity of an ascetic,
And had long fulfilled his youthful desires;
His cups filled with all sorts of expensive wine,
And everything that tempted desire,
Without a word, he left to cross the sea,
And travel to foreign shores, and pass the Earth's equator."
And it was in this spirit that he left England to begin his early travels; and if, perchance, any member of the aristocracy inquired who this young Lord Byron was who had inscribed his name on the list of peers, those who were best informed would reply—
And it was in this spirit that he left England to start his early travels; and if, by chance, any member of the aristocracy asked who this young Lord Byron was who had signed his name on the list of peers, those who were most knowledgeable would respond—
"He is a young rake, grand-nephew of the old Byron who killed Chaworth in a duel; he possesses an old tumbledown Abbey; and a fortune that has been cut up and squandered. When he was at college, where he never did any good, he kept a bear; since he left college he has associated with prostitutes and swindlers, drinking till tipsy out of a human skull, and, when drunk, writing poetry."
"He’s a young playboy, the grand-nephew of the old Byron who killed Chaworth in a duel; he owns an old, rundown Abbey and has a fortune that’s been wasted and blown through. When he was in college, where he never accomplished anything, he kept a bear; since leaving college, he’s hung out with prostitutes and con artists, drinking until tipsy out of a human skull, and when he’s drunk, he writes poetry."
Byron left his country at war with his fellow-men, and one stanza of the first canto of the poem just referred to was enough to set him at loggerheads with women too—a much more serious matter:—
Byron left his country at war with his own people, and one stanza from the first canto of the poem just mentioned was enough to put him at odds with women as well—a much more serious issue:—
CANTO I
LVIII
"The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:
Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much
Hath Phœbus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek,
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!
Who round the North for paler dames would seek?
How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan and weak!"
Canto I
LVIII
"The mark that Love's playful touch has left"
It really shows how soft the chin is that he touched:
Her lips pout as if they want to leave their nest,
Challenge a man to be brave before he has earned it:
Her gaze is so incredibly beautiful! How much
Has Apollo tried in vain to scar her cheek,
Which shines even brighter from his loving hold!
Who in the North would be interested in lighter-skinned women?
How dull their figures seem! How weak, tired, and feeble!"
Such an anathema as this, hurled by the poet at that England which Shakespeare compared to a swan's nest in the midst of a great lake, met with widespread notoriety; for Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, the first canto of which Byron wrote during his travels, had a tremendous reception.
Such a strong curse as this, thrown by the poet at the England that Shakespeare compared to a swan’s nest in the middle of a great lake, became widely known; for Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, the first canto of which Byron wrote while traveling, received an incredible reception.
Byron visited Portugal, the South of Spain, Sardinia and Sicily; then he went through Albania and Illyria, travelled through the Morea, stopping at Thebes, Athens, Delphi and Constantinople. If we are to believe his own words, he looked forward with dread to his return:—
Byron traveled to Portugal, Southern Spain, Sardinia, and Sicily; then he passed through Albania and Illyria, journeying through the Morea and stopping at Thebes, Athens, Delphi, and Constantinople. According to his own words, he dreaded the thought of going back:—
"Indeed, my prospects are not very pleasant. Embarrassed in my private affairs, indifferent to public, solitary without the wish to be social, with a body a little enfeebled by a succession of fevers, but a spirit, I trust, yet unbroken, I am returning home without a hope, and almost without a desire. The first thing I shall have to encounter will be a lawyer, the next a creditor, then colliers, farmers, surveyors, and all the agreeable attachments to estates out of repair, and contested coal-pits. In short, I am sick and sorry, and when I have a little repaired my irreparable affairs, away I shall march, either to campaign in Spain, or back again to the East, where I can at least have cloudless skies and a cessation from impertinence."
"Honestly, my situation isn’t great. I'm embarrassed about my personal issues, indifferent to the public, and I feel lonely even though I don't want to socialize. My health is a bit shaky from a series of fevers, but I hope my spirit is still intact. I'm heading back home with no hope and barely any desire. The first thing I’ll have to deal with is a lawyer, then a creditor, followed by miners, farmers, surveyors, and all the lovely responsibilities that come with neglected properties and disputed coal pits. In short, I’m feeling down, and once I manage to fix my messed-up situation, I plan to leave—either to fight in Spain or head back East, where at least I can enjoy clear skies and a break from rudeness."
The writer of the above was barely twenty-four years of age, he bore one of the oldest names in the British Isles, he was a peer of England and was to become the leading poet of his time!
The writer mentioned above was just twenty-four years old, he carried one of the oldest names in the British Isles, he was a peer of England, and he was set to become the leading poet of his era!
The first canto of Childe Harold was to reveal him in the latter capacity, and he sold his poem for two hundred pounds sterling.
The first canto of Childe Harold was meant to show him in the latter role, and he sold his poem for two hundred pounds.
His mother died suddenly in Scotland two months after his return, in 1811.
His mother passed away unexpectedly in Scotland two months after he returned, in 1811.
"One day," said Lord Byron, "I heard she was ill; the next, I learnt that she was dead!"
"One day," said Lord Byron, "I heard she was sick; the next, I found out that she had died!"
Nor was this all. Almost at the same time his two best friends, Wingfield and Matthews, both died.
Nor was this all. Almost at the same time, his two best friends, Wingfield and Matthews, both passed away.
Byron wrote to Mr. Davies:—
Byron messaged Mr. Davies:—
"Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies a corpse in this house; one of my best friends is drowned in a ditch. What can I say, or think, or do? Come to me. I am almost desolate—left almost alone in the world."
"A terrible curse is hanging over me and my family. My mother is just a shell of herself in this house; one of my best friends drowned in a ditch. What can I say, think, or do? Come to me. I feel almost hopeless—like I'm nearly alone in the world."
We find traces of these sorrows at the close of the second canto of Childe Harold:—
We find traces of these sorrows at the end of the second canto of Childe Harold:—
"All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death! thou hast;
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend;
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,
And grief with grief continuing still to blend,
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from life's page,
And be alone on earth, as I am now.
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroyed:
Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd,
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd."
"Everything I could have given you, cruel Death! you’ve taken;
The parent, friend, and now even more than just a friend;
Never before has your arrow traveled so fast,
And sorrow, combined with sorrow, goes on.
Has stolen the little joy that life had left to give.
What’s the worst pain that comes with getting old?
What causes the wrinkles on your forehead to deepen?
To watch each loved one removed from the story of life,
And to be alone on earth, just like I am right now.
Before the Punisher, let me respectfully bow,
Over broken hearts and shattered hopes:
Keep rolling, meaningless days! You can pass by carelessly,
Since Time has taken everything my soul cherished,
And has mixed the troubles of old age with my earlier years."
Byron rejoiced greatly in the success that had greeted the first canto of his Childe Harold; the second was composed after his return to England, as the stanza upon his mother's death proves.
Byron was very happy about the success of the first canto of his Childe Harold; the second was written after he came back to England, as the stanza about his mother's death shows.
Even the Edinburgh Review made amends for its mistake in denying that the author of Hours of Idleness had a vocation for poetry.
Even the Edinburgh Review corrected its error in saying that the author of Hours of Idleness didn't have a talent for poetry.
"Lord Byron," the Scottish critics now remarked, "has improved much since we last had his work under review. This new volume is full of originality and talent; the author herein[Pg 25] makes amends for the literary sins of his youth, and does more, for he promises to give us better work still."
"Lord Byron," the Scottish critics now said, "has improved a lot since we last reviewed his work. This new volume is packed with originality and talent; the author here[Pg 25] makes up for the literary mistakes of his youth and does even more, as he promises to deliver even better work."
Lord Byron received £600 for the first two cantos of Childe Harold, and so great was its success that, for the third part, he was paid £1575, and for the fourth £2100. It was said then, and with some truth, that he sold his poems at the rate of a guinea a line.
Lord Byron received £600 for the first two cantos of Childe Harold, and its success was so huge that, for the third part, he was paid £1575, and for the fourth, £2100. At the time, it was often said—and there was some truth to it—that he sold his poems for a guinea per line.
With success came popularity. All the world wanted to see this poet who had appeared suddenly among them like a brilliant meteor, lighting up the darkness of the night, and to buy his works. They beheld his face and saw that he was beautiful; they uttered his name and remembered that, by his father, he came of an illustrious race, and, by his mother, being descended from Jane Stuart, daughter of James II. of Scotland, he had royal blood in his veins. He had said in his poem that he had seen everything worth seeing and was bored with it all, that he had committed all kinds of sins and even crimes; he had said—a most extraordinary confession for a poet of only twenty-five years of age—that he could not fall in love with even the most beautiful of women London had to show. Those pale and languid flowers of the Norths, as he called them, vowed, in their turn, to make him break his oath.
With success came fame. The whole world wanted to see this poet who had suddenly appeared like a bright meteor, lighting up the night sky, and to buy his works. They looked at his face and saw he was handsome; they spoke his name and remembered that through his father, he came from a distinguished family, and through his mother, being descended from Jane Stuart, daughter of James II of Scotland, he had royal blood in his veins. He had said in his poem that he had seen everything worth seeing and was tired of it all, that he had committed all kinds of sins and even crimes; he had confessed—a remarkable admission for a poet just twenty-five years old—that he couldn’t fall in love with even the most beautiful women London had to offer. Those pale and languid flowers of the Norths, as he called them, vowed, in turn, to make him break his oath.
It was not a difficult matter for those who knew Lord Byron; many succeeded without much effort; Lady Caroline Lamb succeeded best of all. She was the daughter of the Earl of Bamborough, and had married, in 1805, William Lamb, second son of Lord Melbourne.
It wasn't hard for those who knew Lord Byron; many succeeded with little effort; Lady Caroline Lamb succeeded the most. She was the daughter of the Earl of Bamborough and had married, in 1805, William Lamb, the second son of Lord Melbourne.
Byron fell madly in love with her, and offered to run away with her; but she declined. What was the cause of the bitter rupture between them that ended in Lady Lamb writing the novel called Glenarvon against her former lover, and in his treating her with great disdain throughout the remainder of his life? We should probably have found an answer to these questions in the Memoirs of Lord Byron that Thomas Moore burnt. Who knows? perhaps he burnt them on account of that episode. After this quarrel, Byron earned a reputation for being a dandy; he became the fashionable frequenter of[Pg 26] watering-places and of aristocratic assemblies. But this kind of life ended as it was sure to do, in weariness and in disgust; and on 27 February 1814 the poet wrote:—
Byron fell deeply in love with her and offered to elope, but she refused. What caused the painful break between them that led to Lady Lamb writing the novel titled Glenarvon about her former lover, and his treating her with great contempt for the rest of his life? We might have found answers to these questions in the Memoirs of Lord Byron that Thomas Moore destroyed. Who knows? Maybe he destroyed them because of that incident. After this fight, Byron gained a reputation for being a dandy; he became a trendy visitor to[Pg 26] resorts and high-society gatherings. But this lifestyle ended, as it inevitably does, in boredom and disillusionment; and on 27 February 1814, the poet wrote:—
"Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord H.'s, where I was asked,—but not inclined to go anywhere. Hobhouse says I am growing a loup garou,—a solitary hobgoblin. True:—'I am myself alone.'"
"Here I am, alone, instead of having dinner at Lord H.'s, where I was invited—but I just don’t feel like going out. Hobhouse says I’m becoming a loup garou—a solitary creature. It’s true: I really am on my own."
A strange idea next took hold of the misanthrope, of the poet whose inspirations had run dry, of the man of many dissipations: he would marry and settle down. He had exhausted every pleasure youth could give; he aspired to something fresh, no matter even if it meant misery. This unknown and painful experience Lady Byron had in store for him. But the strangest thing was that he wished to marry for the sake of getting married, and not for the sake of the woman. He, who had once betted fifty pounds with Mr. Hay that he would never marry, was in such a hurry to marry that he did not mind who the lady was.
A strange idea suddenly struck the misanthrope, the poet whose creativity had dried up, the man with many vices: he would get married and settle down. He had run out of every pleasure that youth could offer; he craved something new, even if it meant suffering. This unknown and painful experience was what Lady Byron had in store for him. But the oddest part was that he wanted to marry just for the sake of getting married, not because of any feelings for the woman. He, who had once bet fifty pounds with Mr. Hay that he would never marry, was in such a rush to tie the knot that he didn’t care who the lady was.
He discussed his intention with Lady Melbourne, and Lady Melbourne proposed a young lady whom Byron did not know; Byron suggested Miss Milbanke.
He talked about his plans with Lady Melbourne, and she recommended a young woman Byron wasn't familiar with; Byron suggested Miss Milbanke.
"You are wrong," said Lady Melbourne, "and for two reasons: first, because you have need of money and Miss Milbanke could only bring you ten thousand pounds; and in the second place, because you want a wife who will admire you, and Miss Milbanke admires no one but herself."
"You’re mistaken," said Lady Melbourne, "and for two reasons: first, because you need money and Miss Milbanke can only offer you ten thousand pounds; and second, because you want a wife who will admire you, and Miss Milbanke only admires herself."
"Well, then," said Lord Byron, "what is the name of your young lady?"
"Well, then," said Lord Byron, "what's your young lady's name?"
Lady Melbourne mentioned her name, and Byron at once wrote to her parents, who sent him a refusal.
Lady Melbourne mentioned her name, and Byron immediately wrote to her parents, who sent him a rejection.
"Good!" said Byron. "You now see that Miss Milbanke is to be my wife." And he sat down at once and wrote to Miss Milbanke to make known his wishes to her.
"Great!" said Byron. "You can see that Miss Milbanke is going to be my wife." And he immediately sat down and wrote to Miss Milbanke to share his intentions with her.
But Lady Melbourne did not mean matters to end thus; she snatched the letter out of Byron's hands when he had finished it and took it to the window to read, while Byron[Pg 27] remained quietly in his seat. When she had read it, she said, "Well, I must admit this is a very pretty letter; it is a pity it should not go."
But Lady Melbourne wasn't ready to let things end this way; she grabbed the letter from Byron's hands after he finished reading it and went to the window to read it herself, while Byron[Pg 27] stayed calmly in his seat. After reading it, she said, "Well, I have to admit this is a really nice letter; it's a shame it can't be sent."
"Then give it me," said Byron, "and I will seal it and send it off."
"Then hand it to me," Byron said, "and I’ll seal it and send it out."
Lady Melbourne gave the letter back to Byron, and he sealed it and saw that it reached its address.
Lady Melbourne returned the letter to Byron, and he sealed it and made sure it got to the right address.
He was married on 2 January 1815, from Sir Ralph Milbanke's house. He sent the fifty pounds to Mr. Hay the same day, without waiting till he was asked for the money.
He got married on January 2, 1815, at Sir Ralph Milbanke's house. He transferred the fifty pounds to Mr. Hay the same day, without waiting to be asked for the money.
Exactly a month later, he wrote:—
Exactly a month later, he wrote:—
"Feb. 2, 1815
"Feb. 2, 1815
"The treacle-moon is over, and I am awake, and find myself married. Swift says, 'No wise man ever married'; but, for a fool, I think it is the most ambrosial of all possible future states."
"The enchanting moon has disappeared, and I’m awake, realizing that I’m married. Swift says, ‘No wise man ever married’; but for a fool, I think it’s the best future imaginable."
The honeymoon was spent at Sir Ralph Milbanke's house; after that, the young couple went to their house in Piccadilly. But here the worries of housekeeping overtook them. Miss Milbanke's £10,000 dowry had only served to irritate Lord Byron's creditors. Creditors only rest quietly whilst nothing at all is given them, for then they are in despair; but partial payment rouses them to fury. Urged on by the £10,000 they had secured, the duns did not give the young couple a moment's peace; in proportion as these annoyances increased, the relations between the husband and wife grew colder and more distant. Then, when her husband was at his unhappiest, and only saved from imprisonment through being a peer of the realm, Lady Byron left London under cover of a visit to her father. Their farewell parting was, conventionally speaking, quite affectionate, and they agreed to meet in a month's time. During her journey, Lady Byron wrote quite a tender letter to her husband; then, one morning, Lord Byron learnt from his father-in-law, Sir Ralph Milbanke, that he must not expect ever to see his wife and his daughter again.
The honeymoon was spent at Sir Ralph Milbanke's house; after that, the young couple moved to their home in Piccadilly. But soon, the stress of managing a household caught up with them. Miss Milbanke's £10,000 dowry only served to aggravate Lord Byron's creditors. Creditors tend to stay calm when they aren’t getting anything at all, because then they feel hopeless; but when they receive even a partial payment, it drives them into a rage. Motivated by the £10,000 they had secured, the debt collectors hounded the young couple without a moment's peace; as these troubles escalated, the relationship between the husband and wife became colder and more strained. Then, when her husband was at his lowest point, saved from imprisonment only because he was a peer, Lady Byron left London under the pretext of visiting her father. Their farewell was, by conventional standards, quite warm, and they agreed to reunite in a month. During her journey, Lady Byron wrote a rather affectionate letter to her husband; then, one morning, Lord Byron found out from his father-in-law, Sir Ralph Milbanke, that he should not expect to see his wife and daughter again.
What was the reason for this sudden separation, which, in spite of all Byron's protests, ended in a divorce? The poet put it down to the influence of an old governess of Lady Byron, Mrs. Clermont, against whom he launched that terrible satire entitled "A Sketch," and this epigram and apostrophe from the the Moor to Iago:
What caused this sudden split, which, despite all of Byron's objections, resulted in a divorce? The poet attributed it to the influence of Lady Byron's former governess, Mrs. Clermont, against whom he wrote that harsh satire called "A Sketch," along with this epigram and address from the Moor to Iago:
"Honest, honest Iago!
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."
"Honest, honest Iago!
If you're a devil, I can't bring myself to kill you."
which begins with these lines:—
which starts with these lines:—
"Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next—for some gracions service unexpress'd,
And from its wages only to be guess'd—
Raised from the toilette to the table,—where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd."
"Born in the attic, raised in the kitchen,
Then elevated to adorn her mistress' hair;
Next—probably for some unspoken service,
And only guessed from the pay it earned—
Lifted from the vanity to the dining table,—where
Her amazed superiors wait behind her chair.
With a steady gaze and an unflustered brow,
She eats from the plate she just washed."
Immediately a tremendous clamour arose in the papers and in society against the poet who, by force of genius, had already overcome those of his opposers who might be termed the first coalition against him.
Immediately, a huge uproar broke out in the media and in society against the poet who, through sheer talent, had already defeated those of his critics who could be considered the first coalition against him.
It is ever the case with men in high places who are before the eye of the public: tempests arise unexpectedly, the existence of which is not suspected by the victim till they burst over his head. They may be compared with waterspouts, and they pour down on the poet, be he a Schiller or a Dante, an Ovid or a Byron, utterly overwhelming him, rending his heart and body, tearing down his fame, overturning his reputation, uprooting his honour. These storms come from the enmities, hatred and jealousies roused by his genius; they are the hyenas that dog his steps through the darkness, who dare not attack him while he can stand firm and upright, but which spring on him directly he totters, and devour him as soon as he falls.
It's always the case with powerful men in the public eye: storms arise out of nowhere, and the person affected often doesn't see them coming until they hit hard. These storms can be likened to waterspouts, unleashing their fury on the poet, whether they are a Schiller, a Dante, an Ovid, or a Byron, completely overwhelming him, breaking his spirit and body, destroying his fame, ruining his reputation, and tearing apart his honor. These tempests come from the rivalries, hatred, and jealousy stirred up by his talent; they are like hyenas lurking in the shadows, waiting until he shows any sign of weakness to pounce on him and consume him the moment he falls.
Byron realised he would have to give way before his enemies; so he left England, meaning to rally his forces amidst the undisturbing surroundings of foreign lands, for[Pg 29] some means of revenging himself upon them. He left England on 25 April 1816. He had published during his six years in London, the first two cantos of Childe Harold, The Giaour, The Bride of Abydos, The Siege of Corinth, Lara and The Corsair.
Byron knew he would have to give in to his enemies, so he left England, planning to gather his strength in the calm of foreign lands, looking for a way to get back at them. He left England on April 25, 1816. During his six years in London, he published the first two cantos of Childe Harold, The Giaour, The Bride of Abydos, The Siege of Corinth, Lara, and The Corsair.
He departed, and his saddest regrets were for the wife who had exiled him, and for the daughter whom he had hardly seen, and whom he was never to look upon again.
He left, and his deepest regrets were for the wife who had banished him, and for the daughter he had barely seen, and whom he would never see again.
"Fare thee well! and if for ever.
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:
. . . .
. . . .
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.
. . . .
. . . .
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say 'Father!'
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press'd,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me."
"Goodbye! And if it's forever,
Still, forever, goodbye:
Even though it's unforgiving, never
Will my heart go against you.
I wish my chest were bare before you
Where your head has often rested,
While that peaceful sleep came over you
Which you’ll never know again:
. . . .
. . . .
Both of us will live, but every morning
Will wake us from a lonely bed.
. . . .
. . . .
And when you seek comfort,
When our child's first words flow,
Will you teach her to say 'Father!'
Even though she must do without him?
When her little hands reach for you,
When her lips press against yours,
Think of him whose prayer will bless you,
Think of him your love has blessed!
If her features resemble
Those you'll never see again,
Then your heart will gently tremble
With a pulse still true to me."
This was to the mother: then, in Childe Harold, he addresses his child:—
This was to the mother: then, in Childe Harold, he speaks to his child:—
"Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
Ada, sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,
And then we parted,—not as now we part,
[Pg 30]But with a hope.—
My daughter! with thy name this song begun;
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end;
I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend:
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold,
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.
To aid thy mind's development, to watch
Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see
Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects,—wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,—
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;
Yet this was in my nature: as it is,
I know not what is there, yet something like to this.
Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
With desolation, and a broken claim:
Though the grave closed between us,—'twere the same,
I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain
My blood from out thy being were an aim,
And an attainment,—all would be in vain,—
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.
The child of love, though born in bitterness,
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire
These were the elements, and thine no less.
As yet such are around thee, but thy fire
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher.
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea
And from the mountains where I now respire,
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me."
"Is your face like your mother's, my beautiful child!
Ada, the only daughter of my home and heart?
The last time I saw your young blue eyes, they smiled,
And then we parted—not like we do now,
[Pg 30]But with a hope.—
My daughter! This song began with your name;
My daughter! It shall end with your name;
I can't see you, I can't hear you, but no one
Can be so wrapped up in you; you are the friend
To whom the shadows of distant years stretch:
Even though I may never see your face,
My voice will blend with your future visions,
And reach into your heart when mine is cold,
A symbol and a sound, even from your father's essence.
To help your mind grow, to watch
Your little joys blossom, to sit and see
Almost your very growth, to watch you learn
About things—wonders still unknown to you!
To hold you gently on my knee,
And press a parent's kiss on your soft cheek—
This, it seems, was not meant for me;
Yet this was in my nature: as it is,
I know not what is there, yet something like this.
Yet, even if dull Hate is taught as a duty,
I know that you will love me; even if my name
Is kept from you, like a spell still full
Of desolation and a broken bond:
Though the grave stands between us—it would be the same,
I know that you will love me; even if taking
My blood from your existence were a goal,
And an achievement—all would be in vain—
Still, you would love me, still hold on to that love more than life.
The child of love, though born in bitterness,
And raised in turmoil. These were the elements of your father,
And yours no less. As such, they still surround you,
But your fire shall be more tempered, and your hope much higher.
May your cradled dreams be sweet! Across the sea
And from the mountains where I now breathe,
I would love to send such blessings to you,
As, with a sigh, I wish you might have been to me."
"Ah!" remarked Madame de Staël (the poor exile who, standing by the Lake of Geneva, sighed for the gutter that ran in the rue du Bac),—"ah! I would not mind being unhappy[Pg 31] if I were Lady Byron, to have inspired such lines as those in my husband's brain!"
"Ah!" said Madame de Staël (the unfortunate exile who, standing by the Lake of Geneva, longed for the gutter that ran on rue du Bac),—"ah! I wouldn't mind being unhappy[Pg 31] if I were Lady Byron, to have inspired such lines as those in my husband's mind!"
May be; but Lord Byron and Madame de Staël would have made an extraordinary couple, and no mistake.
Maybe; but Lord Byron and Madame de Staël would have been an incredible couple, no doubt about it.
Byron was not in such a hurry to travel far afield this time; perhaps he only wanted to stretch the double cord that bound him to England, and not to snap it altogether.
Byron wasn't in such a rush to go far this time; maybe he just wanted to stretch the double bond that tied him to England, not break it completely.
He landed in Belgium, visited the field of Waterloo, still wet with the blood of three nations; sailed down the Rhine and settled for a time on the borders of the Lake of Geneva. Here it was that he met Madame de Staël, who was almost as much of an exile under the Restoration as under the Empire. "My greatest pleasure amidst the magnificent pictures round Lake Geneva was to gaze upon the author of Corinne."
He arrived in Belgium, visited the battlefield of Waterloo, still soaked with the blood of three nations; sailed down the Rhine and stayed for a while along the shores of Lake Geneva. It was here that he met Madame de Staël, who was nearly as much of an exile during the Restoration as she had been during the Empire. "My biggest joy among the stunning scenes around Lake Geneva was to look at the author of Corinne."
At Diodati, Byron renewed his swimming feat of Abydos by crossing the Lake of Geneva where it is four leagues wide. And it was at Diodati that he wrote the third canto of Childe Harold, The Prisoner of Chillon and Manfred. Goethe in a German journal laid claim to the original idea of Manfred, as though Manfred did not descend as directly from Satan as Faust had from Polichinelle! O thou poor rich man! with all thy European fame and thy world-wide reputation, wouldst thou snatch back the leaf that thy brother-poet so sinfully plucked from thy laurel crown!
At Diodati, Byron took on his swimming challenge again by crossing the Lake of Geneva where it's four leagues wide. It was at Diodati that he wrote the third canto of Childe Harold, The Prisoner of Chillon, and Manfred. Goethe, in a German journal, claimed the original idea of Manfred, as if Manfred didn't come directly from Satan just as Faust had from Polichinelle! Oh, you poor wealthy man! With all your European fame and your global reputation, would you want to take back the part that your fellow poet so unfairly snatched from your laurel crown!
Can we not almost hear what D'Alembert said of the author of Zaïre and of the Dictionnaire philosophique:—
Can we not almost hear what D'Alembert said about the author of Zaïre and the Dictionnaire philosophique:—
"This man is past comprehending! he has fame that would satisfy a million of men, and yet he wants another ha'porth."
"This guy is hard to figure out! He has enough fame to please a million people, but he still wants just a bit more."
Byron took his revenge by dedicating some of his poems to Goethe.
Byron got back at him by dedicating some of his poems to Goethe.
Byron left for Italy in the month of October, stopping first at Milan to visit the Ambrosian Library. His next halt was at Verona, where he saw the tomb of Juliet; and, finally, he took up his residence in Venice, where his name became a household word.
Byron headed to Italy in October, first stopping in Milan to check out the Ambrosian Library. His next stop was Verona, where he visited Juliet's tomb; and finally, he settled in Venice, where his name became well-known.
Venice had never possessed any horses except the four bronze ones which had figured for twelve years on top of Carrousel's triumphal arch. But Byron never walked, and he was therefore the first person whose living horses clattered in the Square of Saint Mark, on the quai des Esclavons and on the banks of the Brenta.
Venice had never had any horses except for the four bronze ones that had been up there on top of Carrousel's triumphal arch for twelve years. But Byron never walked, so he was the first person whose living horses made noise in the Square of Saint Mark, on the quai des Esclavons, and along the banks of the Brenta.
It was in Venice that the real romance of his life began. Here he had three love affairs, each in a different rank of Venetian society: with Marguerite, Marianne and ... Alas! the most faithless of the three was the great lady who shall be nameless—she whom Byron loved more than all, perhaps, more than Miss Chaworth, more than Caroline Lamb.
It was in Venice that the true romance of his life began. Here he had three love affairs, each with a different level of Venetian society: with Marguerite, Marianne, and ... Unfortunately! The most unfaithful of the three was the noblewoman who shall remain nameless—she whom Byron loved more than anyone else, perhaps more than Miss Chaworth, more than Caroline Lamb.
It is curious to think that this lady, even at this day, thirty-three years after the time of which I am writing, is still a fascinating woman. I made her acquaintance in Rome when she was in the full bloom of her beauty, when she was almost as wonderful to listen to as to look at, to hear as to see.
It’s interesting to consider that this woman, even today, thirty-three years after the time I’m writing about, is still captivating. I met her in Rome when she was at the height of her beauty, when she was almost as wonderful to listen to as she was to look at.
She lived solely upon the memories of the great poet whom she had loved. It seemed as though the years of their love constituted the one bright spot in her life, and in looking back the obscurity that formed the rest of her life was ignored by her. But if I began to speak of her, I should have to reveal her name; I should have to speak of the walks we had together by moonlight in the Forum and the Coliseum; I should have to repeat what she told me among the shadows of those great ruins, when she never spoke but of the illustrious dead, who had trodden with her the same stones that we were treading and had sat by her side in the same places where we rested.
She lived entirely on the memories of the great poet she had loved. The years they spent together felt like the only bright spot in her life, and when she looked back, she overlooked the darkness that filled the rest of her existence. But if I started to talk about her, I would have to reveal her name; I would have to mention the walks we took together under the moonlight in the Forum and the Coliseum; I would have to share what she told me in the shadows of those massive ruins, when she only spoke of the famous dead, who had walked the same stones we were walking and had sat beside her in the same spots where we rested.
Oh! madam, madam! Why were you unfaithful to the poet's memory, when your memories of him had gone on increasing in strength, aided by his death, until you had magnified your love into a god? Why was not the honour of having been Byron's mistress quite sufficient, instead of taking any title that a husband, no matter how distinguished he might be, could give you?
Oh! Madam, madam! Why were you unfaithful to the poet's memory when your memories of him kept getting stronger, especially after his death, until you turned your love into something divine? Wasn't the honor of being Byron's mistress enough for you, instead of accepting any title that a husband, no matter how accomplished he might be, could offer?
If I might only venture to repeat here what Déjazet once said to Georges, with reference to Napoleon!
If I could just repeat what Déjazet once said to Georges about Napoleon!
It is true that Byron, with all his fancies and eccentricities and passions, cannot have been a very pleasant lover. But she should have been faithless to him when he was alive, and not after he was dead.
It’s true that Byron, with all his quirks and passions, probably wasn’t a very nice partner. But she should have been unfaithful to him while he was alive, not after he had passed away.
The world has forgiven the Empress Joséphine her infidelities in the Tuileries, but it will never forgive Marie-Louise, the widow, her faithlessness at Parma.
The world has forgiven Empress Joséphine for her affairs in the Tuileries, but it will never forgive Marie-Louise, the widow, for her betrayal in Parma.
We will not say any more, madam; we will think, instead, of the poems Byron wrote at Venice. Here he composed Marino Faliero, The Two Foscari, Sardanapalus, Cain, The Prophecy of Dante and the third and fourth cantos of Don Juan.
We won’t say anything more, ma’am; instead, we’ll think about the poems Byron wrote in Venice. There, he created Marino Faliero, The Two Foscari, Sardanapalus, Cain, The Prophecy of Dante, and the third and fourth cantos of Don Juan.
When Naples rebelled in 1820 and 1821, Byron wrote to the Neapolitan Government and offered his purse and his sword. So, when reaction set in, and Ferdinand returned a second time from Sicily, and the lists of proscribed persons were published throughout Italy, it was feared Byron's name might be of the number of exiles. Then it happened that the poor people of Ravenna drew up a petition to the cardinal praying he might be allowed to stay among them.
When Naples revolted in 1820 and 1821, Byron wrote to the Neapolitan Government, offering his money and his support. So, when the backlash began and Ferdinand returned for the second time from Sicily, and the lists of people who were banned were published across Italy, there was concern that Byron's name might be on the list of exiles. Then, the people of Ravenna put together a petition to the cardinal, asking that Byron be allowed to remain with them.
This man who boldly and openly offered the Neapolitans a thousand louis was a never failing source of helpfulness to the poor of Venice and its surrounding countryside; no poor man ever held out a hand towards him and drew it back empty, even if Byron himself were in the greatest straits, and more than once he had to borrow in order to give. He knew this but too well when he said, "Those who have persecuted me so long and so cruelly will triumph, and justice will only be done to me when this hand is as cold as their hearts."
This man who confidently and openly offered the Neapolitans a thousand louis was a constant source of support for the poor in Venice and the surrounding areas; no poor person ever reached out to him without receiving help, even when Byron himself was in serious trouble, and more than once he had to borrow money to be able to give. He understood this all too well when he said, "Those who have tormented me for so long and so harshly will win, and justice will only be served to me when this hand is as cold as their hearts."
Thus, wherever he went, he left an impression as of fire,—he dazzled, warmed or scorched.
Thus, wherever he went, he left an impression like fire—he dazzled, warmed, or scorched.
In 1821, Byron left Venice, in whose streets no one had ever seen him on foot; the Brenta, upon whose banks no one had ever seen him take a walk; the Square of St. Mark, whose beauties he had never contemplated except from a[Pg 34] window, for fear of revealing to the beauties of Venice the slight deformity of his leg, which not even the width of his trousers could disguise.
In 1821, Byron left Venice, where no one had ever seen him walking on the streets; the Brenta, along whose banks no one had ever seen him take a stroll; the Square of St. Mark, whose beauty he had never admired except from a [Pg 34] window, afraid of showing the charms of Venice the small deformity of his leg, which even the fit of his trousers couldn't hide.
From Venice he went to Pisa. There the news of two fresh troubles awaited him: the death of his natural daughter by an English woman, and the death of his friend Shelley, who was drowned during a sailing trip from Livorno to Lerici. He sent his daughter's body to England for burial.
From Venice, he traveled to Pisa. There, he received news of two new tragedies: the death of his illegitimate daughter with an English woman, and the death of his friend Shelley, who drowned while sailing from Livorno to Lerici. He sent his daughter's body to England for burial.
To save the body of his friend Shelley from the attentions Italian priests would no doubt have given it, he determined to have it burnt after the custom of the ancients.
To protect his friend Shelley's body from the interest Italian priests would surely have shown, he decided to have it cremated, following the ancient custom.
Trelawney, the bold pirate, was present, and relates the strange funeral rites, as he relates his lion hunt or his fight with the Malay prince. He was a companion worthy of the noble poet, and was himself a poet; his book is full of marvellous descriptions, all the more wonderful because they are always true, although sounding incredible.
Trelawney, the daring pirate, was there and shares the unusual funeral ceremonies, just like he talks about his lion hunt or his battle with the Malay prince. He was a companion worthy of the great poet and was a poet himself; his book is filled with amazing descriptions, even more impressive because they’re always true, even though they might sound unbelievable.
"We were on the seashore," said Trelawney; "in front of us lay the sea and its islands, behind us the Apennines, and by our side was the great blazing funeral-pyre. The flames, fanned by the wind from the sea, took a thousand fantastic shapes. The weather was very fine; the lazy waves from the Mediterranean gently kissed the shore, the sands were golden yellow and contrasted sharply with the deep blue of the sky; the mountains lifted their snowy crests up into the clouds, and the flames from the pyre steadily burnt higher and higher into the air."
"We were at the beach," said Trelawney; "in front of us was the sea and its islands, behind us the Apennines, and beside us was the huge blazing funeral pyre. The flames, blown by the wind from the sea, formed a thousand fantastic shapes. The weather was beautiful; the lazy waves from the Mediterranean gently kissed the shore, the sand was golden yellow and stood out against the deep blue sky; the mountains raised their snowy peaks into the clouds, and the flames from the pyre steadily burned higher and higher into the air."
From Pisa Byron went to Genoa. It was in this city—once the Queen of the Mediterranean—that he conceived the idea of going to Greece, to do for that "Niobe of the Nations," as he called her, the same offices Naples had not thought fit to accept when offered to her.
From Pisa, Byron traveled to Genoa. It was in this city—once the Queen of the Mediterranean—that he came up with the idea of going to Greece, to do for that "Niobe of the Nations," as he referred to her, what Naples had refused when it was offered.
So far, Byron had devoted himself mainly to individuals; now he intended to devote himself to a people.
So far, Byron had focused mainly on individuals; now he planned to focus on a community.
In the month of April 1823 he entered into communication with the Greek Committee, and towards the end of July he left Italy. His reputation had increased extraordinarily,[Pg 35] not only in Italy, France and Germany, but in England too.
In April 1823, he started communicating with the Greek Committee, and by the end of July, he left Italy. His reputation had grown tremendously,[Pg 35] not just in Italy, France, and Germany, but also in England.
One fact will give some idea of the height to which his reputation had attained.
One fact will give some sense of how high his reputation had risen.
An insurrection had broken out in Scotland in the county where his mother's property was situated. The rebels had to cross Lady Byron's estates to reach their destination, but on the confines of the property they paused and decided to cross in single file, so as only to tread down a narrow path in the crops. They did not take the same precaution on other estates, which they completely devastated.
An uprising had started in Scotland in the area where his mother owned land. The rebels needed to cross Lady Byron's estates to get to their goal, but at the edge of the property, they stopped and chose to go in single file, so they would only flatten a narrow path in the crops. They didn’t take the same care on other estates, which they totally destroyed.
Byron often related this incident with pride.
Byron often shared this incident with pride.
"See," he said, "how the hatred of my enemies is being avenged."
"Look," he said, "how my enemies' hatred is being repaid."
Before he left Italy he wrote on the margin of a book that had been lent him—
Before he left Italy, he wrote in the margin of a book that had been lent to him—
"If all that is said of me be true, I am unworthy to see England again; if all they say of me is false, England does not deserve to see me again."
"If everything they say about me is true, I don't deserve to see England again; if everything they say about me is false, then England doesn't deserve to see me again."
But he had a presentiment that he had left his native land for ever; and Lady Blessington told me herself that, when she met Byron at Genoa, the day before he was to set sail, he said to her—
But he had a feeling that he had left his homeland forever; and Lady Blessington herself told me that when she saw Byron in Genoa, the day before he was supposed to leave, he said to her—
"We have met again to-day, but to-morrow we shall be separated, who knows for how long? Something here (and he laid his hand on his heart) tells me that we are meeting for the last time; I am going to Greece, and shall never return from it."
"We've come together again today, but tomorrow we’ll be apart, who knows for how long? Something here (and he put his hand on his heart) tells me this is our last meeting; I'm going to Greece and won’t be coming back."
Towards the end of December Byron landed in Morea, and, a few days later, he made his way into the town, in spite of the Turkish flotilla that was besieging Missolonghi. He was greeted with enthusiastic shouts by the people, who led him in triumph to the house they had got ready for him.
Towards the end of December, Byron arrived in Morea, and a few days later, he entered the town despite the Turkish fleet that was surrounding Missolonghi. The people welcomed him with enthusiastic cheers and led him in triumph to the house they had prepared for him.
When established there, Byron's whole soul was concentrated in the one desire to see the triumph of the cause he had espoused, or to die in defending a fresh Thermopylæ. Neither of these hopes was to be granted him. He was seized by a violent attack[Pg 36] of fever on 15 February 1824, which ran its course rapidly, caused him much suffering and weakened him greatly. But as soon as he was sufficiently recovered he resumed the daily rides on horseback which were his greatest recreation. On 9 April he got very wet when out riding, and although he changed everything on his return home, he felt ill, for he had been more than two hours in his wet clothes. During the night there was a slight return of the fever, although he slept well; but about eleven o'clock on the morning of the 10th he complained of a violent pain in the head and of suffering in his arms and legs; nevertheless, he managed to mount his horse in the afternoon. His old servant, Fletcher, from whose account we shall now borrow the final details, waited for his return.
When he got there, Byron's entire focus was on one goal: to see the success of the cause he had taken up or to die defending a new Thermopylæ. Neither of those hopes would be fulfilled. He suffered a severe fever on 15 February 1824, which progressed quickly, caused him a lot of pain, and left him very weak. But as soon as he was well enough, he went back to his daily horseback rides, which were his main form of enjoyment. On 9 April, he got soaked while riding, and even though he changed right when he got home, he still felt unwell since he had spent over two hours in wet clothes. That night, a slight fever returned, even though he slept well; but by around eleven o'clock on the morning of the 10th, he complained of a severe headache and pain in his arms and legs. Still, he managed to get on his horse that afternoon. His old servant, Fletcher, from whose account we will now borrow the final details, waited for his return.
"How have you got on, my lord?" he asked.
"How have you been, my lord?" he asked.
"The saddle was not dry," replied Byron, "and I am afraid the dampness has made me ill again."
"The saddle wasn’t dry," Byron replied, "and I’m afraid the dampness has made me sick again."
And indeed it was plain to see next morning that Byron's indisposition had become more serious: he had been feverish all night, and seemed very depressed. Fletcher made him a cup of arrowroot; he tasted a few spoonfuls, then he handed the drink back to the old servant.
And it was clear to see the next morning that Byron's condition had worsened: he had been feverish all night and seemed very down. Fletcher made him a cup of arrowroot; he took a few spoonfuls, then handed the drink back to the old servant.
"It is excellent," he said, "but I cannot drink any more of it."
"It’s great," he said, "but I can’t drink any more of it."
On the third day Fletcher grew seriously uneasy about him. During all his other rheumatic attacks his master had never been sleepless, but this time he could not sleep at all.
On the third day, Fletcher became really worried about him. During all his previous rheumatic attacks, his master had never been unable to sleep, but this time he couldn’t sleep at all.
So he went to the two doctors in the town, Drs. Bruno and Millingen, and asked them several questions as to the nature of the illness from which they thought Lord Byron was suffering. Both assured the old valet that he need not be alarmed, that his master was in no danger, but that in two or three days he would be up again, and then, they said, the attack would not return again. This was on the 13th. On the 14th, as the fever had not left his master and the invalid still had no sleep, Fletcher begged Byron, in spite of the[Pg 37] assurance of the two doctors, to let him send for Dr. Thomas, from Zante.
So he went to see the two doctors in town, Dr. Bruno and Dr. Millingen, and asked them several questions about what illness they thought Lord Byron was suffering from. Both reassured the old valet that he shouldn’t be worried, that his master was not in danger, and that in two or three days he would be up again, and then, they said, the attack wouldn’t come back. This was on the 13th. On the 14th, since the fever hadn’t left his master and the invalid still hadn’t slept, Fletcher urged Byron, despite the[Pg 37] reassurances of the two doctors, to let him call for Dr. Thomas from Zante.
"Consult the two doctors," the sick man replied, "and act as they direct."
"Talk to the two doctors," the sick man replied, "and follow their advice."
Fletcher obeyed, and the two doctors said that there was not any necessity for a third opinion. Fletcher brought back this answer to his master, who shook his head and said—
Fletcher complied, and the two doctors stated that there was no need for a third opinion. Fletcher relayed this response to his master, who shook his head and said—
"I am much afraid they do not know anything at all about my illness."
"I’m really afraid they don’t know anything at all about my illness."
"In that case, my lord," Fletcher insisted, "do call in another doctor."
"In that case, my lord," Fletcher urged, "please bring in another doctor."
"They tell me," Byron continued, without replying directly to Fletcher, "that it is a chill such as I have had before."
"They say," Byron continued, not answering Fletcher directly, "that it's a chill like the one I've had before."
"But I am sure, my lord, you have never had such a serious one before," replied the valet.
"But I'm sure, my lord, you've never had such a serious one before," replied the valet.
"I agree with you," was Byron's reply; and he fell into a reverie from which no amount of persuasion could arouse him.
"I agree with you," was Byron's reply; and he fell into a daydream from which no amount of convincing could bring him back.
On the 15th, Fletcher, whose faithful devotion divined the real condition of his master, again asked permission to be allowed to fetch Dr. Thomas; but the doctors of Missolonghi still persisted there was no cause for alarm. Until now, they had treated their patient with purgatives, which, as Byron had only taken a cup or two of broth during eight days, were much too strong remedies and could not have any desirable effect. They but increased the weakness, which was already extreme because of want of sleep.
On the 15th, Fletcher, whose loyal dedication sensed the true state of his master, once more requested permission to go get Dr. Thomas. However, the doctors in Missolonghi continued to insist that there was no reason to worry. Up to this point, they had been treating their patient with laxatives, which, since Byron had only consumed a cup or two of broth over the course of eight days, were far too strong and ineffective. These treatments only heightened the exhaustion, which was already severe due to lack of sleep.
On the evening of the 15th, however, the doctors began to be uneasy, and talked of bleeding their patient; but he strenuously opposed this, asking Dr. Millingen if he thought the need for bleeding was urgent. The doctor replied that he believed he could put it off, without danger, until next day. So, on the evening of the 16th, they bled Byron in the right arm, taking sixteen ounces of greatly inflamed blood out of him. Dr. Bruno shook his head as he examined the blood.
On the evening of the 15th, though, the doctors started to feel uneasy and discussed the possibility of bleeding their patient. However, he strongly objected, asking Dr. Millingen if he thought it was urgent to proceed with the bleeding. The doctor responded that he believed it could wait until the next day without any risk. So, on the evening of the 16th, they bled Byron from his right arm, removing sixteen ounces of heavily inflamed blood. Dr. Bruno shook his head as he looked at the blood.
"I always told him he ought to be bled," he murmured, "but he would never let it be done."
"I always told him he should get a bloodletting," he murmured, "but he would never allow it."
Then the doctors fell into a lengthy dispute over the time lost.
Then the doctors got into a long argument about the time that was wasted.
Again Fletcher proposed to send to Zante for Dr. Thomas, but the doctors replied—
Again, Fletcher suggested sending to Zante for Dr. Thomas, but the doctors responded—
"It would be useless; before he could get here, your master will be either out of danger or dead."
"It wouldn't matter; by the time he arrives, your master will either be safe or gone."
In the meantime the disease grew worse, and Dr. Bruno advised a second bleeding. Fletcher broke it to his master that the two doctors deemed another bleeding indispensable, and this time Lord Byron did not make any resistance; he held out his arm and said—
In the meantime, the illness worsened, and Dr. Bruno recommended a second bloodletting. Fletcher informed his master that the two doctors believed another bloodletting was necessary, and this time, Lord Byron did not resist; he extended his arm and said—
"Here is my arm: they may do what they wish." Then he added, "Did I not tell you, Fletcher, that they do not understand anything at all about my illness!"
"Here’s my arm: they can do whatever they want." Then he added, "Did I not tell you, Fletcher, that they don’t understand anything about my illness at all!"
Byron grew weaker and weaker. On the 17th, they bled him in the morning, and twice again in the afternoon of the same day. He fainted away after each bleeding, and from that day he himself gave up all hope.
Byron got weaker and weaker. On the 17th, they drew blood from him in the morning, and twice again in the afternoon. He fainted after each blood draw, and from that day on, he lost all hope.
"I cannot sleep," he said to Fletcher, "and you know that I have not had any sleep for a week; now, it is a fact that a man cannot live without sleep for any length of time; after a time he goes mad, and nothing can save him. I would rather blow my brains out ten times than go mad. I am not afraid of death, I shall watch its approach with more composure than people would believe."
"I can’t sleep," he told Fletcher, "and you know I haven’t slept in a week; it’s a fact that a person can’t go without sleep for too long; eventually, they lose their mind, and nothing can help them. I’d rather shoot myself ten times than go crazy. I’m not afraid of dying; I’ll face it with more calm than people would expect."
On the 18th, Byron was perfectly satisfied of his approaching end.
On the 18th, Byron was completely sure that his end was near.
"I fear," he said to Fletcher, "that Tita and you will both fall ill with nursing me like this, day and night."
"I worry," he said to Fletcher, "that both you and Tita will get sick from taking care of me like this, day and night."
Still, both refused to take any rest. Fletcher had been wise enough to take away his master's pistols and dagger out of his reach, ever since the 16th, when he saw that the fever was likely to produce delirium.
Still, both refused to take any break. Fletcher had been smart enough to remove his master's pistols and dagger from his reach ever since the 16th, when he noticed the fever was likely to cause delirium.
On the 18th, he repeated several times that the Missolonghi doctors did not understand his case at all.
On the 18th, he said several times that the doctors in Missolonghi didn’t understand his situation at all.
"Well, then," Fletcher replied for the tenth time, "let me go and fetch Dr. Thomas from Zante."
"Alright then," Fletcher said for the tenth time, "let me go get Dr. Thomas from Zante."
"No, do not go.... Send for him, Fletcher, but be quick about it."
"No, don't go.... Call for him, Fletcher, but hurry up."
Fletcher did not lose a second in despatching a messenger, and then he informed the two doctors that he had just sent for Dr. Thomas.
Fletcher didn't waste any time sending a messenger, and then he told the two doctors that he had just called for Dr. Thomas.
"You were quite right," said they, "for we have ourselves begun to feel very anxious."
"You were totally right," they said, "because we've started to feel really anxious ourselves."
On re-entering his master's room, Byron said to Fletcher—
On walking back into his boss's room, Byron said to Fletcher—
"Well, have you sent?"
"Have you sent it?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Yes, my lord."
"Good! I wish to know what is the matter with me."
"Great! I want to know what's wrong with me."
A few moments later, he was seized with a fresh attack of delirium, and when he recovered consciousness, he remarked—
A few moments later, he was hit with another wave of delirium, and when he came to, he said—
"I begin to believe I am seriously ill. If I am to die sooner than I expected, I desire to give you some instructions. Will you be sure to carry them out for me?"
"I’m starting to think I’m really sick. If I’m going to die sooner than I thought, I want to give you some instructions. Will you make sure to follow them for me?"
"Oh, my lord, you can be sure of my faithfulness," the valet replied; "but you will live for long enough yet, I hope, and be able to attend to your own affairs."
"Oh, my lord, you can count on my loyalty," the valet replied; "but I hope you will live for a long time yet and be able to manage your own matters."
"No," said Byron, shaking his head; "no, the end has come.... I must tell you everything, Fletcher, and without a moment's loss of time."
"No," Byron said, shaking his head. "No, it’s over... I need to tell you everything, Fletcher, and I can't waste another second."
"Shall I fetch pen and ink and paper, my lord?" asked the valet.
"Should I get some pen, ink, and paper for you, my lord?" the valet asked.
"Oh no; we should waste too much time, and we have none to lose. Pay attention."
"Oh no; we can't waste too much time, and we have none to spare. Pay attention."
"I am listening, my lord."
"I'm listening, my lord."
"Your future is assured."
"Your future is secure."
"Oh! my lord," cried the poor valet, bursting into tears, "I entreat you to think of more important matters."
"Oh! my lord," the poor valet exclaimed, bursting into tears, "I beg you to focus on more important things."
"My child!" murmured the dying man, "my dear daughter, my poor Ada, if I could but have seen her! Take her my blessing, Fletcher; also to my sister Augusta and to her children.... You must take it, too, to Lady Byron.... Tell her ... tell her everything ... you stand well in her estimation...."
"My child!" whispered the dying man, "my dear daughter, my poor Ada, if I could just have seen her! Take her my blessing, Fletcher; also to my sister Augusta and her kids.... You have to take it to Lady Byron, too.... Tell her ... tell her everything ... she thinks highly of you...."
The dying man's voice failed him, and, although he made[Pg 40] efforts to continue speaking, the valet could only make out disjointed expressions, from which, with the greatest difficulty, he gathered the following:—
The dying man's voice faltered, and even though he made[Pg 40] efforts to keep talking, the valet could only catch fragmented phrases, from which, with great difficulty, he pieced together the following:—
"Fletcher ... if you do not carry out ... the orders I have given you ... I will haunt you ... if God will let me...."
"Fletcher ... if you don't follow through ... with the orders I've given you ... I will haunt you ... if God allows it...."
"But, my lord," cried the valet in despair, "I have not been able to hear a word of what you have been saying to me."
"But, my lord," the valet exclaimed in despair, "I haven't been able to catch a word of what you've been saying to me."
"Oh! my God, my God!" whispered Byron, "then it is now too late.... Have you really not heard me?"
"Oh! my God, my God!" whispered Byron, "then it's too late now.... Have you really not heard me?"
"No, my lord; but try again to make me understand your wishes."
"No, my lord; but please try again to help me understand what you want."
"Impossible!... impossible!" murmured the dying man; "it is too late ... all is over ... and yet ... come close, come close, Fletcher ... I will try again."
"Impossible!... impossible!" whispered the dying man. "It's too late... everything is over... and yet... come closer, come closer, Fletcher... I'll try again."
And he renewed his attempts, but all was in vain; he could only utter a few broken words, such as, "My wife!... my child ... my sister. You know all ... you will tell them everything ... you know my wishes."
And he kept trying, but it was all pointless; he could only manage a few fragmented words, like, "My wife!... my child ... my sister. You know everything ... you'll tell them all ... you know what I want."
Nothing more was intelligible.
Nothing else made sense.
This was at midday on the 18th. The doctors held a fresh consultation, and decided to give the patient quinine in wine.
This was at noon on the 18th. The doctors had a new consultation and decided to give the patient quinine mixed with wine.
He had only taken, as I have said, a little broth and two spoonfuls of arrowroot for eight days. He took the quinine, and showed by signs that he wanted to sleep; he did not speak again unless questioned.
He had only had a bit of broth and two spoonfuls of arrowroot for eight days. He took the quinine and indicated that he wanted to sleep; he didn’t say anything else unless he was asked.
"Would you like me to fetch Mr. Parry?" Fletcher asked him.
"Do you want me to get Mr. Parry?" Fletcher asked him.
"Yes, go and fetch him," he replied.
"Sure, go get him," he said.
A moment later, the valet returned with him. Mr. Parry leant over his bed, and Byron became excited as he recognised him.
A moment later, the valet came back with him. Mr. Parry leaned over his bed, and Byron got excited as he recognized him.
"Lie quite quiet," said Mr. Parry; and the invalid shed a few tears and then seemed to fall asleep.
"Lie still," said Mr. Parry; and the patient shed a few tears and then seemed to drift off to sleep.
This was the beginning of a state of coma that lasted nearly twenty-four hours.
This marked the start of a coma that lasted almost twenty-four hours.
Then, towards eight in the evening, he roused, and Fletcher heard him say, "And now I must go to sleep...."
Then, around eight in the evening, he woke up, and Fletcher heard him say, "And now I need to go to sleep...."
They were the last words he uttered. His head fell back motionless on his pillow. He never moved for twenty-four hours; there were occasional spasms of suffocation and a raucous sound in his breathing: that was all. Fletcher called Tita to help him raise the head of the invalid, who seemed quite numbed, and the two servants raised his head every time the signs of suffocation returned.
They were the last words he spoke. His head fell back lifeless on his pillow. He didn’t move for twenty-four hours; there were occasional gasps for breath and a harsh sound in his breathing: that was all. Fletcher called Tita to help him lift the head of the incapacitated man, who appeared completely unresponsive, and the two servants raised his head each time the signs of choking returned.
This lasted until the 19th, when, at six in the evening, Byron opened and closed his eyes without any sign of pain and without moving any other part of his body.
This lasted until the 19th, when, at six in the evening, Byron opened and closed his eyes without any sign of pain and without moving any other part of his body.
"Oh! my God," cried Fletcher, "I think my lord has breathed his last!"
"Oh my God," shouted Fletcher, "I think my lord has breathed his last!"
The doctors came near and felt his pulse.
The doctors came over and checked his pulse.
"You are right," said they; "he is dead!...."
"You’re right," they said; "he’s dead!...."
On 22 April, Byron's remains were taken to the church where Marco Bozariz and General Normann lie buried. The body was enclosed in a rough wooden coffin; it was covered by a black mantle, and on the mantle they placed a helmet, a sword and a wreath of laurels.
On April 22, Byron's remains were taken to the church where Marco Bozariz and General Normann are buried. The body was placed in a simple wooden coffin; it was covered with a black cloak, and on the cloak they laid a helmet, a sword, and a wreath of laurel leaves.
Byron had expressed a wish that his body should be buried in his native land; but the Greeks asked to be allowed to keep his heart, and those who had cruelly made that heart bleed when he was alive, gave it up when he was dead.
Byron had expressed a desire for his body to be buried in his homeland; however, the Greeks requested to keep his heart, and those who had so brutally caused that heart to bleed while he was alive surrendered it when he passed away.
His daughter Ada, whom I have since seen in Florence, was declared the adopted daughter of Greece. I do not know whether King Otho I. remembered this fact when he came to the throne.
His daughter Ada, whom I've since seen in Florence, was named the adopted daughter of Greece. I'm not sure if King Otho I. remembered this fact when he became king.
CHAPTER IV
Usurped celebrity—M. Lemercier and his works—Racan's white hare-Le Fiesque by M. Ancelot—The Romantic artists—Scheffer—Delacroix —Sigalon—Schnetz—Coigniet—Boulanger—Géricault—La Méduse in the artist's studio—Lord Byron's funeral obsequies in England—Sheridan's body claimed for debt
Stolen fame—M. Lemercier and his creations—Racan's white hare—Le Fiesque by M. Ancelot—The Romantic artists—Scheffer—Delacroix—Sigalon—Schnetz—Coigniet—Boulanger—Géricault—La Méduse in the artist's studio—Lord Byron's funeral in England—Sheridan's body taken for debt.
While Lord Byron's body was being carried from Missolonghi to England, the literary movement in France was steadily progressing. M. Liadière and M. Lemercier each did their best in grappling with Shakespeare and Rowe, each produced Jane Shore; M. Liadière at the Odéon on 2 April, and M. Lemercier at the Théâtre-Français on the 1st. M. Liadière's production just managed to pay its way, while M. Lemercier's was a failure, in spite of Talma, who played two parts in it—those of Gloucester and a beggar. Talma was wonderful in this play, poor though it was. In it he attempted what was in those days looked upon as a very extraordinary thing. He, a man of fine presence, graceful in bearing, full of poetry, lofty in mind and eloquent, played the part of the hunchbacked cripple Richard. The way he managed to make his right shoulder look higher than his left and his arm appear paralysed was a miracle of skill, and the denunciatory scene was a miracle of talent. But nothing could save such a wretched piece. It is now high time some undeserved reputations, supported by fine coteries and associations of intrigue and shuffling, should be shown in their true light.
While Lord Byron's body was being transported from Missolonghi to England, the literary movement in France was steadily advancing. M. Liadière and M. Lemercier both worked hard to tackle Shakespeare and Rowe, each producing Jane Shore; M. Liadière at the Odéon on April 2, and M. Lemercier at the Théâtre-Français on the 1st. M. Liadière's production just managed to break even, while M. Lemercier's was a failure, despite Talma, who played two roles—Gloucester and a beggar. Talma was fantastic in this play, though it was poorly received. He attempted what was considered quite extraordinary at the time. A man of great presence, graceful demeanor, poetic spirit, lofty intelligence, and eloquence, he portrayed the hunchbacked cripple Richard. The way he made his right shoulder seem higher than his left and his arm appear paralyzed was a testament to his skill, and the denunciation scene showcased his talent. But nothing could save such a dreadful piece. It is now high time that some undeserved reputations, propped up by elite circles and schemes, should be revealed for what they truly are.
For instance, there is the author of Agamemnon and of Pinto,—he did not deserve a quarter of the reputation he received. Agamemnon is a dull, lifeless play, devoid of poetic[Pg 43] feeling, sense, rhythm and style; what is it compared with the Orestes of Æschylus? Pinto is a drama of the school of Beaumarchais, the worst type of dramatic school I know; the play would have died a natural death at the end of eight or ten representations if the Imperial Censor had not been so stupid as to attempt to stifle it. The persecution accorded to Pinto gave it a species of celebrity, but, let it be played nowadays and one would soon see the worthlessness of the imitation of Æschylus and Seneca, the so-called original creation. And yet these two plays were the author's principal works.
For example, there's the author of Agamemnon and Pinto—he didn't deserve even a fraction of the praise he received. Agamemnon is a boring, lifeless play, lacking any poetic[Pg 43] feeling, sense, rhythm, or style; how does it compare to Æschylus's Orestes? Pinto is a drama in the style of Beaumarchais, the worst kind of dramatic school I can think of; the play would have faded away after eight or ten performances if the Imperial Censor hadn't been foolish enough to try to suppress it. The persecution of Pinto gave it a kind of notoriety, but if it were performed today, people would quickly recognize the worthlessness of this imitation of Æschylus and Seneca, which is wrongly called original. Yet these two plays were the author's main works.
Try, too, to read a number of other tragedies and dramas and poems that have fallen, buried beneath the cat-calls, laughter and hootings of the public! Try to read Méléagre or Lovelace or le Lévite d'Éphraïm; then, when you have thrown these first three works of the same author aside, and feel sufficiently recovered and can breathe freely once more, take up the task again and try to read Ophis, Plaute or la Comédie latine, Baudouin, Christophe Colomb, Charlemagne, Saint Louis, la Démence de Charles VI., Frédegonde and Brunehaut, which Mademoiselle Rachel for some unknown purpose drew from the tomb, and galvanised three or four times without being able to bring back to life. Then, what else? Stay...we should be lost on the battlefield, among the productions that did not even linger wounded, but fell stark dead—Camille and le Masque de poix, and Cahin-Caha and la Panhypocrisiade: folly succeeding mediocrity; sheer nonsense and balderdash.
Try also to read several other tragedies, dramas, and poems that have been overlooked, buried beneath the public's cat-calls, laughter, and jeers! Try reading Méléagre or Lovelace or le Lévite d'Éphraïm; then, once you’ve set those first three works of the same author aside, and feel enough recovered to breathe easily again, take up the task once more and attempt to read Ophis, Plaute or la Comédie latine, Baudouin, Christophe Colomb, Charlemagne, Saint Louis, la Démence de Charles VI., Frédegonde and Brunehaut, which Mademoiselle Rachel, for some unknown reason, unearthed and revived three or four times without managing to bring them back to life. Then, what else? Hold on...we could easily get lost in the mess of works that didn’t even hang on for long, but fell down completely dead—Camille, le Masque de poix, Cahin-Caha, and la Panhypocrisiade: absurdity replacing mediocrity; total nonsense and drivel.
And yet, although wounded by these rebuffs and completely maimed by his falls, M. Lemercier sat quietly on in his arm-chair in the Palais Mazarin—as did his colleagues, M. Droz, M. Briffaut, and M. Lebrun, one trying to make people forget that he had written a little volume on Bonheur, another that he had perpetrated a tragedy called Minus II., and the third, that he had missed fire in his le Cid d'Andalousie and mangled Schiller's Maria Stuart—he need not have troubled to say anything, the world would have let him sleep as quietly[Pg 44] in his tomb as the spectators had fain have slept at the performance of his pieces, if hissing had never been invented. But nothing of the kind happened! When M. Lemercier perceived the literary movement of 1829 he cried out at the sacrilege, want of good taste and scandal of the thing; he signed petitions to the king to have the representation of Henri III. and of Marion Delorme stopped; he barred the entrance to the Academy when Lamartine and Victor Hugo endeavoured to gain an entrance; he set the Archbishop of Paris against the one and produced a M. Flourens to checkmate the other; he recovered the use of his legs sufficiently to run about collecting votes against them, and the use of his right hand to turn the lock against them. Thank Heaven I had very little to do with this wicked little cur, neither have I had any personal quarrel with him, as I have never had any dealings with the Academy; but since someone must rise up and speak for justice I claim the privilege of being the first to set the example.
And yet, even though he was hurt by these setbacks and completely broken by his failures, M. Lemercier sat quietly in his armchair at the Palais Mazarin—just like his colleagues, M. Droz, M. Briffaut, and M. Lebrun—each trying to overlook their pasts: one attempting to forget he wrote a little book on Bonheur, another that he had a flop called Minus II., and the third, that he failed with le Cid d'Andalousie and butchered Schiller's Maria Stuart. He didn’t even need to say anything; the world would have let him rest as peacefully[Pg 44] in his grave as the audience wished they could have rested during his shows, if people had never learned to boo. But nothing like that happened! When M. Lemercier noticed the literary movement of 1829, he exclaimed at the scandal, the lack of taste, and the outright sacrilege; he signed petitions to the king to stop the performances of Henri III. and Marion Delorme; he blocked the entrance to the Academy when Lamartine and Victor Hugo tried to get in; he turned the Archbishop of Paris against one of them and brought in a M. Flourens to checkmate the other; he managed to get up and run around gathering votes against them, and he was able to use his right hand to lock them out. Thank goodness I had very little to do with this nasty little man, nor have I ever had any personal conflict with him, since I have never engaged with the Academy; but since someone needs to stand up and advocate for justice, I claim the right to be the first to set the example.
When M. Flourens was nominated in place of Hugo, I was passing through the green-room of the Théâtre-Français. I forget what the new play was, but M. Lemercier was holding forth there against the author of Notre-Dame de Paris and of Marion Delorme and the Orientales, just as he had opposed him all day long, silently, in the Academy. I listened to his diatribe for a few minutes, then, shaking my head, I said to him—
When M. Flourens was nominated instead of Hugo, I was walking through the green room of the Théâtre-Français. I can’t remember what the new play was, but M. Lemercier was going off about the author of Notre-Dame de Paris, Marion Delorme, and the Orientales, just like he had been silently opposing him all day at the Academy. I listened to his rant for a few minutes, then, shaking my head, I said to him—
"Monsieur Lemercier, you have refused your vote to Victor Hugo; but there is one thing you will some day be compelled to yield him, and that is your own place. Take care lest, instead of the ill-natured things you are saying against him here, he be not obliged to say a kind word for you some day to the Academy."
"Monsieur Lemercier, you’ve withheld your support from Victor Hugo, but there’s one thing you’ll eventually have to concede to him, and that’s your own position. Be cautious—rather than the unkind things you’re saying about him here, he might one day have to speak kindly of you to the Academy."
And it happened just as I had predicted. It was no easy matter to praise Lemercier, but Hugo accomplished the matter by describing the period instead of speaking of the man, by referring to the emperor rather than to the poet.
And it happened just as I had predicted. It wasn't easy to praise Lemercier, but Hugo managed it by focusing on the era instead of the individual, by referencing the emperor instead of the poet.
"Have you read my speech?" Hugo asked me the day after he had made it.
"Did you read my speech?" Hugo asked me the day after he gave it.
"Yes."
Yes.
"Well, what do you think of it?"
"What do you think?"
"I think you read as though you had just succeeded Bonaparte as a member of the Institute, instead of M. Lemercier as a member of the Academy."
"I think you read like you just took over from Bonaparte as a member of the Institute, instead of M. Lemercier as a member of the Academy."
"The deuce! I would much rather have seen you there than myself. How would you have got out of it?"
"The hell! I would have much rather seen you there than me. How would you have gotten out of it?"
"As Racan did, by saying my big white rabbit had eaten my speech."
"As Racan did, by saying my big white rabbit had eaten my speech."
Racan, it will be remembered, once presented himself before the Academy with the scraps of a speech he had meant to read.
Racan, as we recall, once came before the Academy with bits of a speech he intended to deliver.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I had prepared a splendid speech, which could not fail to have won your suffrages; but my big white rabbit gobbled it up this morning.... I have brought you the remains, and you must try to make the best you can of them!"
"Gentlemen," he said, "I had a fantastic speech ready that would definitely have won your votes, but my big white rabbit ate it this morning... I’ve brought you what’s left, and you’ll have to make the best of it!"
"Ah! indeed," replied Hugo; "I could have done that, but it never occurred to me."
"Ah! really," replied Hugo; "I could have done that, but it just never crossed my mind."
M. Liadière's Jane Shore did for Mademoiselle Georges what M. Lemercier's Jane Shore had done for Talma. It was, besides, the first attempt Mademoiselle Georges had made in Shakespearean drama: she led up to it in Christine and in Lucrèce Borgia.
M. Liadière's Jane Shore did for Mademoiselle Georges what M. Lemercier's Jane Shore had done for Talma. It was also the first time Mademoiselle Georges had tried her hand at Shakespearean drama: she built up to it in Christine and Lucrèce Borgia.
It was the age of limitations; no one was strong enough to be original. They had to look for fresh things across the frontier; they sought admission to the theatres on the shoulders of Rowe or Schiller: if they were successful, they quietly put the German or English author outside; if they came a cropper, they fell on him, and it broke the shock of their fall.
It was a time of restrictions; no one was bold enough to be original. They had to search for new ideas beyond the borders; they sought entry to the theaters riding on the backs of Rowe or Schiller: if they succeeded, they quietly pushed the German or English author aside; if they failed, they landed on him, and it softened the blow of their fall.
After M. Liadière's production of Jane Shore, the Odéon presented M. Ancelot's Fiesque. But M. Ancelot was a purist: he never for one moment supposed that Schiller's Fiesque could be presented complete as in the German play;[Pg 46] therefore he entirely and discreetly suppressed the character of the Moor.
After M. Liadière's production of Jane Shore, the Odéon showcased M. Ancelot's Fiesque. However, M. Ancelot was a purist; he never believed for a second that Schiller's Fiesque could be presented in its entirety as in the German version;[Pg 46] so he completely and discreetly removed the character of the Moor.
Can you imagine Fiesque shorn of the Moor! without the Moor! the main peg on which the drama is hung! Without the Moor! the character for which Schiller constructed his play! When shall we have a law which, whilst permitting translation, will forbid mutilation? The Italians have no law affecting translators; but they have a proverb as short as it is expressive, as concise as it is true, "Traduttore, traditore."
Can you imagine Fiesque without the Moor! Without the Moor! The central element that holds the drama together! Without the Moor! The character that Schiller based his play on! When will we have a law that allows translation but prohibits mutilation? The Italians don't have a law regarding translators; however, they have a proverb that is as brief as it is meaningful, as succinct as it is accurate, "Traduttore, traditore."
Meanwhile, the Romantic school, although still shy in theatrical and literary circles, was boldly invading other branches of art.
Meanwhile, the Romantic movement, though still somewhat reserved in theater and literary circles, was confidently making its mark in other areas of art.
M. Thiers, in history, had published his Révolution française, and Botta his Histoire d'Italie; M. de Barante was producing his excellent Chronique des ducs de Bourgogne, a work full of knowledge and brilliancy, which justly, this time, though accidentally, opened the Academy doors to its author. But the struggle was more noticeable in painting. David dead and Girodet just dead, their successors were such men as Scheffer, Delacroix, Sigalon, Schnetz, Coigniet, Boulanger and Géricault. The works of this galaxy of bold young artists adorned the walls of the Salon of 1824. Scheffer hung his Mort de Gaston de Foix. It was one of his first pictures, and rather gaudy in colouring, but the face of the warrior kneeling at the head of Gaston stood out most remarkably; Scheffer was the painter-poet, the best translator of Goethe I know; he re-created a whole world of German characters, from Mignon to the King of Thule, from Faust to Marguerite.
M. Thiers had published his Révolution française, and Botta his Histoire d'Italie; M. de Barante was working on his excellent Chronique des ducs de Bourgogne, a book full of knowledge and brilliance, which, quite fittingly though by chance, opened the Academy's doors to its author this time. But the competition was more apparent in painting. With David and Girodet recently deceased, their successors included notable figures like Scheffer, Delacroix, Sigalon, Schnetz, Coigniet, Boulanger, and Géricault. The works of this group of bold young artists filled the walls of the Salon of 1824. Scheffer displayed his Mort de Gaston de Foix. It was one of his early paintings and somewhat flashy in color, but the face of the warrior kneeling at Gaston’s head stood out remarkably; Scheffer was the painter-poet, the best interpreter of Goethe I know; he brought to life a whole world of German characters, from Mignon to the King of Thule, and from Faust to Marguerite.
It was Scheffer who transferred to canvas Dante's great and exquisite story of Francesca da Rimini, a conception which all dramatic poets have failed to reproduce; Scheffer found time to join in every conspiracy going, in Dermoncourt's, Caron's and la Fayette's, and yet managed to become one of the finest painters France has ever produced.
It was Scheffer who brought Dante's beautiful story of Francesca da Rimini to life on canvas, a concept that all dramatic poets have struggled to capture. Scheffer also found time to participate in every conspiracy, including Dermoncourt's, Caron's, and Lafayette's, yet still became one of the greatest painters France has ever seen.
Then there was Delacroix, whose Massacre de Scio roused much discussion among all schools of painters. Delacroix was doomed to be pursued by fanatical ignoramuses and[Pg 47] determined vilifiers, just as was Hugo in literature; he had already become known though his Dante traversant le Styx; and all his life he maintained the privilege—rare among artists—of being able to arouse a storm of hatred and of admiration upon the production of each fresh work. Delacroix is an intellectual man, full of knowledge as well as imagination, but he has one idiosyncrasy, he will persist in trying to become the colleague of M. Picot and of M. Abel de Pujol, who, let us hope, will happily have none of him.
Then there was Delacroix, whose Massacre de Scio sparked a lot of debate among all types of painters. Delacroix was destined to be followed by fanatical ignoramuses and[Pg 47] determined critics, just like Hugo in literature; he had already gained recognition with his Dante traversant le Styx; and throughout his life, he had the rare privilege among artists of being able to provoke both intense hatred and admiration with each new work he produced. Delacroix is an intellectual, rich in knowledge and imagination, but he has one quirk: he insists on trying to become the peer of M. Picot and M. Abel de Pujol, who we hope will wisely have nothing to do with him.
Next comes Sigalon, with his rough, passionate Southern nature. His picture, Locuste faisant sur un esclave l'essai de ses poisons, had been recommended to the notice of M. Laffitte, and this banker patron of art bought it, probably before he had seen it; when it was hung in his salon, it terrified the bank clientèle and all the jobbers of the money market. Everyone asked the future minister why he had bought such a horrible picture, rather than one of Madame Haudebourg-Lescaut's or Mademoiselle d'Hervilly's little gems. M. Laffitte was plagued to such an extent that he sent for Sigalon and begged him to take back his Locuste, which threatened to send the great ladies of the commercial world into hysterics, imploring him to paint him something else in its place.
Next comes Sigalon, with his rough, passionate Southern temperament. His painting, Locuste faisant sur un esclave l'essai de ses poisons, had been recommended to M. Laffitte, and this banker and art patron bought it, probably before he even saw it. When it was displayed in his salon, it scared the bank clients and all the players in the money market. Everyone asked the future minister why he had purchased such a horrible painting instead of one of Madame Haudebourg-Lescaut's or Mademoiselle d'Hervilly's charming pieces. M. Laffitte was bothered to the point that he called for Sigalon and begged him to take back his Locuste, which was threatening to send the prominent women of the commercial world into hysterics, pleading with him to paint something else in its place.
Sigalon took back his Locuste, but I do not know what he gave in exchange. Alas! Sigalon was among the number of those destined to premature death. He was sent to Rome to copy Michael Angelo's Last Judgment, and he had but just time to bequeath that great piece of work to France, and to stretch out his arms towards his country, before he died.
Sigalon reclaimed his Locuste, but I'm not sure what he traded for it. Sadly, Sigalon was one of those fated for an early death. He was sent to Rome to copy Michelangelo's Last Judgment, and he barely had enough time to leave that remarkable piece for France and reach out his arms toward his homeland before he passed away.
Schnetz had three pictures in the Salon of 1824—two great canvases which might have been painted by anybody just as well as by himself, and one of those genre paintings in which he is inimitable. This genre painting was called un Sixte-Quint enfant, the subject being a gipsy woman predicting he would become pope. The reader will guess with what fidelity Schnetz succeeded in depicting in his canvas, six foot high by[Pg 48] four feet wide, an old fortune-teller, a shepherd lad and a young Roman girl: the Sixte-Quint was a masterpiece.
Schnetz had three paintings in the Salon of 1824—two large canvases that could have been done by anyone just as easily as by him, and one of those genre paintings that only he could create. This genre painting was titled *Un Sixte-Quint enfant*, featuring a gypsy woman predicting that he would become pope. You can imagine how well Schnetz captured on his canvas, six feet high by[Pg 48] four feet wide, an old fortune-teller, a shepherd boy, and a young Roman girl: the *Sixte-Quint* was a true masterpiece.
Coigniet's le Massacre des Innocents was hung opposite the door, and riveted attention directly people entered. It showed a woman crouching down, disordered in appearance by a long journey, terror in her looks and very pale, hiding herself, or rather hiding her child, in the corner of a ruined wall, whilst the massacre was proceeding in the distance. It was a fine piece of work, every detail of which, well thought out, well executed, well painted, I can still recall, after twenty-five years.
Coigniet's le Massacre des Innocents was displayed directly opposite the door, grabbing everyone's attention as they entered. It depicted a woman crouched down, looking disheveled from a long journey, fear in her eyes and very pale, trying to hide herself—or rather her child—in the corner of a crumbling wall, while the massacre unfolded in the background. It was a remarkable piece, with every detail carefully considered, skillfully executed, and beautifully painted, which I can still remember after twenty-five years.
Boulanger had taken the subject of his painting from the works of the famous poet who had just died. Mazeppa, captured, is being bound to a wild horse, which is going to bear him away, heart-broken, fainting and dying, to those new lands where a kingdom awaited him on his awaking. The contortions of the strong young limbs as they struggled, stiffening, against the villains who were lashing him to the back of the savage beast, offered a marvellous contrast, not only in the technical presentation of the flesh, which was quite excellent, but even more so in the physical and moral suffering of Mazeppa as compared with the callous strength of his executioners.
Boulanger had drawn inspiration for his painting from the works of the famous poet who had just passed away. Mazeppa, captured, is being tied to a wild horse that will carry him away, heartbroken, fainting, and dying, to new lands where a kingdom awaits him when he awakens. The twisting of his strong young limbs as they struggled, stiffening against the villains who were tying him to the savage beast, created a stunning contrast, not only in the technical portrayal of the flesh, which was exceptional, but even more so in the physical and moral suffering of Mazeppa compared to the ruthless strength of his captors.
Finally, there was Géricault, who, although he was not represented in that year's Salon, was talked about almost as much as those whose pictures hung on its walls. And this was because the new school, wanting a leader, felt that Géricault was the man, even although so far he had only painted a few studies. He had just finished le Hussard and le Cuirassier,—which the Musée lately bought back, on the accession of King Louis-Philippe,—and he was finishing his Méduse. Poor Géricault! he too was to die, and to die miserably, after he had done his Méduse. I saw him a week before his death. The reader wonders how I became acquainted with Géricault? In the same way that I became acquainted with Béranger and Manuel. At my weekly dinners at M. Arnault's house, I often met Colonel Bro, a brave, excellent[Pg 49] soldier, to whom every thought of the army was dear, and who had been friendly to me solely because I was the son of a general who served in the Revolution. Of course Bro was opposed to the Bourbon Government. He had a house in the rue des Martyrs, No. 23, and in that house there lodged various people according to their varying fortunes—Manuel the deputy who had been expelled from the Chamber, Béranger the poet and Géricault. One day when we had been speaking of Géricault, who was dying, Bro said to me—
Finally, there was Géricault, who, even though he wasn't showcased in that year's Salon, was talked about almost as much as those whose works were displayed. This was because the new movement, looking for a leader, felt that Géricault was the guy, even though he had only painted a few studies up to that point. He had just finished le Hussard and le Cuirassier, which the Musée recently purchased back when King Louis-Philippe came into power, and he was putting the finishing touches on his Méduse. Poor Géricault! He was also destined to die, and to die miserably, after completing his Méduse. I saw him a week before he passed away. You might wonder how I got to know Géricault. It was the same way I got to know Béranger and Manuel. During my weekly dinners at M. Arnault's place, I often met Colonel Bro, a brave, great soldier, who held the army close to his heart and was friendly toward me solely because I was the son of a general from the Revolution. Naturally, Bro was against the Bourbon Government. He had a house at 23 rue des Martyrs, where various people stayed depending on their circumstances—Manuel the deputy who had been kicked out of the Chamber, Béranger the poet, and Géricault. One day, while we were discussing Géricault, who was dying, Bro said to me—
"Come and see his picture la Méduse, and the painter himself, before he dies, so that you can at least say you have seen one of the greatest painters who ever lived."
"Come and see his painting la Méduse, and the artist himself, before he passes away, so you can at least say you've seen one of the greatest painters who ever lived."
I took care not to refuse, as will readily be believed, and the meeting was arranged for the following day. You ask what Géricault died of? Listen, and observe how, at every turn, fate seemed to put a cross against his name. He possessed some fortune, an income of about twelve thousand livres; he loved horses and painted them admirably. One day, as he was mounting a horse, he noticed that the buckle of his breeches belt had come off: he tied the two ends of the strap together and set off at a gallop. His horse threw him, and the knot of the strap bruised two vertebrae of the spinal cord as he fell. He was under treatment at the time for a disease which settled in this place; the wound never healed, and Géricault, the hope of a whole century, died of one of the longest and most painful diseases there is—decay of the spine. When we called upon him, he was busy drawing his left hand with his right.
I made sure not to decline, as you can easily believe, and the meeting was set for the next day. You’re wondering what Géricault died from? Listen, and notice how, at every turn, fate seemed to mark a strike against him. He had some fortune, an income of around twelve thousand livres; he loved horses and painted them beautifully. One day, while getting on a horse, he saw that the buckle on his breeches belt had come off: he tied the two ends of the strap together and took off at a gallop. His horse threw him, and the knot in the strap injured two vertebrae in his spine as he fell. He was already being treated for a disease that had settled in that area; the injury never healed, and Géricault, the hope of an entire century, died from one of the longest and most painful diseases—spinal decay. When we visited him, he was occupied drawing his left hand with his right.
"What on earth are you after, Géricault?" asked the colonel.
"What are you looking for, Géricault?" asked the colonel.
"You see, my dear fellow," said the dying man, "I am turning myself to account. My right hand will never find a better anatomical study than my left hand can offer it, and the egoist is taking advantage of the fact."
"You see, my dear friend," said the dying man, "I'm making the most of this situation. My right hand won’t find a better opportunity for studying anatomy than what my left hand can provide, and the self-centered person is capitalizing on that."
And, indeed, so thin was Géricault that one could see the bones and the muscles of his hand through the skin, as they are seen in plaster casts used for models by art students.
And, indeed, Géricault was so thin that you could see the bones and muscles of his hand through the skin, just like in plaster casts used by art students for modeling.
"My dear friend," asked Bro, "how did you bear your operation yesterday?"
"My dear friend," Bro asked, "how did you handle your surgery yesterday?"
"Very well ... it was a very curious experience. Just imagine, those butchers were cutting me about for ten minutes."
"Alright ... it was a really strange experience. Just think about it, those butchers were working on me for ten minutes."
"You must have suffered horribly."
"You must have been through a lot."
"Not very much.... I thought of other things."
"Not much.... I thought about other things."
"What did you think about?"
"What were you thinking about?"
"A picture."
"A photo."
"How was that?"
"How was it?"
"It was very simple. I had the head of my bed turned to the glass, so that, while the doctors were working at my back, I could see what they were doing when I raised myself on my elbows. Ah! if I could but recover, I swear I would make a noble sequel to André Vésale's study in anatomy! Only, my anatomical study would be taken from a living man."
"It was really simple. I had the head of my bed turned toward the window, so that while the doctors were working behind me, I could see what they were doing when I lifted myself on my elbows. Ah! If only I could recover, I swear I would create an amazing follow-up to André Vésale's study in anatomy! Only, my anatomical study would be based on a living person."
This was the very scene which, two years later, Talma rehearsed before Adolphe and me, when he was in his bath.
This was the exact scene that Talma practiced in front of Adolphe and me two years later, while he was in his bath.
Bro asked permission of the sick man for me to go upstairs and see his Méduse.
Bro asked the sick man if I could go upstairs and see his Méduse.
"Do what you like," said Géricault; "you are in your own house." And he went on drawing his hand.
"Do what you want," said Géricault; "it's your house." And he continued sketching his hand.
I stood a long time before the marvellous picture, although I was at that time ignorant about art and unable to estimate it at its true worth. As I left the studio, I stepped upon an overturned canvas. I picked it up, looked at the right side of it and saw a wonderful head of a fallen angel: I gave it to Bro.
I stood in front of the amazing picture for a long time, even though I didn’t know much about art back then and couldn’t appreciate its true value. As I was leaving the studio, I stepped on a flipped-over canvas. I picked it up, looked at the front, and saw a stunning image of a fallen angel: I handed it to Bro.
"See," I said, "what I have found on the floor."
"Look," I said, "what I found on the floor."
Bro went back to the sick man's room.
Bro went back to the sick guy's room.
"Why, my dear fellow, you are mad, to leave such things as these lying about on the floor."
"Why, my dear friend, you're crazy to leave stuff like this lying around on the floor."
"Do you know whose head that is?" Géricault asked laughingly.
"Do you know whose head that is?" Géricault asked with a laugh.
"No."
"Nope."
"Well, my good friend, it is the head of your porter's son. He came into my studio the other day, and I was so struck[Pg 51] with the possibilities of his face that I asked him to sit for me, and in ten minutes I had done that study from it. Would you like to have it? Take it."
"Well, my good friend, it’s the head of your porter's son. He came into my studio the other day, and I was so taken with the possibilities of his face that I asked him to sit for me, and in ten minutes I had done that study from it. Would you like to have it? Take it."
"But if it is a study, you did it for an object."
"But if it's a study, you did it for a reason."
"Yes, for the object of study itself. It will perhaps come in useful to you some day."
"Yes, for the subject of study itself. It might be useful to you someday."
"Some day, my dear Bro, is a far cry, and in the meantime much water will have flowed under the bridges and many dead bodies will have been taken through the gates of the cemetery Montmartre."
"One day, my dear Bro, is a long way off, and in the meantime, a lot of water will have passed under the bridges and many bodies will have been taken through the gates of the Montmartre cemetery."
"Well! well!" said Bro.
"Wow!" said Bro.
"Take it, my friend, and keep it," Géricault replied; "if I ever want it, I shall be able to find it at your house."
"Take it, my friend, and keep it," Géricault replied; "if I ever need it, I know where to find it at your place."
Then he bowed us adieu, and we left him; Bro bringing away his angel's head. A week later, Géricault died, and his intimate friend and executor, Dreux-d'Orcy, had the greatest difficulty in getting the authorities of the Beaux-Arts to purchase la Méduse for six thousand francs—a canvas which is now considered one of the most valuable possessions of the Musée. Yet the Government wanted it merely for the purpose of cutting out five or six of the heads as studies for its pupils to copy. Happily, De Dreux-d'Orcy stopped this sacrilege before it got beyond its inception.
Then he bid us farewell, and we left him; Bro took his angel's head with him. A week later, Géricault passed away, and his close friend and executor, Dreux-d'Orcy, struggled to convince the Beaux-Arts authorities to buy la Méduse for six thousand francs—a painting that is now seen as one of the most valuable assets of the Musée. However, the Government only wanted it so they could cut out five or six of the heads for their students to copy. Fortunately, De Dreux-d'Orcy prevented this sacrilege before it could go any further.
But I see I have forgotten to speak of Horace Vernet, of M. Ingres and of Delaroche, each of whom deserves special mention. They shall receive notice presently, but first one word more about Lord Byron.
But I realize I've forgotten to mention Horace Vernet, M. Ingres, and Delaroche, each of whom deserves special attention. They'll be noted shortly, but first, one more word about Lord Byron.
On 5 July, the body of the noble lord reached London from Missolonghi. It lay in a perforated shell steeped in a cask of spirits of wine. When the body was taken ashore from the Florida, in which it had been conveyed, the captain was going to throw this liquid overboard; but now that Lord Byron was dead, even his own countrymen became his worshippers, and these admirers begged the captain for the spirits of wine in which Lord Byron's body had been preserved, offering a louis a pint for it. The captain accepted the offer, and the sum thus received was at the same rate per pint as, so it was[Pg 52] said, the poet had received per line. Two days after the arrival of the body, a post-mortem examination was made, and the doctors, who really ought to be able to find out a few things, discovered that Lord Byron had died because he had refused to be bled. His body was laid in state, but only those who had special tickets given them by his executor were admitted; yet, in spite of this precaution, the crowd was so great it was necessary to call in the aid of an armed force to keep order. The spirits of wine had preserved the flesh well enough for the poet to be still recognisable: his hands, especially, had kept almost life-like in their beauty—those hands of which the eccentric nobleman had taken such good care that, even when swimming, he had worn gloves! His beautiful hair, of which he had been very proud, had become nearly grey, although he was but thirty-seven. Each white hair in the poet's head could tell a tale of sorrow. Such had been the public excitement over Byron, that the question at once arose of burying him in Westminster Abbey; but his friends were afraid the authorities might refuse the request, and the family declared that his body should be buried in the vault at Newstead Abbey, where his ancestors lay. Even his death raised the clamour of tongues that pursued him through life. On the 12th, an immense crowd collected from break of day along the route the cortège was to take. Colonel Leigh, Byron's brother-in-law, was chief mourner; and in the six coaches that followed were the most famous Opposition Members of Parliament—Hobhouse, Douglas Kinnaird, Sir Francis Burdett, and O'Meara, surgeon to the emperor. Then, in their own private carriages, followed the Duke of Sussex, brother of the king, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Earl Grey, Lord Holland, etc. Two Greek deputies closed the procession. When it reached Hampstead Road, the pace was quickened; it was planned to spend the night at Welwyn, and to set out early the next day, Tuesday, to reach Higham-Ferrers that evening; on Wednesday it was to reach Oakham; on Thursday, Nottingham; and Newstead Abbey on Friday. The arrangement was punctually carried out, and on Friday, 17 August, the body was laid[Pg 53] in the burying-place of his ancestors. Byron, who had been exiled by his wife, hunted down by his own family and repulsed by his contemporaries, had at last earned the right to return triumphantly to his country and to his home. He was dead! And yet it might have happened to him as it happened to Sheridan's dead body; poor Sheridan, who drank so much rum, brandy and absinthe that Lord Byron once said to him during an orgie—
On July 5, the body of the noble lord arrived in London from Missolonghi. It was in a perforated shell soaked in a cask of spirits of wine. When the body was brought ashore from the Florida, the captain planned to throw this liquid overboard; but now that Lord Byron was dead, even his own countrymen became his admirers, and they begged the captain for the spirits of wine that had preserved Lord Byron's body, offering a louis per pint for it. The captain accepted the offer, and the amount he received was reportedly the same per pint as the poet had earned per line. Two days after the body’s arrival, an autopsy was conducted, and the doctors, who should have been able to figure things out, found that Lord Byron had died because he refused to be bled. His body was displayed for viewing, but only those with special tickets given by his executor were allowed inside; despite this, the crowd was so large that they had to call in armed forces to maintain order. The spirits of wine had preserved his flesh well enough that the poet was still recognizable: his hands, in particular, remained almost lifelike in their beauty—those hands that the eccentric nobleman had cared for so meticulously that he even wore gloves while swimming! His beautiful hair, of which he was very proud, had turned nearly grey, even though he was only thirty-seven. Each grey hair on the poet's head could tell a tale of sorrow. The public's excitement over Byron led to immediate discussions about burying him in Westminster Abbey; however, his friends were worried that the authorities might refuse the request, and his family insisted that his body should be buried in the vault at Newstead Abbey, alongside his ancestors. Even in death, the chatter that had followed him throughout his life continued. On the 12th, a massive crowd gathered from dawn along the route the procession would take. Colonel Leigh, Byron's brother-in-law, was the chief mourner; and in the six coaches that followed were the most notable Opposition Members of Parliament—Hobhouse, Douglas Kinnaird, Sir Francis Burdett, and O'Meara, the emperor’s surgeon. Following them, in their own private carriages, were the Duke of Sussex, the king's brother, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Earl Grey, Lord Holland, etc. Two Greek deputies wrapped up the procession. As they reached Hampstead Road, the pace quickened; the plan was to spend the night at Welwyn and set off early the next day, Tuesday, to arrive in Higham-Ferrers that evening; on Wednesday, they were to reach Oakham; on Thursday, Nottingham; and finally, Newstead Abbey on Friday. The schedule was followed precisely, and on Friday, August 17, the body was laid[Pg 53] to rest in the burial place of his ancestors. Byron, who had been exiled by his wife, hunted down by his own family, and rejected by his peers, had finally earned the right to return triumphantly to his country and home. He was dead! And yet his fate could have been like that of Sheridan's body; poor Sheridan, who drank so much rum, brandy, and absinthe that Lord Byron once remarked to him during an orgy—
"Sheridan! Sheridan! you drink enough alcohol to set fire to the very flannel vest you wear next your skin."
"Sheridan! Sheridan! you drink so much alcohol that you could set fire to the flannel vest you have right next to your skin."
And the prophecy was fulfilled: Sheridan drank so much that his flannel vest was scorched. Sheridan was dead; and he left both his pockets and his bottles empty. This did not prevent the highest people in the land from doing him honour, as he lay dead in his home, which had been stript bare of everything by his creditors. Those friends who had, perhaps, refused to lend him ten guineas the day before, gave him a royal burial. The coffin was just going to be borne to the hearse, when a gentleman clad in deep mourning from head to foot, and apparently overcome with grief, came into the room in which were assembled the most aristocratic gentlemen of the three kingdoms, and, advancing to the coffin, begged, as a particular favour, to be allowed to look for the last time on the features of his unfortunate friend. He was refused at first, but his entreaties were so vehement, his voice was so broken, he was so shaken with sobs, that they did not like to refuse such grief a hearing. The top of the coffin was unscrewed and the body of Sheridan uncovered. Then the expression on the face of the gentleman in mourning changed completely, and he drew out of his pocket an order for the seizure of the body and took possession of it. He was a bailiff. Mr. Canning and Lord Lydmouth took the man outside and settled the amount he claimed, namely, the sum of £480.
And the prophecy came true: Sheridan drank so much that his flannel vest was burned. Sheridan was dead, and he left both his pockets and his bottles empty. This didn’t stop the highest people in the land from honoring him as he lay dead in his home, which had been stripped of everything by his creditors. Those friends who had, maybe, refused to lend him ten guineas the day before gave him a royal burial. The coffin was just about to be taken to the hearse when a gentleman dressed in deep mourning from head to toe, apparently overcome with grief, entered the room where the most prestigious gentlemen of the three kingdoms were gathered. He approached the coffin and requested, as a special favor, to see the face of his unfortunate friend one last time. He was initially refused, but his pleas were so intense, his voice so choked, and he was so overcome with sobs that they didn’t want to dismiss such sorrow. The top of the coffin was unscrewed, and Sheridan's body was revealed. Then the expression on the grieving gentleman's face changed completely as he pulled out an order for the seizure of the body and took possession of it. He was a bailiff. Mr. Canning and Lord Lydmouth took the man outside and settled the amount he was claiming, which was £480.
CHAPTER V
My mother comes to live with me—A Duc de Chartres born to me—Chateaubriand and M. de Villèle—Epistolary brevity—Re-establishment of the Censorship—A King of France should never be ill—Bulletins of the health of Louis XVIII.—His last moments and death—Ode by Victor Hugo—M. Torbet and Napoleon's tomb—La Fayette's voyage to America—The ovations showered upon him
My mom is moving in with me—A Duc de Chartres was born to me—Chateaubriand and M. de Villèle—Brief letters—The return of censorship—A King of France should never be unwell—Updates on Louis XVIII's health—His last moments and passing—Ode by Victor Hugo—M. Torbet and Napoleon's tomb—Lafayette's journey to America—The celebrations he received.
My mother had been quite as lonely without me as I had been without her, so, in response to my letter, she shut up the tobacco-shop, sold a portion of our shabby furniture, and wrote telling me she was coming to Paris, bringing with her her bedstead, a chest of drawers, a table, two arm-chairs, four chairs and a hundred louis in hard cash. A hundred louis! Why, it was exactly double my year's income and we should now have 2400 francs a year for the next two years, so for that time we should feel quite safe. It was all the more important to be settled since, on 29 July 1824, whilst the Duc de Montpensier came into the world at the Palais-Royal, a Duc de Chartres was born to me at No. 1 place des Italiens. This, together with the smallness of my little yellow chamber, where there was no room for my mother, was one of the reasons that obliged me to look out for fresh lodgings. To find a new home was a serious consideration; lodgings were very dear close to the Palais-Royal, and if I were too far away from the Palais-Royal my four journeys a day, to and fro, meant a serious wear and tear in shoe-leather. Any expense comes heavy on a man who only earns four francs five sous per day.
My mom had been just as lonely without me as I was without her, so in reply to my letter, she closed the tobacco shop, sold some of our worn-out furniture, and wrote to tell me she was coming to Paris, bringing her bed, a dresser, a table, two armchairs, four chairs, and a hundred louis in cash. A hundred louis! That was exactly double my yearly income, so we would now have 2400 francs a year for the next two years, making us feel pretty secure during that time. It was especially necessary to get settled because, on July 29, 1824, while the Duc de Montpensier was born at the Palais-Royal, I had my own Duc de Chartres born at 1 Place des Italiens. This, along with the cramped space of my little yellow room, where my mom couldn’t stay, was one of the reasons I needed to find new accommodations. Finding a new place was a big deal; rent was really high near the Palais-Royal, and if I went too far away, my four trips back and forth each day would wear out my shoes quickly. Any expense weighs heavily on someone who only makes four francs five sous a day.
I had, indeed, two or three plays in hand with de Leuven, but I was compelled to admit to myself that probably de[Pg 55] Leuven, who had not managed to succeed with Soulié—whom we acknowledged to be the best of us all—would not have more chance with me. His Bon Vieillard had been declined at the Gymnase; his Pauvre Fille had been rejected by the Vaudeville, and his Château de Kenilworth had not even been read—Mademoiselle Lévêque had politely sent word that she had not "time at the moment" to pay attention to a new part, and the Porte-Saint-Martin had received a melodrama upon the same subject.
I actually had a couple of plays in progress with de Leuven, but I had to admit to myself that de Leuven, who hadn’t been able to succeed with Soulié—whom we all agreed was the best among us—probably wouldn’t have better luck with me. His Bon Vieillard was turned down at the Gymnase; his Pauvre Fille was rejected by the Vaudeville, and his Château de Kenilworth wasn’t even read—Mademoiselle Lévêque politely mentioned that she didn’t have "time at the moment" to consider a new role, and the Porte-Saint-Martin had already received a melodrama on the same topic.
So I had to find a lodging, as I have said, that should not be too far away and yet that was not too high a rent. I set to work, and discovered rooms at No. 53 Faubourg St. Denis, in a house adjoining the Lion d'Argent. We had two rooms on the second floor looking on the street, one serving for store-room, dining-room and kitchen. We soon found out that for these apartments we paid a great deal too much—they were 350 francs. Finally everything was settled; my mother sent her goods on by carrier, and arrived at the same time they did. We were delighted to be together again once more; my mother, however, was a trifle uneasy and unable to share and believe in all my hopes and plans; for she could look back upon a long and sad life, wherein she had experienced all kinds of disappointments and sorrows. I consoled her to the best of my power, and, in order to make the first four or five days of her life in Paris pleasant, I used all the influence I had with M. Oudard, M. Arnault and Adolphe de Leuven to get her tickets for the theatre. In a week's time we were settled in our little nest, and as accustomed to our new life as though we had never known any other. On the same landing with us, but on the opposite side, lodged a worthy fellow of forty years of age, named Després, who was employed in a ministerial department. He was one of the most regular attenders at the Caveau; he composed songs after the style of Brazier and Armand Gouffé; and he had had one or two pieces played at second-rate theatres. He was dying of consumption. When, after the payment of two terms, we found our lodgings were dearer than we could afford, he said to us—
So I needed to find a place to stay, like I mentioned, that wasn’t too far away and didn’t cost too much. I got to work and found rooms at No. 53 Faubourg St. Denis, in a house next to the Lion d'Argent. We had two rooms on the second floor facing the street, one being a storage room, dining room, and kitchen. We soon realized we were paying way too much for these apartments—they were 350 francs. Eventually, everything was arranged; my mom sent her things over by carrier, and they arrived at the same time. We were thrilled to be together again, but my mom was a bit worried and couldn’t fully share or believe in all my hopes and plans because she had a long, sad past full of disappointments and sorrows. I did my best to comfort her, and to make her first few days in Paris enjoyable, I used all my connections with M. Oudard, M. Arnault, and Adolphe de Leuven to get her tickets for the theater. In a week, we were settled in our little home and adjusted to our new life as if we’d always lived that way. On the same landing as us, but on the opposite side, was a good guy named Després, about forty years old, who worked in a government department. He was a regular at the Caveau; he wrote songs in the style of Brazier and Armand Gouffé and had a couple of pieces performed at second-rate theaters. He was dying of tuberculosis. After paying two months' rent, when we realized our lodgings were too expensive for us, he said to us—
"Wait until after my death, which will not be long now; then you can take my rooms, which are very convenient, and only two hundred and thirty francs."
"Wait until after I die, which won’t be long now; then you can take my rooms, which are very convenient, and only two hundred and thirty francs."
And, as a matter of fact, he died six weeks after this—died in that quiet, gentle, calm, philosophical mood that I have noticed in the case of nearly all who were born in the eighteenth century. And, as he had bidden us, we took his rooms when they were vacant, and found ourselves accommodated according to our means.
And, actually, he passed away six weeks after that—he died in that peaceful, gentle, calm, philosophical state that I've noticed in almost everyone born in the eighteenth century. And, as he had asked us, we moved into his rooms when they were available, and found ourselves settled in according to our means.
In the meantime, political changes were taking place. M. de Villèle (whom my friend Méry was to make so celebrated and who, in his turn, also returned the compliment) was sharing political power with M. de Chateaubriand; and for two years they presented the unusual spectacle of an alliance between a financier and a poet. It is easy to believe that such a connection was not likely to last long, and the two ministers quarrelled over two proposed laws. M. de Chateaubriand thought to cement the monarchy by the Act of septennial duration, M. de Villèle thought to enrich the State by an Act concerning the conversion of consols (rentes). The law concerning the conversion of consols was rejected by the Chamber of Peers by a majority of 128 votes against 94. It was noticed that M. de Chateaubriand, who seemed opposed to the Act, did not get up to defend it at the Tribune. It was even said that he voted against it. Such opposition as this, directed against the president of the Council, was punished with the callous bluntness of feeling peculiar to men of money.
In the meantime, political changes were happening. M. de Villèle (who my friend Méry was going to make famous and who, in turn, also returned the favor) was sharing political power with M. de Chateaubriand. For two years, they created the rare sight of an alliance between a businessman and a poet. It's easy to see that such a partnership wasn't likely to last long, and the two ministers clashed over two proposed laws. M. de Chateaubriand wanted to strengthen the monarchy with the Act of septennial duration, while M. de Villèle aimed to boost the State's finances with an Act regarding the conversion of consols (rentes). The law about converting consols was turned down by the Chamber of Peers by a majority of 128 votes to 94. It was noted that M. de Chateaubriand, who seemed against the Act, didn't rise to defend it at the Tribune. It was even rumored that he voted against it. Such opposition directed at the president of the Council was met with the cold indifference characteristic of wealthy individuals.
When M. de Chateaubriand went to mass on Whitsunday, he received information that a very urgent despatch awaited him at the ministry. He immediately went there, and found a letter from the president of the Council in the following terms:—
When M. de Chateaubriand went to mass on Whitsunday, he was informed that a very urgent message was waiting for him at the ministry. He went there right away and found a letter from the president of the Council that said:—
"M. LE VICOMTE,—I am obeying the King's command in handing you the enclosed mandate."
"Mr. Viscount,—I'm following the King's order by giving you the enclosed mandate."
The mandate enclosed was a dismissal. Ten minutes later, M. de Villèle, in his turn, had received M. de Chateaubriand's[Pg 57] reply. The letter of the Minister for Foreign Affairs was just as laconic as the letter received from the Minister of Finance:—
The attached notice was a dismissal. Ten minutes later, M. de Villèle received M. de Chateaubriand's__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
"M. LE COMTE,—I have left the Foreign Office; the department is at your disposal."
"M. LE COMTE,—I've left the Foreign Office; it's now your responsibility to oversee."
There were exactly fifteen words in each letter: it was the fault of the words themselves, and not of M. de Chateaubriand, that the answer[1] contained four letters more.
There were exactly fifteen words in each letter: it was the words themselves, not M. de Chateaubriand, that made the answer[1] have four extra letters.
This dismissal was a very bitter pill for the author of le Génie du Christianisme, and it was in connection with this event that he gave utterance to the words which we believe we have already quoted:—
This rejection was a very tough pill for the author of le Génie du Christianisme to swallow, and it was in relation to this event that he expressed the words we believe we have already quoted:—
"I hadn't even stolen a watch from the king's mantelpiece!" he had said on leaving the Foreign Office.
"I didn't even steal a watch from the king's mantelpiece!" he said as he left the Foreign Office.
The order had been drawn up by M. de Renneville,—to whom we shall refer in due course,—the secretary described by Méry and de Barthélemy as being sewed to M. de Villèle's coat-tails.
The order was created by M. de Renneville—who we’ll talk about later—the secretary whom Méry and de Barthélemy described as being sewn to M. de Villèle's coat-tails.
"M. de Renneville," says Chateaubriand in his Mémoires, "is still so good as to appear embarrassed in my presence! And, good God, who is this M. de Renneville, that I should ever think of him? I meet him often enough, ... does he happen to know that I am aware that the order striking my name off the list of ministers was in his handwriting?"
"M. de Renneville," Chateaubriand writes in his Mémoires, "still seems so uncomfortable around me! And, my goodness, who is this M. de Renneville that I should even think about him? I run into him often enough... does he realize that I know the order removing my name from the ministerial list was written by him?"
There were actually men, under the Empire, who were cowardly enough to cut off their first fingers to prevent their being made soldiers. It is a pity some men are not brave enough to cut off the whole hand before they write certain things.
There were actually men, during the Empire, who were cowardly enough to cut off their index fingers to avoid being drafted into the military. It's a shame some people aren't brave enough to cut off their entire hand before they write certain things.
But at the time when M. de Chateaubriand was being ejected from the ministry, Providence was signing an order, in terms I almost as brusque, for Louis XVIII. to quit this life. The king was ill at the time of the Feast of St. Louis, so ill that he was I advised not to entertain on account of the fatigue it would I entail on him; but, with his usual sententiousness, the king answered, "A King of France may die, but he ought never to be ill."
But at the moment when M. de Chateaubriand was being removed from the ministry, fate was issuing a directive, just as abrupt, for Louis XVIII to leave this world. The king was sick at the time of the Feast of St. Louis, so unwell that he was advised not to host gatherings because of the exhaustion it would cause him; however, with his typical solemnity, the king replied, "A King of France may die, but he should never be sick."
As though Louis XVIII. wished to leave the path easy for his successor, with regard to the rejection of the appeal of the public ministry in the affair of the Aristarque, he revived the law of 31 March 1820 and 26 July 1821—that is to say, he re-established the Censorship. It is an odd coincidence that, when this happens, kings are generally either about to fall or to die. The re-establishment of the Censorship produced a terrible commotion; to do justice to the literary men of that time, none of them dare accept or publicly exercise the function of Censor; a secret commission had to be organised and placed under the presidency of the conseiller d'État directeur general of the police. M. de Chateaubriand then threw himself openly into the Opposition against the measure, and published his Lettres sur la Censure. In a few days, both the Liberal Oppositionist and the Royalist papers offered nothing but blank columns to their subscribers.
As if Louis XVIII wanted to make things easier for his successor regarding the rejection of the public ministry's appeal in the Aristarque case, he revived the laws from March 31, 1820, and July 26, 1821—that is, he re-established Censorship. It's a strange coincidence that, whenever this happens, kings are usually either about to fall or die. The re-establishment of Censorship caused a huge uproar; to be fair to the writers of that time, none of them dared to accept or publicly carry out the role of Censor; a secret commission had to be organized and placed under the leadership of the conseiller d'État directeur général of the police. M. de Chateaubriand then openly opposed the measure and published his Lettres sur la Censure. Within a few days, both the Liberal opposition and Royalist papers had nothing but blank columns for their readers.
Two days after Louis XVIII. had said that a King of France might die but he ought never to be ill—that is to say, on 27 and 28 August, during his last two walks at Choisy, he perceived that he must seriously face the question of death. But he continued to give audiences, to preside in the Council and to direct the work of the ministers with a courage one cannot help but admire, when one remembers that he was suffering from mortification of the legs, the cellular tissue, muscles and even bones of which were decayed; the right foot entirely and the lower part of the leg as high as the calf had become mortified, the bones of it were quite soft, and four toes had rotted away. It was not until after a consultation of doctors held the night of 12 September, that it was decided that the condition of the King of France could no longer be concealed from his subjects. Up to that time Louis XVIII. had been faithful to the principles enunciated by him, and had refused to admit that he was ill. "You do not know what it means to tell a people its king is ill. It means they must close the Stock Exchange and places of amusement; my sufferings will be protracted, and I do not want public interests to suffer for such a length of time."
Two days after Louis XVIII stated that a King of France might die but should never be unwell—that is, on August 27 and 28, during his last two walks at Choisy—he realized he had to seriously confront the issue of death. However, he continued to hold meetings, preside over the Council, and steer the work of his ministers with a bravery that’s hard not to admire, especially considering he was suffering from severe leg decay, with the tissue, muscles, and even bones affected; the right foot was fully dead, and the lower leg up to the calf was also decayed. The bones were extremely soft, and four toes had completely rotted away. It wasn’t until after a meeting of doctors on the night of September 12 that it was decided the King of France’s condition could no longer be hidden from his subjects. Until then, Louis XVIII had stuck to his principles and refused to acknowledge his illness. "You don’t understand what it means to tell a people their king is sick. It means they have to shut down the Stock Exchange and entertainment venues; my suffering will last longer, and I don’t want public interests to suffer for that long."
On the morning of 13 September two bulletins appeared at the same time in the Moniteur, signed by the doctors and by the First Gentleman of the Chamber.
On the morning of September 13, two bulletins were released simultaneously in the Moniteur, signed by the doctors and the First Gentleman of the Chamber.
They announced the illness of the king, and made it very evident that his disease was incurable. At the end of the second bulletin came the command which Louis XVIII. had greatly dreaded, ordering the Bourse and theatres to be closed. These were the first bulletins France had read for half a century—that is to say, since the death of Louis XV.—and they were to be the last they were to read.
They announced the king's illness and made it clear that his condition was terminal. At the end of the second report came the order that Louis XVIII had feared most, closing the stock exchange and theaters. These were the first reports France had read in fifty years—that is, since the death of Louis XV—and they would be the last.
First Bulletin of the King's health
First Bulletin on the King’s Health
"THE TUILERIES, 12 September, 6 a.m.
"THE TUILERIES, 12 September, 6 a.m.
"The King's chronic and long-seated infirmities have become sensibly worse for some time past, his health has been very considerably impaired and his condition necessitates more frequent consultations.
"The King’s ongoing health issues have gotten noticeably worse recently; his condition has significantly deteriorated, requiring more frequent medical consultations."
"His Majesty's constitution and the care he has taken of himself had caused hope to be felt for some time that he might be restored to his usual state of health; but the fact cannot now be disguised that his strength has declined considerably and that the hopes entertained are less likely to be realised.
"His Majesty's health and the attention he has given to his well-being had created some hope that he could return to his usual state of health; however, it can no longer be concealed that his strength has greatly diminished and the hopes we had are becoming less likely to be realized."
(Signed) PORTAL, ALIBERT, MONTAIGU, DISTEL,
DUPUYTREU, THÉVENOT
First Gentleman of the King's Chamber(Signed) PORTAL, ALIBERT, MONTAIGU, DISTEL,
DUPUYTREU, THÉVENOT
First Gentleman of the King's ChamberCOMTE DE DAMAS"
COMTE DE DAMAS"
Second Bulletin
Second Bulletin
"9 p.m.
"9 p.m.
"The fever has increased during the day. The lower limbs have become extremely cold: weakness and lethargy have also increased, and the pulse has been very weak and irregular.
"The fever has worsened throughout the day. The legs have become very cold, and there has been increased weakness and lethargy. The pulse has also been very weak and irregular."
(Signed) PORTAL, ALIBERT, MONTAIGU, DISTEL,
DUPUYTREU, THÉVENOT
First Gentleman of the King's Chamber(Signed) PORTAL, ALIBERT, MONTAIGU, DISTEL,
DUPUYTREU, THÉVENOT
First Gentleman of the King’s ChamberCOMTE DE DAMAS"
COMTE DE DAMAS"
"In consideration of the King's state of health, all theatres and places of public amusement, as well as the Bourse, will be[Pg 60] closed until further orders, and public prayers will be offered in every parish."
"In light of the King's health, all theaters and places of public entertainment, including the stock exchange, will be[Pg 60] closed until further notice, and public prayers will be held in every parish."
On the 16th, at four o'clock in the morning, Louis XVIII. breathed his last breath. He had blessed the two royal children of France the previous, evening. Then, turning to his brother, the Comte d'Artois, who was about to change his title for that of Charles X., and pointing to the Duc de Bordeaux, he said, "Brother, look well after the crown for that child."
On the 16th, at four in the morning, Louis XVIII took his last breath. He had blessed France's two royal children the night before. Then, turning to his brother, Comte d'Artois, who was about to change his title to Charles X, and pointing to Duc de Bordeaux, he said, "Brother, make sure to look after the crown for that child."
The dying king's fears for his nephew's future were almost prophetic. He had rallied all his remaining strength to utter these last words. His breathing soon became husky and his pulse intermittent, and a crisis was reached during which the king sank into an alarmingly quiet state. At two in the morning, the pulse hardly beat and his voice had completely failed him, although he signified, with his eyes, that he understood, and could still hear, the exhortations of his confessor. Finally, at four o'clock in the morning, when the last sign of life ceased and the body became still for ever, M. Alibert drew one of the king's hands outside the bed-covering and said, "The king is dead." At the words, the Comte d'Artois, who had not left his brother's side for two days, knelt down by the side of the bed and kissed his hand. Madame la Duchesse d'Angoulême and Mademoiselle followed his example; then both flung themselves in the arms of the Comte d'Artois and remained there for some time, weeping bitterly.
The dying king's worries about his nephew's future felt almost prophetic. He mustered all his remaining strength to speak these last words. His breathing soon became raspy, and his pulse grew weak, reaching a point where he fell into a disturbingly quiet state. At two in the morning, his pulse was barely there, and he had completely lost his voice, but he indicated with his eyes that he understood and could still hear his confessor’s encouragement. Finally, at four o'clock in the morning, when the last sign of life faded and his body lay still forever, M. Alibert pulled one of the king's hands outside the bed covers and said, "The king is dead." At those words, the Comte d'Artois, who had stayed by his brother’s side for two days, knelt by the bed and kissed his hand. Madame la Duchesse d'Angoulême and Mademoiselle followed suit, then both threw themselves into the arms of the Comte d'Artois and stayed there for a while, weeping uncontrollably.
As the new king left the death-chamber to return to his apartments, a herald-at-arms exclaimed three times—
As the new king left the death chamber to head back to his rooms, a herald-at-arms shouted three times—
"The king is dead, gentlemen! Long live the king!"
"The king is dead, everyone! Long live the king!"
And from that moment Charles X. was King of France. On 23 September we watched out of our windows the funeral procession of the last king that was to be taken to Saint-Denis.
And from that moment, Charles X was the King of France. On September 23, we watched from our windows as the funeral procession of the last king was taken to Saint-Denis.
Chateaubriand wrote a poem, le Roi est mort! vive le roi! about the death of the king, and it was one of the poorest productions that ever came from his pen.
Chateaubriand wrote a poem, le Roi est mort! vive le roi! about the death of the king, and it was one of the worst works that ever came from his pen.
The same occasion inspired Victor Hugo to publish his les[Pg 61] Funérailles de Louis XVIII., and it was one of his finest odes. I need not ask the forbearance of my readers if I quote a few stanzas:—
The same occasion prompted Victor Hugo to publish his les[Pg 61] Funérailles de Louis XVIII., and it was one of his best odes. I don’t need to ask my readers to be patient if I quote a few stanzas:—
Un autre avait dit: 'De ma race
Ce grand tombeau sera le port;
Je veux, aux rois que je remplace,
Succéder jusque dans la mort.
Ma dépouille ici doit descendre!
C'est pour faire place à ma cendre
Qu'on dépeupla ces noirs caveaux;
Il faut un nouveau maître au monde;
A ce sépulcre que je fonde
Il faut des ossements nouveaux!
'Je promets ma poussière à ces voûtes funestes.
A cet insigne honneur ce temple a seul des droits;
Car je veux que le ver qui rongera mes restes
Ait déjà dévoré des rois.
Et, lorsque mes neveux, dans leur fortune altière,
Domineront l'Europe entière,
Du Kremlin à l'Escurial,
Ils viendront tour à tour dormir dans ces lieux sombres,
Afin que je sommeille, escorté de leurs ombres,
Dans mon linceul impérial!'
Celui qui disait ces paroles
Croyait, soldat audacieux,
Voir, en magnifiques symboles,
Sa destinée écrite aux cieux.
Dans ses étreintes foudroyantes,
Son aigle, aux serres flamboyantes,
Eût étouffé l'aigle romain;
La victoire était sa compagne,
Et le globe de Charlemagne
Était trop léger pour sa main!
Eh bien, des potentats ce formidable maître
Dans l'espoir de sa mort par le ciel fut trompé.
De ses ambitions, c'est la seule peut-être
Dont le but lui soit échappé.
En vain tout secondait sa marche meurtrière;
En vain sa gloire incendiaire
[Pg 62]
En tous lieux portait son flambeau;
Tout chargé de faisceaux, de sceptres, de couronnes,
Ce vaste ravisseur d'empires et de trônes
Ne put usurper un tombeau!
Tombé sous la main qui châtie,
L'Europe le fit prisonnier.
Premier roi de sa dynastie,
Il en fut aussi le dernier.
Une île où grondent les tempêtes
Reçut ce géant des conquêtes,
Tyran que nul n'osait juger,
Vieux guerrier qui, dans sa misère,
Dut l'obole de Bélisaire
A la pitié de l'étranger.
Loin du sacré tombeau qu'il s'arrangeait naguère,
C'est là que, dépouillé du royal appareil,
Il dort enveloppé de son manteau de guerre,
Sans compagnon de son sommeil.
Et, tandis qu'il n'a plus, de l'empire du monde,
Qu'un noir rocher battu de l'onde,
Qu'un vieux saule battu du vent,
Un roi longtemps banni, qui fit nos jours prospères,
Descend au lit de mort où reposaient ses pères,
Sous la garde du Dieu vivant!"
Someone else had said, "About my family heritage
This grand tomb will be the shelter;
I want, for the kings I succeed, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
To succeed even after death.
My remains must go here!
It's to make space for my ashes.
That they cleared out these dark vaults;
The world needs a new leader;
To this grave I found
New bones need to fit!
'I promise my dust to these grim vaults.
This temple has the sole rights to this honor;
For I want the worm that will consume my remains
To have already dined with kings.
And, when my nephews, in their lofty fortune,
Dominate all of Europe,
From the Kremlin to the Escorial,
They will come one after another to sleep in these dark places,
So that I can rest, escorted by their shadows,
In my royal cloak!
The person who said these words
Brave soldier,
To see, in stunning symbols,
His fate is written in the stars.
In his powerful hugs,
His eagle, with fiery talons,
Would have suffocated the Roman eagle;
Victory was on his side,
And Charlemagne's map
It was too light for him to hold!
Well, this formidable master of potentates
Was deceived by the hope of his death from the heavens.
Of his ambitions, this may be the only one
Whose goal got away from him.
In vain all assisted his murderous march;
His pointless fiery fame
[Pg 62]
Took his torch everywhere;
Loaded with bundles, scepters, crowns,
This vast ravager of empires and thrones
Could not take over a tomb!
Fallen under the hand that punishes,
Europe imprisoned him.
The first king of his dynasty,
He was its last one.
A stormy island
Got this giant of conquests,
A tyrant that no one dared to criticize,
An old warrior who, in his sorrow,
Had to plead for help from someone outside.
Far from the sacred tomb he once arranged,
It’s there that, stripped of royal attire,
He sleeps wrapped in his battle cloak,
Sleeping alone.
And, while he now has nothing of the empire of the world,
But a dark rock hit by waves,
And an old willow swayed in the wind,
A long-banned king, who made our days prosperous,
Descends to the deathbed where his ancestors rested,
"Under the guidance of the Living God!"
But the poet is too generous towards Napoleon in describing him as "ce vieux saule battu du vent" (old weather-beaten willow tree), for at that very moment the authorities in St. Helena having abolished the toll that had at first been exacted from, and submitted to by, visitors to Napoleon's tomb, M. Torbet, the owner of the ground in which the emperor was interred, when he found that he could not gain any more from the body, requested that it should be exhumed and removed elsewhere. There was a long controversy about it, and M. Torbet threatened that he himself would disinter the body of the man who had, notwithstanding what the poet had written, usurped everything, even his own grave, and that he would throw the remains out on the highway, until at last the Government decided that the India Company should purchase[Pg 63] the land from Torbet for five hundred pounds sterling. It was decided that in future, in consequence of this douceur given to M. Torbet, people should visit the tomb of Napoleon free of charge. We have already mentioned M. Torbet's name three times: let us say it a fourth, in order that it may not be forgotten.
But the poet is too kind to Napoleon by calling him "ce vieux saule battu du vent" (old weather-beaten willow tree), because at that very moment, the authorities in St. Helena had removed the fee that was initially charged to visitors of Napoleon's tomb. M. Torbet, the owner of the land where the emperor was buried, realized he could no longer profit from the body and asked for it to be exhumed and relocated. There was a lengthy dispute over this, and M. Torbet threatened to dig up the remains of the man who, despite what the poet wrote, had taken everything, even his own grave, and would toss the remains onto the road, until the Government ultimately decided that the India Company would buy[Pg 63] the land from Torbet for five hundred pounds sterling. It was determined that going forward, as a result of this douceur given to M. Torbet, people could visit Napoleon's tomb for free. We have already mentioned M. Torbet's name three times; let's say it a fourth, so it isn't forgotten.
If anything could make up for such a disgrace to humanity, for such deeds as M. Torbet revelled in, it would be the reception accorded forty years afterwards to la Fayette in America, when that nation sent one of its finest ships, the Cadmus, to fetch him to America as the nation's guest. It was indeed a fine sight to see a whole nation rising up to do honour to one of the founders of its liberty.
If anything could make up for such a shameful act against humanity, for the things M. Torbet enjoyed, it would be the welcome given to Lafayette in America forty years later, when the country sent one of its best ships, the Cadmus, to bring him to America as their honored guest. It was truly a beautiful sight to see an entire nation come together to honor one of the founders of its freedom.
Directly the two Chambers heard, on 12 January, that la Fayette was contemplating the paying of a visit to the United States, they drew up a resolution, upon the motion of Mr. Mitchell, to the following effect:—
Directly on January 12, when the two Chambers heard that Lafayette was considering a visit to the United States, they drafted a resolution, based on a motion by Mr. Mitchell, to the following effect:—
"Seeing that the illustrious champion of our liberty and the hero of our Revolution, the friend and comrade of Washington, Marquis de la Fayette, who was a volunteer general officer during the War of our Independence, has expressed a strong desire to pay a visit to our country, to whose liberty his courage, his blood and his wealth contributed in a very large degree,
"Recognizing that the famous champion of our freedom and hero of our Revolution, the friend and companion of Washington, Marquis de la Fayette, who served as a volunteer general officer during the War of Independence, has expressed a strong desire to visit our country, to which his courage, sacrifice, and support greatly contributed,
"It is resolved, that the President be asked to convey to the Marquis de la Fayette an expression of the feelings of respect, gratitude and affectionate attachment that the Government and the American people harbour towards him, and to assure him that the fulfilment of his desire and intention to visit their country will be received by both people and Government with deep pleasure and patriotic pride.
"It is resolved that the President should communicate to the Marquis de la Fayette the respect, gratitude, and affection that the Government and the American people have for him. He should also assure him that his wish and intention to visit our country will be welcomed by both the people and the Government with great pleasure and patriotic pride."
"It is besides, resolved, that the President shall inform himself as to the time that it would be most agreeable to the Marquis de la Fayette to pay his visit, so that one of the nation's vessels may be offered him as a means of transport."
"It is further resolved that the President will determine when it would be most convenient for the Marquis de la Fayette to visit, so that one of the nation's ships can be made available to him for transport."
So, in accordance with this offer, la Fayette embarked at Havre, on board the Cadmus, 13 July, and reached New York on 15 August, after a voyage of thirty-two days. No[Pg 64] national fête ever did honour to a finer or a more saintly character. When he left North America it had scarcely a population of three millions; now seventeen millions welcomed him. Everything was changed: forests had become plains, plains had become towns, and millions of steam-boats, the first of which had been launched in 1808 by Fulton, after having been refused by France, now plied up and down rivers as big as lakes, and on lakes as big as oceans. Nor were the towns of the artificial kind that Potemkin built along the Catherine Road which crosses the Crimea; modern civilisation was striding across the Atlantic as though it were a stream, to plant its foot for the first time in the New World.
So, according to this offer, la Fayette set sail from Havre on the Cadmus on July 13 and arrived in New York on August 15, after a thirty-two-day journey. No national celebration ever honored a finer or more virtuous person. When he left North America, it had barely three million people; now, seventeen million were welcoming him. Everything had changed: forests turned into plains, plains transformed into cities, and millions of steamboats, the first of which had been launched in 1808 by Fulton after being rejected by France, were now cruising on rivers as wide as lakes and on lakes as vast as oceans. And these cities were not the fake ones Potemkin built along the Catherine Road in Crimea; modern civilization was confidently crossing the Atlantic as if it were a stream, ready to make its mark on the New World for the first time.
After four months of fêtes given to and honours showered upon the friend of Washington, a special committee brought in a Bill on 20 December as under:—
After four months of celebrations and honors bestowed upon Washington's friend, a special committee submitted a Bill on December 20 as follows:—
"That the sum of 200,000 dollars be offered to Major-General la Fayette in recognition of his valuable services, and to indemnify him for his expenses in the American Revolution; also that a portion of land be set aside from the as yet unappropriated lands, for the establishment of a township for Major-General la Fayette, and that this Act be handed him by the President of the United States."
"A sum of $200,000 will be given to Major-General la Fayette in recognition of his valuable contributions and to cover his expenses during the American Revolution. Additionally, a piece of land will be set aside from the currently unallocated lands to establish a town for Major-General la Fayette, and this Act will be presented to him by the President of the United States."
This Bill was carried with enthusiasm by the Chamber of Representatives on 22 December and by the Senate on the 23rd.
This Bill was passed enthusiastically by the House of Representatives on December 22 and by the Senate on the 23rd.
We must just mention before we take leave of the year 1824, that, on 2 December, M. Droz and M. de Lamartine were competitors for the Academy, and that M. Droz was elected and M. de Lamartine rejected.
We should note before we say goodbye to the year 1824, that on December 2, M. Droz and M. de Lamartine competed for the Academy, and M. Droz was elected while M. de Lamartine was not chosen.
[1] In the French original.—TRANS.
CHAPTER VI
Tallancourt and Betz—The café Hollandais—My Quiroga cloak—First challenge—A lesson in shooting—The eve of my duel—Analysis of my sensations—My opponent fails to keep his appointment—The seconds hunt him out—The duel—Tallancourt and the mad dog
Tallancourt and Betz—The café Hollandais—My Quiroga cloak—First challenge—A shooting lesson—The night before my duel—Reflecting on how I feel—My opponent doesn’t show up—The seconds find him—The duel—Tallancourt and the rabid dog
On 3 January 1825, one of our friends, by name Tallancourt, having, by Vatout's solicitations, been promoted from his office, to the Duc d'Orléans' library, he treated me and another of our friends called Betz to a dinner at the Palais-Royal. Both were old soldiers. Tallancourt had fought at Waterloo. After the defeat, he felt in his pockets and found that they were empty, he struck his stomach and felt that it was hollow, therefore, catching sight of a small dismounted cannon, and being endowed with herculean strength, he lifted it upon his shoulder and sold it, two leagues away, to an ironfounder, for ten francs. Thanks to these ten francs, he managed to effect quite a comfortable retreat, and he returned to his native country of Semur, where Vatout got him a berth first in the Duc d'Orléans' offices and finally in the library. After dinner, these gentlemen, who were inveterate smokers, as becomes old soldiers of thirty-two and thirty-five years of age, proposed to adjourn to the café Hollandais to smoke a cigar. I did not wish to desert them, in spite of my aversion to tobacco cafés, and for the first, and I hope I may say for the last time in my life, I crossed the threshold of that famous establishment which is decorated outside with the sign of a ship. I possessed a large cloak, romantically called in those days a Quiroga; I had coveted such a cloak as passionately as I had the famous top-boots, and I had ended by obtaining it with just as much difficulty. Apparently, my[Pg 66] mode of dress annoyed one of the habitués who at that moment was playing billiards; he exchanged some words with his antagonist, accompanied by a glance in my direction, and a burst of laughter followed. This was quite sufficient to infuriate me, so I picked up a cue, and mixing up all the balls, I said—
On January 3, 1825, one of our friends, named Tallancourt, after being encouraged by Vatout, got promoted from his job to the Duc d'Orléans' library. He treated me and another friend, Betz, to dinner at the Palais-Royal. Both were former soldiers. Tallancourt had fought at Waterloo. After the defeat, he checked his pockets and realized they were empty, then he felt his stomach and noticed it was empty too. Spotting a small dismounted cannon, he used his incredible strength to lift it onto his shoulder and sold it two leagues away to an ironworker for ten francs. Thanks to those ten francs, he made a decent retreat back to his hometown of Semur, where Vatout helped him get a position first in the Duc d'Orléans' offices and eventually in the library. After dinner, these guys, who were dedicated smokers, as old soldiers of thirty-two and thirty-five do, suggested we head to the café Hollandais for cigars. I didn’t want to abandon them, despite my dislike for tobacco cafés, and for the first, and hopefully last time in my life, I stepped into that famous place marked by the sign of a ship. I had a large cloak, which was romantically called a Quiroga in those days; I desired it as passionately as I did the famous top-boots, and I finally acquired it with just as much difficulty. Apparently, the way I was dressed annoyed one of the regulars who was playing billiards at that moment; he exchanged some words with his opponent while glancing my way, which prompted a burst of laughter. That was enough to infuriate me, so I picked up a cue and messed up all the balls, and I said—
"Who would like to play at billiards with me?"
"Who wants to play billiards with me?"
"But," remonstrated Tallancourt, "the table belongs to those gentlemen."
"But," Tallancourt protested, "the table belongs to those men."
"Well," said I, looking straight at the player I specially wished to have dealings with, "we will turn these men out, and I will tackle this gentleman"; and I advanced towards him.
"Well," I said, looking directly at the player I particularly wanted to deal with, "let's get rid of these guys, and I'll take this gentleman on"; and I stepped toward him.
The provocation was too gross and too pointed not to raise ire.
The provocation was too blatant and too direct not to spark anger.
Betz and Tallancourt at once sprang to my assistance, for they knew me too well not to be aware that I should not insult anyone in this fashion without good occasion. The chief thing we cared about was that it should not be noised abroad that we had taken part in a miserable café quarrel, so my adversary and I exchanged cards and arranged a meeting for the next day but one, at nine o'clock in the morning, by the café which adjoins the threshold of the big lonely house which stood for a long while in the middle of the place du Carrousel, called the hôtel de Nantes. Of course, Tallancourt and Betz were my seconds, although they were a little uneasy about their commission: first, because I was very young, and it was my first duel; then, because I had just come from the provinces and they did not know whether I knew how to handle the firearms I was about to use. They had arranged with the seconds of my adversary, M. Charles B——, our meeting for the following day at four o'clock in the afternoon, in the garden of the Palais-Royal, opposite the Rotonde, in order to give them more time to coach me.
Betz and Tallancourt immediately jumped in to help me, knowing me well enough to understand that I wouldn't insult anyone like this without a good reason. The main concern for us was to keep it quiet that we were involved in a petty café argument, so my opponent and I exchanged cards and set up a meeting for the day after tomorrow at nine in the morning by the café next to the entrance of the big lonely house that had stood in the middle of the place du Carrousel for a long time, known as the hôtel de Nantes. Naturally, Tallancourt and Betz were my seconds, although they felt a bit nervous about the job: first, because I was quite young and it was my first duel; and second, because I had just come from the provinces and they weren't sure if I knew how to handle the weapons I was about to use. They arranged with the seconds of my opponent, M. Charles B——, to meet the next day at four in the afternoon in the garden of the Palais-Royal, across from the Rotonde, to give them more time to prepare me.
On leaving the café they asked me to tell them the cause of my quarrel, which I hastened to do; then, as they were commissioned to deal with the question of arms, they asked me which weapon I preferred. I replied that the question of weapons was a matter of indifference to me, and that as I had[Pg 67] confided my interests into their hands, it was their affair and not mine. My assurance somewhat eased their minds; but Tallancourt nevertheless insisted I should have some practice, next morning at nine, in Gosset's shooting gallery. I had not put foot in a shooting gallery since I had come to Paris; but my familiarity with M. de Leuven's Kukenreiter cannot have been forgotten, nor my broken slates, and the frogs I shot in two and the pieces of cardboard held in the hand as targets at Ponce's. Tallancourt asked for a dozen bullets.
After leaving the café, they asked me to explain the reason for my argument, which I quickly did. Then, since they were assigned to handle the arms issue, they wanted to know which weapon I preferred. I told them that weapons didn't matter to me, and since I had[Pg 67] entrusted my interests to them, it was their responsibility, not mine. My confidence made them feel a bit better, but Tallancourt insisted that I should practice the next morning at nine in Gosset's shooting gallery. I hadn't stepped foot in a shooting gallery since arriving in Paris, but my experience with M. de Leuven's Kukenreiter couldn't be forgotten, along with my broken slates and the frogs I shot at, and the cardboard pieces used as targets at Ponce's. Tallancourt requested a dozen bullets.
"Does the gentleman want to shoot à la poupée or à la mouche?" the lad asked me.
"Does the guy want to shoot à la poupée or à la mouche?" the kid asked me.
As I did not quite understand Parisian shooting habits and terms, I turned to Tallancourt, who asked for a poupée. The boy placed a metal doll on the spike—without doubt the biggest the establishment could produce; for the boy (whose name was Philippe—one recalls the minutest details connected with events of this sort) noticing my utter ignorance of shooting-gallery methods, took me for a schoolboy. Tallancourt, too, it was quite evident, shared the lad's opinion concerning me. I must confess this unanimity piqued me.
As I wasn’t fully familiar with Parisian shooting habits and terms, I turned to Tallancourt, who asked for a poupée. The boy set a metal doll on the spike—definitely the largest one the place could offer; for the boy (whose name was Philippe—one remembers the tiniest details associated with moments like this) noticing my complete lack of knowledge about shooting-gallery methods, took me for a schoolboy. Tallancourt, too, clearly shared the lad's impression of me. I have to admit this agreement annoyed me.
"Tell me," I asked Tallancourt, "what that metal toy costs?"
"Tell me," I asked Tallancourt, "how much that metal toy costs?"
"Four sous," he said.
"Four sou," he said.
"And how many bullets have you applied for?"
"And how many bullets have you applied for?"
"A dozen."
"Twelve."
"Well, then, as I am not rich enough to allow myself the luxury of smashing a dozen dolls, I will make this one a present of eleven of the bullets, and I will smash it with the twelfth."
"Well, since I'm not wealthy enough to afford the luxury of breaking a dozen dolls, I'll give this one eleven bullets as a gift, and I'll smash it with the twelfth."
"What do you mean?" asked Tallancourt.
"What do you mean?" asked Tallancourt.
"You shall see how we played this game at Villers-Cotterets, my dear Tallancourt."
"You'll see how we played this game at Villers-Cotterets, my dear Tallancourt."
I went up to the target, I drew a circle round the doll, and I began operations. Everything went off as I had anticipated. I did what I had done a score of times with de Leuven and de la Ponce, but as Tallancourt was witnessing my proceedings[Pg 68] for the first time, he was perfectly astounded at what took place.
I went up to the target, I drew a circle around the doll, and I started my work. Everything went as I expected. I did what I had done many times before with de Leuven and de la Ponce, but since Tallancourt was watching me do this for the first time, he was completely amazed by what happened.
"Well, it will be all right with pistols, I see, and I shall feel easy enough if you get in the first shot," said he; "but suppose they choose swords?"
"Well, I guess it'll be fine with guns, I see, and I'll feel pretty calm if you get the first shot," he said; "but what if they decide to use swords?"
"Well, if they choose swords, we must fight with swords, my friend, that is all."
"Well, if they choose swords, we have to fight with swords, my friend, that's all."
"Can you defend yourself with a sword?"
"Can you defend yourself with a sword?"
"I hope so."
"Fingers crossed."
"I ask this," added Tallancourt, "as I do not like pistols."
"I ask this," Tallancourt added, "because I'm not a fan of pistols."
"I agree with you, they are fiendish weapons."
"I agree with you, they are wicked weapons."
"I shall not accept unless I am compelled."
"I won't accept unless I'm forced."
"You will be quite right."
"You'll be completely right."
"You agree with me, then?"
"Do you agree with me?"
"Absolutely."
"Definitely."
"Well, so much the better! Give the boy twenty-four sous and let us go to breakfast."
"Great! Give the boy twenty-four sous and let's go have breakfast."
Fortunately, it was but the fourth day of the month, so I could afford the twenty-four sous. We breakfasted, and went to the office. Betz was already there, and he took Tallancourt aside, no doubt to inquire about my qualifications; but I had every ground for believing that Tallancourt reassured him. At five o'clock, Betz and Tallancourt came to tell me my adversary had chosen swords. The rendezvous was to be the same, at nine next day, by the hôtel de Nantes. I returned home with a smiling face, although my heart beat fast enough. In matters of courage I had made the following observations with respect to myself. I was of a sanguine temperament, and readily threw myself in the way of danger; if the danger were imminent, and I could attack it instantly, my courage never failed me, for I was kept up by excitement. If, on the contrary, I had to wait some hours, my nerves gave way, and I relented having exposed myself to danger. But, by degrees, after reflection, moral courage overcame physical cowardice, and vigorously commanded it to conduct itself properly. When arrived on the spot, I shivered to the bottom of my back; but I never showed the slightest external signs of my[Pg 69] feelings. I fought a duel in 1834, and Bixio was my second: he was a medical student at the time, and, feeling my pulse just after I had taken up my pistol, it only indicated sixty-nine pulsations to the minute, two beats faster than normal. The longer I wait, the calmer I become. For that matter, I believe every man, especially if endowed with sensitive organisations, naturally fears danger, and if left to his own instincts, would do his best to escape it; he is kept back simply and solely by moral strength and manly pride, and exposes himself to death and suffering with a smiling face. As a proof of this theory, I may mention that a man of this temperament, who is brave in his waking hours, is a coward in his dreams; for in sleep the soul is absent, and the animal part of him alone remains; and, in the absence of his strength, his will-power and his pride, the physical part of him is afraid.
Fortunately, it was only the fourth day of the month, so I could afford the twenty-four sous. We had breakfast and went to the office. Betz was already there, and he pulled Tallancourt aside, probably to ask about my qualifications; but I had every reason to believe that Tallancourt reassured him. At five o'clock, Betz and Tallancourt came to tell me my opponent had chosen swords. The meeting was set for the same place, at nine the next day, by the hôtel de Nantes. I went home with a smile on my face, even though my heart was racing. Regarding courage, I had noticed a few things about myself. I was naturally optimistic and quick to put myself in danger's way; if the danger was immediate, and I could confront it right away, my courage never wavered because I was fueled by adrenaline. However, if I had to wait for several hours, my nerves began to falter, and I regretted putting myself in danger. But after some reflection, my moral courage eventually overtook my physical fear and firmly directed it to behave properly. When I arrived at the spot, I trembled all the way down my back; yet, I never showed any signs of my feelings. I fought a duel in 1834, and Bixio was my second: he was a medical student at the time, and after I picked up my pistol, he checked my pulse, which was only sixty-nine beats per minute, just two beats faster than normal. The longer I waited, the calmer I became. In fact, I believe every man, especially those who are sensitive, naturally fears danger, and if left to his instincts, would do everything he can to avoid it; he is held back solely by moral strength and pride, exposing himself to death and suffering with a smile. To support this idea, I can mention that a man with this temperament, who is brave while awake, becomes a coward in his dreams; for in sleep, his soul is absent, leaving only his animal instincts; and without his strength, willpower, and pride, his physical self is afraid.
Well, I returned home without saying a word of what had passed; but I stayed in with my mother the whole night.
Well, I got home without mentioning anything about what happened; but I stayed in with my mom all night.
It was mid-winter, so I had not to go and make up the portfolio. I rose at eight next morning, and making some sort of excuse to my mother, I kissed her, and went out with my father's sword under my cloak. Tallancourt had undertaken to provide a second sword. I reached the hôtel de Nantes at ten minutes to nine, and we found there my adversary's two seconds. I had not had any breakfast, for Thibaut, who accompanied us, had advised me not to eat, in case I might have to be bled. We waited: half-past nine, ten, eleven struck. Betz and Tallancourt were dreadfully impatient, for my adversary's delay was making them late at their office. I must admit that, so far as I was concerned, I was enchanted; I had been in hopes that the affair would conclude with excuses, and I should have liked nothing better. At eleven o'clock my adversary's godparents gave up waiting, in disgust, and suggested to my seconds that they should all go and call upon their godson, who lived, I believe, in the rue Coquillière. As for me, they sent me back to the office, and, in case we were grumbled at for our absence, I was to explain frankly to Oudard what had passed and tell him the cause of our[Pg 70] absence. But there was no need to confess anything, as I found Oudard had been sent for by the Duchesse d'Orléans. Betz and Tallancourt returned half an hour later: they had found my adversary in bed! When they pointed out to him that he ought to have been elsewhere than in his bed, M. Charles B—— replied that, having been skating on the canal the whole of the previous day, at seven that morning he felt so utterly fatigued he had not sufficient strength to get up. His own two seconds considered this such a feeble excuse that they told him he need not count on their services again, if the quarrel were followed up. Upon which they withdrew. But Betz and Tallancourt, who were much angrier than I was myself in my heart of hearts, had remained, and they had insisted on M. Charles B—— informing them at what hour they might expect to see him take the field the next day. He promised to meet us, with two fresh seconds, at the Rochechouart barrier, the following day, at nine o'clock. The fight could take place in one of the Montmartre quarries. Thus the matter was only postponed. I thanked my two seconds very cordially, telling them they had done quite right and that I would wait. The day passed by quietly enough, and by becoming absorbed in my work and in conversation I even managed to forget I was to fight on the morrow. Nevertheless, a slight spasm would attack my heart from time to time, to be stifled in a yawn.
It was mid-winter, so I didn't have to put together the portfolio. I got up at eight the next morning, made some sort of excuse to my mom, kissed her goodbye, and headed out with my dad's sword tucked under my cloak. Tallancourt had promised to lend me a second sword. I arrived at the hôtel de Nantes at ten minutes to nine, where I found my opponent's two seconds waiting. I hadn’t eaten breakfast because Thibaut, who was with us, advised me not to eat in case I needed to be bled. We waited: half-past nine, ten, eleven struck. Betz and Tallancourt were really impatient since my opponent’s delay was making them late for work. I have to admit, as far as I was concerned, I was thrilled; I had hoped the whole thing would end with apologies, and I couldn't have wanted anything more. At eleven o'clock, my opponent's godparents, fed up with waiting, suggested to my seconds that they go visit their godson, who lived, I believe, on rue Coquillière. As for me, they sent me back to the office, and if we got any complaints about our absence, I was to explain to Oudard what had happened and why we were [Pg 70] gone. But I didn’t need to confess anything because Oudard had been called for by the Duchesse d'Orléans. Betz and Tallancourt came back half an hour later: they found my opponent in bed! When they pointed out that he should have been out of bed, M. Charles B—— said that after skating on the canal all day the previous day, he felt so exhausted at seven that morning he couldn’t muster the energy to get up. His own seconds thought that was such a weak excuse that they told him he shouldn’t count on their support again if the feud continued. With that, they left. However, Betz and Tallancourt, who were way angrier than I was deep down, stayed behind and insisted that M. Charles B—— tell them when he planned to show up for the duel the next day. He promised to meet us with two new seconds at the Rochechouart barrier at nine o'clock the next morning. The fight would take place in one of the Montmartre quarries. So, the whole thing was just postponed. I thanked my seconds very warmly, telling them they had done the right thing and that I would wait. The day went by pretty quietly, and by throwing myself into my work and chatting, I even managed to forget that I was supposed to fight the next day. Nonetheless, every now and then, a little spasm would hit my heart and would get stifled in a yawn.
I returned home early, as on the previous day, and stayed in with my mother.
I got back home early, just like the day before, and hung out with my mom.
Next day was Twelfth Night, and someone had presented us with a bean-cake. My mother was the queen. I kissed her and wished I might be able to kiss her for thirty years longer at the same hour, day and occasion. I knew only too well what I was doing when I wished such a wish. I slept soundly for the first four or five hours of the night, badly enough for the remaining two or three. I left my mother at half-past eight, as on the previous morning, only I had no sword to carry this time, Tallancourt had taken charge of both. At ten minutes to nine we reached the barrier at[Pg 71] Rochechouart; and, as nine struck, a cab brought our man and his two fresh seconds. They got out, bowed, silently crossed the outer boulevard and reached the ramparts of the mount. One of the seconds of my adversary, who has since become a friend of mine (in common with the majority of those who, not knowing me, began by being my enemies), came up to me and, evidently taking me for one of the witnesses, entered into conversation with me. We walked for nearly half an hour before a suitable spot could be found. It was very cold and had snowed all night; it was still snowing; so nearly all the quarries were occupied.
The next day was Twelfth Night, and someone had given us a bean-cake. My mom was the queen. I kissed her and wished I could kiss her for thirty more years at the same hour, day, and occasion. I knew very well what I was doing when I made that wish. I slept soundly for the first four or five hours of the night, but not so well for the last two or three. I left my mom at half-past eight, just like the morning before, except this time I didn’t have a sword to carry—Tallancourt had taken care of both. At ten minutes to nine, we reached the barrier at[Pg 71] Rochechouart; and, as the clock struck nine, a cab brought our man and his two new seconds. They got out, bowed, silently crossed the outer boulevard, and made their way to the ramparts of the mount. One of my opponent's seconds, who has since become a friend of mine (like most of those who initially saw me as an enemy), approached me, seemingly thinking I was one of the witnesses, and started a conversation with me. We walked for nearly half an hour before we found a suitable spot. It was very cold, and it had snowed all night; it was still snowing, so nearly all the quarries were occupied.
As it is not a usual sight for six people to be walking across fields at ten in the morning in such weather, the people in the quarries became inquisitive about our tramp and followed us. We had already quite a considerable following, and it was probable that the farther we thus went the more it would increase; so it was imperative we should stop at the first place that appeared, I will not say suitable, but possible, for our purpose. I confess the walk would have seemed very long had I not talked the whole way with my adversary's witness. At last they settled upon a sort of plateau, ten paces wide by twenty long, which was as much room as we needed. Here we stopped. Tallancourt drew forth the swords from under his cloak and handed them to the witnesses to be examined. The one he had brought was two inches longer than the other; Tallancourt had not made a choice, he had taken the first that came to his hand; so he proposed to draw lots as to which should have the longest sword. I ended the debate by declaring that I would take the shortest, which was my father's. I much preferred to lose the two extra inches of steel, rather than to have my father's sword turned against my breast. It was only at this juncture that my opponent's second discovered that the man he had been talking with the whole way was the other duellist. There was little time to spare by the time the ground was chosen and the swords distributed; it was horribly cold, and our audience was increasing every moment.
Since it’s not common to see six people walking across fields at ten in the morning in this kind of weather, the workers in the quarries became curious about us and started to follow. We already had quite a crowd forming, and it was likely that as we kept walking, it would only grow larger; so we needed to stop at the first place that seemed appropriate, if not ideal, for our purpose. I admit the walk would have felt really long if I hadn’t been chatting the entire way with my opponent's witness. Eventually, we settled on a flat area about ten paces wide and twenty long, which was just enough space for what we needed. Here, we paused. Tallancourt pulled out the swords from under his cloak and handed them to the witnesses for inspection. The one he had was two inches longer than the other; Tallancourt hadn’t made a selection, he just took the first sword he grabbed; so he suggested drawing lots to decide who would get the longer sword. I wrapped it up by saying I would take the shorter one, which happened to be my father's. I much preferred to give up the extra two inches of steel rather than risk having my father's sword turned against me. It was only at this point that my opponent's second realized that the person he had been talking to the entire way was the other duelist. There was little time left by the time we picked the spot and distributed the swords; it was freezing cold, and our audience was growing with every moment.
I flung off my coat and stood on guard. Then my opponent asked me to take off my waistcoat and my shirt as well as my coat. The demand seemed to me an exorbitant one; but, as he insisted, I stuck my sword in the snow and I threw down my waistcoat and my shirt on top of my coat. Then, as I did not want even to keep on my braces, and as, like poor Géricault, I had lost the buckle from my trousers, I tied the two straps into a knot to gird up my loins. These elaborate preparations took a minute or two, during which my sword remained fixed in the snow. Then I picked it up, and stood on guard in a pretty bad temper. My opponent had delivered his commands with a great air of self-confidence, and as he had also selected swords as our weapons, I expected to find I had to deal with an experienced swordsman. So I set to work cautiously. But to my great astonishment, I found he put himself very carelessly on his guard and exposed himself to my sword. Of course, his carelessness might be just a ruse to put me off my guard, when he could take advantage of my imprudence. I took a step backwards and lowered my sword.
I threw off my coat and got ready. Then my opponent asked me to take off my waistcoat and shirt too. That seemed a bit much to me, but since he insisted, I stuck my sword in the snow and tossed my waistcoat and shirt on top of my coat. Not wanting to keep my suspenders on and since, like poor Géricault, I had lost the buckle on my pants, I tied the two straps together to keep them up. These preparations took a minute or two, during which my sword stayed in the snow. Then I picked it up and stood ready, feeling pretty irritated. My opponent had given his orders with a lot of confidence, and since he had also chosen swords as our weapons, I thought I would be facing an experienced fighter. So I started off carefully. But to my surprise, I noticed he casually put himself in a guard position that left him open to my sword. Of course, his carelessness could just be a trick to catch me off guard, planning to take advantage of my mistakes. I stepped back and lowered my sword.
"Ready, monsieur," I said; "defend yourself!"
"Ready, sir," I said; "defend yourself!"
"But what if I do not choose to put myself into a position of defence?" replied my adversary.
"But what if I don't choose to put myself in a defensive position?" replied my opponent.
"Well, that is your affair, ... but your taste is peculiar, I must say."
"Well, that’s your business, ... but I have to say your taste is pretty unusual."
I fell back on guard, I attacked him en quarte, and without making a pass with my sword in order to feel my way with my man, I thrust out freely en tierce. He gave a leap backwards, stumbled over a vine-root and fell head over heels.
I stepped back and got ready, attacking him with my sword held to the side, and without making a move to test my opponent, I lunged forward confidently. He jumped back, tripped over a vine root, and fell flat on his back.
"Oh! oh!" exclaimed Tallancourt, "have you really killed him at the first blow?"
"Oh! oh!" exclaimed Tallancourt, "did you really take him out with the first hit?"
"No," I replied, "I think not; I had not even passed, I hardly touched him."
"No," I replied, "I don't think so; I barely got close, I hardly touched him."
In the meantime, my opponent's seconds had run up to M. B——, who was getting up. The point of my sword had pierced his shoulder, and as its position in the snow had frozen the steel, the sensation it had given my opponent was[Pg 73] so startling that, lightly though he was wounded, the shock had overturned him. Luckily I had not passed first, or I should certainly have run him right through. It turned out. that the poor lad had never handled a sword before!
In the meantime, my opponent's seconds rushed over to M. B——, who was getting up. The tip of my sword had pierced his shoulder, and since it had frozen in the snow, the feeling it caused my opponent was[Pg 73] so shocking that, even though he was only lightly wounded, the impact knocked him over. Fortunately, I hadn’t gone first, or I definitely would have run him through. It turned out that the poor guy had never used a sword before!
When he made this confession, and in consideration of the wound he had received, it was decided the fight should stop there. I put up my sword in its shield; I donned my shirt, waistcoat and coat; I wrapped myself in my Quiroga, and I descended the ramparts of Montmartre with a much lighter heart than I had ascended them.
When he confessed this, and considering the injury he had received, it was decided that the fight would end there. I sheathed my sword and put on my shirt, waistcoat, and coat; I wrapped myself in my Quiroga and went down the ramparts of Montmartre with a much lighter heart than when I had gone up.
Such was the cause, such were the sensations, such was the issue of my first duel. What has become of the two men who were my seconds? I have lost sight of Betz: he obtained a post as receveur particulier in the provinces. A vague rumour has since reached me of his death. As for Tallancourt, poor fellow! I saw him die most miserably, unfortunate and unhappy. The Duc d'Orléans took a fancy to him; for he was of the type of tools the prince loved—active but not too clever. Moreover, Tallancourt possessed a further qualification: although he was sufficiently intelligent, he knew when to appear stupid. When the Duc d'Orléans became king, he sent for Tallancourt, for he could not do without him. If his fortune were not exactly made—fortunes are not often made through being associated with kings—his position was, at any rate, secure. As Tallancourt had not left the Duc d'Orléans during 27, 28 and 29 July, he knew a fair number of state secrets concerning the Revolution of 1830. When the king was at Neuilly, he would purposely send Tallancourt to Paris, and the Hercules of a fellow, ill at ease in his arm-chair, seated at his desk, in his office, would walk the distance on foot, in order to breathe the open air and distend his big lungs a bit.
That was the reason, those were the feelings, and that was the outcome of my first duel. What happened to the two men who were my seconds? I've lost track of Betz; he got a job as a receveur particulier in the provinces. I've heard vague rumors about his death. As for Tallancourt, poor guy! I watched him die in the most tragic way, unfortunate and unhappy. The Duc d'Orléans took a liking to him because he was just the type of person the prince preferred—active but not too bright. Plus, Tallancourt had another talent: although he was smart enough, he knew when to play dumb. When the Duc d'Orléans became king, he called for Tallancourt because he couldn't do without him. While his fortune wasn’t exactly made—fortunes aren’t often made by hanging around kings—his position was at least secure. Since Tallancourt had stuck with the Duc d'Orléans during the events of July 27, 28, and 29, he knew quite a few state secrets about the Revolution of 1830. When the king was at Neuilly, he would deliberately send Tallancourt to Paris, and the big guy, uncomfortable in his armchair at his desk in his office, would walk the distance on foot just to get some fresh air and stretch his big lungs a bit.
One day, an enormous savage dog leapt out of the ditch by the side of the high road and sprang at him. Tallancourt instinctively put up his hands to save his face, and, by unheard of good luck, in so doing he seized the beast round its neck. It was useless for the dog to struggle against the powerful[Pg 74] grip of two such fists as Tallancourt's, which throttled the dog tighter and tighter, and in about five minutes' time the brute was strangled and the giant had never even received a scratch. But during these five minutes of struggle and mortal danger Tallancourt's brain underwent a terrible strain, and five or six months later, softening of the brain set in. For a year poor Tallancourt grew visibly feebler, both morally and physically; his strength and intellect, his power of motion, and even his voice declined, and he died by inches, after eighteen months of suffering.
One day, a huge wild dog jumped out of the ditch by the side of the highway and lunged at him. Tallancourt instinctively raised his hands to protect his face, and by sheer luck, he grabbed the dog by its neck. The dog’s struggles were useless against the strong grip of Tallancourt’s hands, which tightened around the animal’s throat, and in about five minutes, the beast was strangled without Tallancourt even getting a scratch. But during those five minutes of struggle and life-threatening danger, Tallancourt’s mind went through a terrible strain, and five or six months later, he began to suffer from brain deterioration. For a year, poor Tallancourt visibly weakened, both mentally and physically; his strength and intellect, his ability to move, and even his voice diminished, and he died slowly over eighteen months of suffering.
CHAPTER VII
The Duc d'Orléans is given the title of Royal Highness—The coronation of Charles X.—Account of the ceremony by Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans—Death of Ferdinand of Naples—De Laville de Miremont—Le Cid d'Andalousie—M. Pierre Lebrun—A reading at the camp at Compiègne—M. Taylor appointed a royal commissioner to the Théâtre-Français—The curé Bergeron—M. Viennet—Two of his letters—Pichat and his Léonidas
The Duke of Orléans is given the title of Royal Highness—The coronation of Charles X.—Description of the ceremony by Madame the Duchess of Orléans—Death of Ferdinand of Naples—De Laville de Miremont—Le Cid d'Andalousie—Mr. Pierre Lebrun—A reading at the camp in Compiègne—Mr. Taylor appointed as a royal commissioner to the Théâtre-Français—The curé Bergeron—Mr. Viennet—Two of his letters—Pichat and his Léonidas
My mother never knew anything of the story of my duel; she would have died of grief had she had the faintest suspicion of it. As we did not return to the office until nearly one o'clock, we had to tell Oudard everything; and he appeared quite content, after hearing Betz and Tallancourt's account, with the way his employé had conducted himself. Besides, the Palais-Royal had been in a constant state of fête since the accession of His Majesty Charles X. to the throne. The duc d'Orléans had just been granted the title of Royal Highness from the new king—a favour he had begged in vain from Louis XVIII. As we have already mentioned, Louis XVIII. persistently refused everybody who asked him to grant M. le Duc d'Orléans this privilege.
My mom never knew anything about the story of my duel; she would have been heartbroken if she had even the slightest idea. Since we didn’t get back to the office until almost one o'clock, we had to fill Oudard in on everything, and he seemed pretty satisfied after hearing Betz and Tallancourt's version of events about how his employee had behaved. Plus, the Palais-Royal had been celebrating nonstop since His Majesty Charles X took the throne. The duc d'Orléans had just been given the title of Royal Highness by the new king—a favor he had desperately sought from Louis XVIII in vain. As we mentioned before, Louis XVIII consistently denied everyone who asked him to grant M. le Duc d'Orléans this privilege.
"He will always be sufficiently close to the throne," he would reply.
"He’ll always be close enough to the throne," he would reply.
And in other ways, Charles X. made himself most popular.
And in other ways, Charles X made himself very popular.
As a pendant to his phrase, "Nothing is changed in France, there is simply one more Frenchman in it," he added another dictum, simpler still, and quite as much appreciated—
As a follow-up to his saying, "Nothing has changed in France, there's just one more Frenchman in it," he added another saying, even simpler and just as appreciated—
"My friends, let there be wider criticism!"
"My friends, let's encourage broader criticism!"
And in the midst of the general merrymaking the preparations for his coronation went on in sumptuous style.
And in the midst of all the celebrations, the preparations for his coronation continued in grand style.
The last few coronations had brought ill-fortune in their train. It will be remembered that, at Reims, Louis XVI. had quickly removed the crown from his head.
The last few coronations had come with bad luck. It will be remembered that, at Reims, Louis XVI. quickly took the crown off his head.
"What is the matter, sire?" asked the archbishop.
"What’s wrong, sir?" asked the archbishop.
"That crown hurts me," replied Louis XVI. And, twenty years later, he died upon the scaffold.
"That crown hurts me," replied Louis XVI. And, twenty years later, he died on the scaffold.
Napoleon wished to be crowned by a higher official than an archbishop; he wished to have a pope, and had sent for Pius VII. to come from the Vatican at Rome to Notre-Dame at Paris.
Napoleon wanted to be crowned by someone of higher rank than an archbishop; he wanted a pope and had summoned Pius VII to come from the Vatican in Rome to Notre-Dame in Paris.
"Il fallut presqu'un Dieu pour consacrer cet homme!
Le prêtre, monarque de Rome,
Vint sacrer son front menaçant,
Car sans doute, en secret effrayé de lui-même,
Il voulut recevoir son sanglant diadème
Des mains d'où le pardon descend!"
"Almost a God was needed to consecrate this man!
The priest, monarch of Rome,
Came to crown his threatening forehead,
For undoubtedly, secretly scared of himself,
He wanted to receive his bloody crown
From the hands from which forgiveness descends!"
Fifteen years later, Napoleon died at St. Helena! And now it was the turn of Charles X.
Fifteen years later, Napoleon died on St. Helena! And now it was Charles X's turn.
Every sovereign in Christendom had been informed of the solemn celebration, and sent their ambassadors extraordinary. Austria was represented by Prince Esterhazy; Spain by the Duke of Villa-Hermosa; Great Britain by the Duke of Northumberland; Prussia by General de Zastrow; and Russia by Prince Volkonski.
Every ruler in Christendom had been notified about the formal celebration and sent their special ambassadors. Austria was represented by Prince Esterhazy; Spain by the Duke of Villa-Hermosa; Great Britain by the Duke of Northumberland; Prussia by General de Zastrow; and Russia by Prince Volkonski.
The king and the dauphin left the Tuileries at half-past eleven on the morning of 24 May, and set out for Compiègne. All went well as far as Fismes; but an accident augured ill to the king, whose reign was only to last six years, and to end in his exile. As they descended at Fismes, the batteries of the Royal Guard, which were mounted in a dingle to the left of the road, fired a salute to greet the king. The detonation and its echo were terrible, and at the noise of the firing the horses attached to the carriage containing the Ducs d'Aumont and de Damas, and the Counts de Cossé and Curial, ran away; the carriage was overturned and smashed to bits on the causeway. Two out of the four occupants of the carriage were[Pg 77] seriously injured—MM. the Duc de Damas and Count Curial; the latter's case was worst, he had his collar-bone broken. Had it not been for the coachman's strength and presence of mind, the king himself would not have escaped a similar accident. His horses bolted; but the coachman had the sense not to try to stop them, and used all his efforts to keep them in the centre of the roadway; and after ten minutes' unrestrained career they calmed down.
The king and the dauphin left the Tuileries at 11:30 AM on May 24 and headed to Compiègne. Everything went smoothly until Fismes; however, an incident foreshadowed trouble for the king, whose reign would only last six years and end in exile. As they arrived in Fismes, the Royal Guard's batteries, positioned in a dip to the left of the road, fired a salute to welcome the king. The blast and its echo were deafening, and the sound of the gunfire caused the horses pulling the carriage with the Dukes of Aumont and de Damas, as well as the Counts de Cossé and Curial, to bolt; the carriage flipped over and was completely destroyed on the road. Two of the four occupants were[Pg 77] seriously injured—Duc de Damas and Count Curial; the latter was in the worse condition, having broken his collarbone. If it hadn't been for the coachman's strength and quick thinking, the king could have faced a similar disaster. His horses took off, but the coachman wisely chose not to try to rein them in and focused on keeping them centered on the road; after ten minutes of wild running, the horses eventually calmed down.
At the village of Tinqueux the king found the Duc d'Orléans and the Duc de Bourbon awaiting him. The rain, which had never stopped pouring all morning, ceased, and the sun, which had not hitherto shown itself, now shone forth brilliantly. The king, M. le Dauphin, M. le Duc d'Orléans and M. le Duc de Bourbon entered the coronation coach, and in the language of the Report of the Coronation, "the whole of the way to Reims was one arc de triomphe."
At the village of Tinqueux, the king found the Duke of Orléans and the Duke of Bourbon waiting for him. The rain, which had been pouring all morning, finally stopped, and the sun, which hadn’t shown until then, now shone brightly. The king, the Dauphin, the Duke of Orléans, and the Duke of Bourbon got into the coronation coach, and as stated in the Report of the Coronation, "the entire route to Reims was one arc de triomphe."
After the coronation service, Charles X. signed the amnesty granted to men who had deserted from the navy and to political offenders. It was this amnesty that brought Carrel back to France. Thirteen years later, Charles X. died at Goritz.
After the coronation service, Charles X signed the amnesty for men who had deserted from the navy and for political offenders. This amnesty is what brought Carrel back to France. Thirteen years later, Charles X died in Goritz.
Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans had been present at the coronation, and wrote an account of it in her private diary in Italian. On her return to Paris, she desired to have it translated into French, and commissioned Oudard to do it. Oudard was much embarrassed, and handed the album over to me, giving me a couple of days' holiday to translate it for him. This album was the book in which the Duchesse d'Orléans wrote her most secret thoughts and related her private deeds. I was not forbidden to read it, so of course I read it. However, there was not a single word throughout the book that could have put an angel to the blush, though it contained the actions and reflections of the Duchesse d'Orléans for the last ten years, though she never intended it to leave her own hands, not even to pass into those of the Duc d'Orléans, since it was for the Duc d'Orléans that the translation was being made. One thing above all struck me as I read, and that was the profound gratitude of Madame la[Pg 78] Duchesse d'Orléans for the favours that the new king, Charles X., had lavished on the prince her husband, and for the kindness displayed every day towards her and her family by Madame la Duchesse de Berry.
Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans attended the coronation and wrote about it in her private diary in Italian. After returning to Paris, she wanted it translated into French and asked Oudard to do it. Oudard was quite uncomfortable with this and handed the album to me, giving me a couple of days off to translate it for him. This album was where the Duchesse d'Orléans recorded her most private thoughts and related her personal experiences. I wasn't prohibited from reading it, so naturally, I did. However, there wasn't a single word in the entire book that could have embarrassed anyone, even though it included the actions and reflections of the Duchesse d'Orléans over the past ten years. She never intended for it to leave her possession, not even to the Duc d'Orléans, since the translation was meant for him. One thing stood out to me as I read: Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans's deep gratitude for the favors that the new king, Charles X, had shown to her husband, and for the kindness that Madame la Duchesse de Berry consistently showed to her and her family.
Alas and alas! how many times the remembrance of that album came into my mind when I saw King Charles X. at Gratz, and Madame la Duchesse de Berry at Blaye, and it made me shudder as I thought of how deeply the religious-hearted Marie-Amélie must have suffered, when, because of what princes term "political necessities," the honour of the one, and the crown of the other, were broken in her husband's hands.
Alas and alas! How many times did the memory of that album cross my mind when I saw King Charles X in Gratz and Madame la Duchesse de Berry in Blaye. It made me shudder as I thought about how deeply the religious-hearted Marie-Amélie must have suffered when, because of what princes call "political necessities," the honor of one and the crown of the other were shattered in her husband's hands.
Another page also riveted my attention and kept me for a long time enthralled, wherein Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans related how lovingly and tactfully her husband broke to her the news of the death of her father, Ferdinand I. Now, Ferdinand I. was the very king who had kept my father a prisoner in the dungeons of Naples for eighteen months; the very same man who had allowed people to try and poison him three times, and once to attempt his assassination; he, the shepherd who had devoured his own flock during those terrible years of 1798-99, had just been called to render an account of his stewardship to the Lord. It was a strange coincidence that I, the son of one of the king's victims, should hold this album in my hands and read the sorrowful outpourings of the daughter's grief at the death of her father! What a strange juxtaposition of destiny and fortunes! However, he was dead, even as just men have to die; he who had watched those whom he called his friends hung before his very eyes, burnt beneath his very windows, disembowelled and torn to pieces in his very presence; the people whom a treacherous capitulation had yielded into his hands; those who, under another reign, might have been the honour of their king and the glory of the country!
Another page caught my attention and kept me captivated for a long time, where Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans described how gently and thoughtfully her husband broke the news of her father, Ferdinand I’s death to her. Now, Ferdinand I was the very king who had kept my father a prisoner in the dungeons of Naples for eighteen months; the same man who allowed attempts to poison him three times and even an assassination attempt; he, the ruler who had devoured his own people during those terrible years of 1798-99, had just been called to account for his actions before the Lord. It was a strange coincidence that I, the son of one of the king’s victims, should hold this album in my hands and read the sorrowful expressions of a daughter mourning her father’s death! What a bizarre twist of fate! However, he was dead, just like just men must die; he who had watched those he called his friends hanged before his very eyes, burned beneath his windows, disemboweled and torn to pieces in his presence; the people whom a treacherous capitulation had handed over to him; those who, under another ruler, could have been the pride of their king and the glory of their country!
On 3 January 1825 he was quietly sleeping, at two in the morning. His attendants heard him cough several times; then, at eight o'clock, as he had not summoned them to him according to his usual custom, the officers of his chamber,[Pg 79] followed by the Court doctors, entered his room, and found him dead from a stroke of apoplexy. Ferdinand I. had just reigned sixty-five years, when he died at the age of seventy-four.
On January 3, 1825, he was peacefully sleeping at two in the morning. His attendants heard him cough several times; then, at eight o'clock, since he hadn't called for them as was his usual practice, the officers of his chamber,[Pg 79] along with the court doctors, entered his room and found him dead from a stroke. Ferdinand I. had just ruled for sixty-five years when he passed away at the age of seventy-four.
Oudard got his translation, which he re-copied in his own writing, and handed to the Duchesse d'Orléans as his own. True, he faithfully retailed to me the compliments he had received for it, adding that for which I was far more grateful—two tickets for the first representation of Roman at the Théâtre-Français; it was a capital five-act comedy in verse, by de Laville de Miremont, already known because of Folliculaire, a piece more commendable for its action than for any other quality. I knew de Laville very well: an accusation by Lemercier worried him greatly. Lemercier had accused de Laville, who had occupied the post of Censor, of having suppressed his Charles VI. and of having afterwards used his plot and ideas. But, in the first place, de Laville plainly proved both by Folliculaire and by Roman that he did not need to borrow ideas from other people's plays; besides, he was utterly incapable of doing such an action. There was a charming creation in Roman: a father who was friendly to and almost a companion in the escapades of a son born to him when he was only twenty. Nothing could have been more natural than this situation, which de Laville was the first to employ in a play.
Oudard got his translation, re-copied it in his own handwriting, and handed it to the Duchesse d'Orléans as if it were his own work. He honestly shared the compliments he received for it, adding something I was even more grateful for—two tickets to the first showing of Roman at the Théâtre-Français; it was a fantastic five-act comedy in verse by de Laville de Miremont, already known for Folliculaire, which was more praised for its plot than for any other quality. I knew de Laville very well: a claim by Lemercier really troubled him. Lemercier had accused de Laville, who had served as the Censor, of suppressing his Charles VI. and later using his plot and ideas. But first of all, de Laville clearly demonstrated through both Folliculaire and Roman that he didn’t need to steal ideas from others’ plays; besides, he was simply incapable of doing something like that. There was a delightful character in Roman: a father who was friendly with and almost a partner in the escapades of a son he had when he was just twenty. Nothing could have felt more natural than this situation, which de Laville was the first to use in a play.
Owing to the kindness of Talma, I had several times seen the Cid d'Andalousie. Casimir Delavigne's example was infectious: Talma having taken part in comedy, Mademoiselle Mars asked why she might not play in tragedy; hence the new reunion of the two actors in the Cid d'Andalousie. But M. Pierre Lebrun, author of an Ulysse which had not been played, or what is far worse, which had only run one or two nights, was not Casimir Delavigne. There was nothing at the time to support him as there had been in 1820 when, in Maria Stuart, he had had the sturdy framework of Schiller to fall back upon. Reduced to drawing from Spanish romanceros, which only suggested simple scenes, he was lacking in everything—power,[Pg 80] originality and style, and in spite of the unusual support of both Talma and Mademoiselle Mars, who had doubled the power of a strong creator and who could not conceal the weakness of a feeble writer, the Cid d'Andalousie fell flat at the first representation, managed to survive the second, upheld by hired applause, dragged on miserably for five or six nights, and then finally was taken out of the bill. This failure was the beginning of the fortune of M. Pierre Lebrun—Academician, peer of France and Manager of the Royal Printing-house.
Thanks to Talma's generosity, I had seen the Cid d'Andalousie several times. Casimir Delavigne's influence was contagious: after Talma acted in a comedy, Mademoiselle Mars questioned why she couldn't perform in a tragedy; this led to the reunion of the two actors in the Cid d'Andalousie. However, M. Pierre Lebrun, who had written an Ulysse that either never made it to the stage or, even worse, only ran for a night or two, was not in the same league as Casimir Delavigne. At that time, he lacked the support he had in 1820 when Schiller's sturdy framework bolstered Maria Stuart. Reduced to drawing from Spanish romanceros that only inspired simple scenes, he came up short in power, originality, and style. Despite the unusual backing of both Talma and Mademoiselle Mars, whose strong performances could not hide a weak script, the Cid d'Andalousie fell flat on its first showing, barely made it through the second with hired applause, limped along for five or six more nights, and was eventually pulled from the schedule. This failure marked the beginning of M. Pierre Lebrun's rise—Academician, peer of France, and Manager of the Royal Printing-house.
O thou venerable deity, Mediocrity! Surely thou hast the secret of the precious essence given to Phaon by Venus to assure successfulness in this world of ours! Thou who for long rejected Hugo, Lamartine and Charles Nodier! Thou who left Soulié and Balzac to die without doing for them a third of what thou didst for M. Pierre Lebrun! Thou who ignored Alfred de Musset,—wisely, for all light of originality, all nervous strength, makes thy owl's eyes to blink! Thou whose leaden-based statue ought to be a hundred feet high, so that its shadow should fall on the Pont des Arts and the respectable monument to which it leads! O Mediocrity! sole divinity for whom France has not a 21 January, a 29 July or a 24 February! Thou whom I despise above everything else in the world, and would fain hate if I could ever hate anything! Look ever askance on me and be benign to my enemies, that is the sole favour I ask thee. And, on this condition, may thou remain in undisturbed possession of the future, as thou hast been of the past!
O you venerable deity, Mediocrity! Surely you hold the secret of the precious essence given to Phaon by Venus to ensure success in our world! You who long rejected Hugo, Lamartine, and Charles Nodier! You who let Soulié and Balzac die without doing for them a fraction of what you did for M. Pierre Lebrun! You who ignored Alfred de Musset—wisely, as all originality and strength makes your owl-like eyes blink! You whose statue, so heavy, should be a hundred feet tall, so its shadow falls on the Pont des Arts and the respectable monument it leads to! O Mediocrity! the only deity for whom France has no 21 January, 29 July, or 24 February! You whom I despise above all else in the world, and would love to hate if I could ever hate anything! Always look askance at me and be kind to my enemies, that is the only favor I ask of you. And, on this condition, may you continue to have undisturbed possession of the future, just as you have of the past!
Now let us note well that the failure of the Cid d'Andalousie took place in 1825. One might therefore reasonably have hoped that by 1838, thirteen years later, the unlucky Cid would have been forgotten by everybody, even by its author. Nothing of the kind. At Compiègne, in his country house, the Duc d'Orléans entertained his comrades with sport in the forest by day, and at night he opened his drawing-rooms to those who preferred card-playing, dancing and conversation. One evening a fatal idea came into the unfortunate prince's[Pg 81] head. Turning towards several poets who stood round, he said to them—
Now let's note that the failure of the Cid d'Andalousie happened in 1825. One might have reasonably thought that by 1838, thirteen years later, the unfortunate Cid would have been forgotten by everyone, even its author. Not at all. At Compiègne, in his countryside home, the Duc d'Orléans entertained his friends with outdoor activities during the day, and at night he opened his drawing-rooms to those who preferred card games, dancing, and chats. One evening, a troubling idea struck the unfortunate prince[Pg 81]. He turned to several poets nearby and said to them—
"Gentlemen, let us see which of you has some poetry to read to us."
"Gentlemen, let’s see who among you has some poetry to share with us."
Everybody kept silence, as will be readily understood, and moved a step or two backwards; except M. Pierre Lebrun, who stepped forward.
Everyone fell silent, as you might expect, and took a step or two back; except for M. Pierre Lebrun, who stepped forward.
"I will, monseigneur," he said; and he sat down and drew a manuscript out of his pocket—think of it! a whole manuscript!—and, in the midst of the general silence, he read the title—
"I will, sir," he said; and he sat down and pulled a manuscript out of his pocket—can you believe it? a whole manuscript!—and, in the middle of the general silence, he read the title—
"Gentlemen, the Cid d'Andalousie."
"Guys, the Cid d'Andalousie."
They all stared at him; but there was no way out of it, they were trapped, and M. le Duc d'Orléans most of all. Upon my word, it was a great success. When the reading was over and compliments had been paid, the Duc d'Orléans said to me—
They all looked at him; but there was no escape, they were stuck, especially M. le Duc d'Orléans. Honestly, it was a huge success. When the reading finished and the compliments were given, the Duc d'Orléans said to me—
"Dumas, can you tell me what was the reason of the noise I heard by the side of the window, which interrupted M. Lebrun, towards the beginning of the third act?"
"Dumas, can you explain the noise I heard by the window that interrupted M. Lebrun at the start of the third act?"
"Monseigneur," I replied, "it was A—, who squatted behind the curtains, where he could sleep more comfortably; but it would seem he had a nightmare: he gave a cuff to a small stand, and has smashed a table full of Sèvres china, for which he is excessively sorry."
"Monseigneur," I replied, "it was A—, who was sitting behind the curtains, where he could sleep more comfortably; but it seems he had a nightmare: he hit a small stand, and broke a table full of Sèvres china, for which he feels really sorry."
"He need not be unhappy about it," said the Duc d'Orléans; "tell him he did quite right, and I will bear the cost of the china."
"He doesn’t need to be upset about it," said the Duc d'Orléans; "tell him he did the right thing, and I’ll cover the cost of the china."
The poor duke was as wise a prince as Solomon, and as good as St. Louis!
The poor duke was as wise a ruler as Solomon and as good as St. Louis!
In other respects, too, the Théâtre-Français was not very fortunate at this time. After playing the Cid d'Andalousie of M. Lebrun, it put on M. de Comberousse's Judith and Bélisaire, by M. de Jouy. An important change had taken place at the theatre in the rue de Richelieu. Baron Taylor had been appointed royal commissioner in place of M. Choron, upon the recommendation of MM. Lemercier, Viennet and Alexandre Duval.
In other ways, the Théâtre-Français wasn't very lucky during this period. After performing M. Lebrun's Cid d'Andalousie, it staged M. de Comberousse's Judith and Bélisaire, written by M. de Jouy. A significant change had occurred at the theater on rue de Richelieu. Baron Taylor had been appointed as royal commissioner to replace M. Choron, following the recommendations of MM. Lemercier, Viennet, and Alexandre Duval.
When Charles X. returned to Paris after the coronation, and the Bishop of Orléans issued orders for prayers to be offered up in thanksgiving for the safe accomplishment of the ceremony just concluded, M. Bergeron, curé of the commune of Saint-Sulpice, canton of Blois, after delivering from his reading-desk the bishop's mandate, added these simple words:—
When Charles X returned to Paris after the coronation, and the Bishop of Orléans instructed that prayers be said in gratitude for the successful completion of the ceremony just conducted, M. Bergeron, the priest of the Saint-Sulpice community in the Blois district, after reading the bishop's directive from his pulpit, added these straightforward words:—
"My dearly beloved brethren, as Charles X. is not a Christian, as he desires to keep the Charter, which is an Act contrary to religion, we ought not to pray for him, any more than for Louis XVIII., who was the founder of that Charter; they are both damned. Those who agree with me, please rise."
"My dear friends, since Charles X isn't a Christian and wants to maintain the Charter, which goes against our faith, we shouldn't pray for him, just like we shouldn't pray for Louis XVIII, who created that Charter; they're both condemned. If you agree with me, please stand up."
And three hundred listeners out of four hundred rose, and by that act declared that they were entirely of the same opinion as their priest.
And three hundred out of four hundred listeners stood up, showing that they completely agreed with their priest.
Alas! If the Academy could have known what kind of man Baron Taylor was, whom the order of Charles X. had introduced into the sanctuary of the Comédie-Française! If it could only have guessed that he was to open its doors to MM. Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo and de Vigny,[1] it would have followed the curé Bergeron's example and excommunicated King Charles x. But it knew nothing at all about it.
Alas! If the Academy had known what kind of man Baron Taylor was, the one whom Charles X. had brought into the Comédie-Française! If it had only guessed that he would be the one to welcome MM. Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo, and de Vigny,[1] it would have followed the curé Bergeron's example and excommunicated King Charles X. But it was completely unaware.
The first bad turn the new commissioner of the king did to his patrons was to have M. Viennet's Sigismond de Bourgogne played, and M. Lemercier's Camille. I need hardly mention that both these plays fell flat. This did not discourage M. Lemercier: he decided to change his style of play, and began a melodrama called the Masque de poix. This elated M. Viennet, who, instead of changing his method, like his honoured confrère, made up his mind, on the contrary, to force his method into acceptance, and began by reading his Achille in the salons, a play which had been written twenty years before, and which had been accepted ten years ago.
The first wrong move the new king's commissioner made with his supporters was scheduling M. Viennet's Sigismond de Bourgogne and M. Lemercier's Camille. It's hardly worth mentioning that both plays were a flop. This didn't discourage M. Lemercier; he decided to switch up his style and started working on a melodrama called Masque de poix. This excited M. Viennet, who, instead of adapting his approach like his esteemed colleague, resolved to push his method onto audiences, starting by reading his Achille in salons, a play written twenty years earlier and accepted ten years ago.
"Do you not think my Achille is very heroic?" he said to M. Arnault, after one of these readings.
"Don't you think my Achille is really heroic?" he said to M. Arnault after one of these readings.
"Yes," replied M. Arnault, "as fierce as a turkey-cock!"
"Yes," replied M. Arnault, "as fierce as a turkey!"
But very few men could be more brilliant at repartee than M. Viennet. It was like watching a tilting bout in the lists to hear him, save that he never retorted when his adversary missed fire. He certainly offered a favourable target for such attacks, and people were not slow to avail themselves of their opportunities. Once, at Nodier's house, he went up to Michaud.
But very few men could be more skilled at witty banter than M. Viennet. It was like watching a jousting match to hear him, except he never fired back when his opponent missed. He definitely provided a tempting target for such jabs, and people were quick to take advantage of their chances. Once, at Nodier's house, he approached Michaud.
"Tell me, Michaud," he began, in a manner that was peculiarly his own,—"tell me what you think, I have just finished a poem of thirty thousand lines."
"Tell me, Michaud," he started, in a way that was uniquely his own, "tell me what you think, I've just finished a poem with thirty thousand lines."
"It will need fifteen thousand men to read them," replied Michaud.
"It will take fifteen thousand men to read them," Michaud replied.
On another occasion, at a dinner party, M. Viennet made an attack upon Lamartine.
On another occasion, at a dinner party, M. Viennet criticized Lamartine.
"He is a puppy," he said, "who thinks himself the greatest politician of his age, and who is not even the first poet!"
"He’s a puppy," he said, "who believes he’s the greatest politician of his time, and he’s not even the top poet!"
"At all events," Madame Sophie Gay retorted from the other end of the table, "he is not the last—that place is already occupied."
"Anyway," Madame Sophie Gay shot back from the other end of the table, "he's not the last—that spot is already taken."
Besides everything M. Viennet wrote in verse—fables, comedies, tragedies, epistles and epic poems—he wrote a couple of letters in prose which are perfect models. We will quote them in toto and verbatim; extracts would not give a proper idea of their style. One was in reference to the nomination of Hugo as an officer of the Légion d'honneur; the other was in connection with his own nomination to the peerage. For M. Viennet was both a deputy and a peer of France, besides also being a Commander of the Légion d'honneur and a member of the Academy.
Besides everything M. Viennet wrote in verse—fables, comedies, tragedies, letters, and epic poems—he wrote a couple of prose letters that are perfect examples. We will quote them in full and word for word; excerpts wouldn't really capture their style. One was about the appointment of Hugo as an officer of the Légion d'honneur; the other was regarding his own appointment to the peerage. M. Viennet was both a deputy and a peer of France, as well as a Commander of the Légion d'honneur and a member of the Academy.
Here is M. Viennet's first letter:—
Here is M. Viennet's first letter:—
"MONSIEUR,—Je n'ai pas dit que je ne voulais plus porter la croix d'officier de la Légion d'honneur, depuis qu'on l'avait donnée au chef de l'école romantique.
"SIR,—I never said I didn't want to wear the cross of an officer of the Legion of Honor anymore, since it was awarded to the leader of the romantic movement."
"En ôtant mon ruban de la boutonnière où l'empereur l'avait placé, j'ai suivi seulement l'exemple de la plupart des[Pg 84] généraux de la vieille armée, qui trouvaient plus facile de se faire remarquer en paraissant dans les rues sans décoration. Il ne s'agissait ici ni de romantiques ni de classiques.
"By removing my ribbon from the buttonhole where the emperor had placed it, I was simply following the lead of most of the [Pg 84] generals from the old army, who found it easier to stand out by walking around without any decorations. This wasn't about romanticism or classicism."
"Il est tout naturel qu'un ministre romantique décore ses amis; il serait cependant plus juste de donner la croix de chevalier à ceux qui auraient eu le courage de lire jusqu'au bout les vers ou la prose de ces messieurs, et la croix d'officier à ceux qui les auraient compris. Je désire, en outre, qu'on n'en donne que douze par an aux écrivains qui font des libelles contre les grands pouvoirs de l'État, les ministres et les députés: il faut de la mesure dans les encouragements.—Agréez, etc., VIENNET"
"Of course, a romantic minister gives awards to his friends; however, it would be more fitting to grant the knight's cross to those who had the guts to read through the works of these gentlemen and the officer's cross to those who actually grasped them. Moreover, I propose that only twelve awards per year be given to writers who critique the powerful figures in the State, such as ministers and deputies: we need some moderation in these acknowledgments.—Sincerely, VIENNET"
And this is M. Viennet's letter about his nomination to the peerage of France:—
And this is M. Viennet's letter about his nomination to the French peerage:—
"MONSIEUR,—Sur la foi d'un journal judiciaire que je ne connais pas, vous publiez, que, des vendredi dernier, je me suis empressé d'écrire à M. Vedel, pour mettre opposition à la représentation des Serments, et vous accompagnez cette annonce d'une fort jolie épigramme contre cette comédie. L'épigramme me touche fort peu, elle sort peut-être de la même plume qui avait loué l'ouvrage quand l'auteur avait cessé d'être un homme politique. Je ne prétends pas l'empêcher de continuer, mais le fait n'est pas vrai et je me récrie. Il n'y a eu de ma part ni possibilité ni volonté de faire ce qu'on m'impute. Je suis parti vendredi de la campagne, et je suis arrivé chez moi, à Paris, vers les sept heures, sans me douter de ce que le Moniteur avait publié, le matin, d'honorable pour moi. C'est mon portier qui m'a salué du titre de pair, attendu qu'il avait expédié, le matin même, pour mon village, une lettre officielle qui portait ce titre, et comme cette lettre ne m'est pas encore revenue, j'ignore à quel ministre je suis redevable de ce premier avis. Quant à ma volonté, elle n'existe point, elle n'existera jamais! c'est m'insulter que de me croire capable d'abjurer les travaux et les honneurs littéraires, pour un honneur politique. La Charte n'a pas établi d'incompatibilité entre le poète dramatique et le pair de France; si elle l'eût fait, j'aurais refusé la pairie. Les lettres et les succès de théâtre honorent ceux qui cultivent les unes et qui obtiennent les autres sans intrigue et sans bassesse. Au lieu d'y renoncer, je sollicite, au contraire, avec plus d'instance la représentation des Serments, la mise en scène d'une de mes tragédies et la lecture d'une[Pg 85] comédie en cinq actes. Si vous avez quelque crédit auprès de M. le directeur du Théâtre-Français, veuillez l'employer en ma faveur. Les épigrammes dont on m'a poursuivi comme député sont bien usées; vous devez désirer qu'on en renouvelle la matière, et une nouvelle comédie, une nouvelle tragédie de moi, seraient de merveilleux aliments pour la verve satirique de mes adversaires. Rendons-nous mutuellement ce service; je vous en serai très-reconnaissant pour mon compte, et je vous prie d'agréer d'avance les remercîments de votre très-humble serviteur, VIENNET"
"SIR,—According to a legal journal I’m not familiar with, you mentioned that last Friday, I quickly wrote to Mr. Vedel to oppose the representation of the Oaths, and you followed this with a rather nice epigram about the play. The epigram doesn’t affect me much; it might come from the same person who praised the work when the author stopped being a politician. I don’t intend to stop him from continuing, but that claim isn’t true, and I must object. I had neither the opportunity nor the desire to do what you accuse me of. I left the countryside on Friday and got home in Paris around seven o’clock, unaware of what Le Moniteur had published that morning, which was favorable to me. It was my doorman who greeted me with the title of peer since he had sent an official letter to my village that carried that title that very morning, and since that letter hasn’t come back to me, I’m not sure which minister I owe this first notice to. As for my desire, it doesn’t exist, and it never will! It’s an insult to think I would renounce literary work and honors for a political title. The Charter hasn’t declared any incompatibility between a dramatic poet and a peer of France; if it had, I would have rejected the peerage. Literature and theatrical successes bring honor to those who pursue them sincerely. Rather than renounce, I actually pursue even more insistently the representation of the Oaths, the staging of one of my tragedies, and the reading of a [Pg 85] comedy in five acts. If you have any sway with Mr. Director of the Théâtre-Français, please use it on my behalf. The epigrams I’ve been targeted with as a deputy are quite outdated; you must wish for some new material, and a new comedy or tragedy from me would be great fodder for the satirical wit of my opponents. Let’s help each other out; I would be very grateful, and I ask you to accept my thanks in advance. Your very humble servant, VIENNET"
We will now return to Baron Taylor and the changes he brought about at the Théâtre-Français. At the Panorama-Dramatique he had produced Ismaël et Maryam alone; Bertram in collaboration with Nodier; and Ali-Pacha with Pichat's assistance.
We will now go back to Baron Taylor and the changes he made at the Théâtre-Français. At the Panorama-Dramatique, he produced Ismaël et Maryam on his own; Bertram in collaboration with Nodier; and Ali-Pacha with Pichat's help.
Pichat was a young man of twenty-eight at that time: a play of his, Léonidas, had been received two or three years before at the Théâtre-Français. Taylor extracted Léonidas from the pandemonium he found himself in, and had it put in rehearsal. Talma was cast for the rôle of Léonidas:—not that his supreme intellect was mistaken about the part, which, dramatically speaking, was nothing at all; but in the matter of "business" it contained something fresh to do, and poor Talma, to the day of his death, was ever seeking new worlds, and, less fortunate than Vasco de Gama, he never succeeded in finding them. Besides, it was a very appropriate moment for the playing of Léonidas; all Europe was looking towards the successors of the three hundred Spartans. And the new piece, so it was announced in advance, was to be staged with unusual sumptuousness and unheard-of effects. I well remember the first performance of the tragedy of Léonidas, wherein one felt the dawn of new ideas, wherein every historic saying which immortalised the famous defence of the Thermopælians was felicitously adapted, and admirably rendered by Talma. One hemistich of the young Agis was Substituted for the written line. Agis wounded, fell, exclaiming—
Pichat was a 28-year-old man at that time: his play, Léonidas, had been performed two or three years earlier at the Théâtre-Français. Taylor pulled Léonidas out of the chaos he found himself in and put it into rehearsal. Talma was cast in the role of Léonidas—not because he misjudged the part, which, in terms of drama, was practically nothing; but in terms of "business," it had something new for him to do, and poor Talma, until the day he died, was always searching for new challenges, and, less fortunate than Vasco de Gama, he never found them. Additionally, it was a very fitting time to stage Léonidas; all of Europe was focused on the successors of the three hundred Spartans. And the new production, as was announced in advance, was to be presented with exceptional grandeur and unprecedented effects. I clearly remember the first performance of the tragedy of Léonidas, which felt like the dawn of new ideas, where every historic quote that immortalized the famous defense of the Thermopælians was skillfully adapted and brilliantly delivered by Talma. One line from the young Agis was replaced with the written line. Agis, wounded, fell, exclaiming—
"Ils sont tous morts ... Je meurs!..."
"Ils sont tous morts ... Je meurs!..."
The play met with a most enthusiastic reception, on account of the circumstances under which it was played. It was a splendid success for Talma: he looked like an antique statue descended from its column. After the performance, when the curtain had fallen, I saw a noisy group of rejoicing people rush along the corridor and the foyer, anxious to convey their friendly congratulation. A fine-looking young man, with a face as radiant as a conquering Apollo, formed the centre and was the hero of the group. He was the author of Léonidas. Alas! he died only two years later—died before he had hardly lifted the intoxicating cup of success to his lips. But Taylor had at least the happiness of holding out to him the nectar which sweetened his last moments. Without Taylor, Pichat would have died in obscurity, and even though he were but an ephemeral meteor, many people, myself among the number, recollect the brilliant light he gave during his short career!
The play had an extremely enthusiastic reception, thanks to the circumstances under which it was performed. It was a huge success for Talma: he looked like a classic statue come down from its pedestal. After the show, when the curtain had fallen, I saw a lively group of excited people rushing through the corridor and the foyer, eager to share their congratulations. A handsome young man, with a face as bright as a victorious Apollo, was at the center and was the star of the group. He was the author of Léonidas. Unfortunately, he died just two years later—he passed away before he could truly savor the sweet taste of success. But Taylor at least had the joy of giving him the nectar that sweetened his final moments. Without Taylor, Pichat would have faded into obscurity, and even though he was only a fleeting star, many people, including myself, remember the brilliant light he shone during his brief career!
[1] It will, of course, be understood that I place my own name and those of my honoured confrères according to the chronological order of the representations of Henri III, Marion Delorme and Othello.
Please provide the text you would like me to modernize. It should be clear that I list my own name and those of my respected colleagues in the order of when Henri III, Marion Delorme, and Othello were presented.
CHAPTER VIII
Death of General Foy—His funeral—The Royal Highness—Assassination of Paul-Louis Courier—Death of the Emperor Alexander—Comparison of England and Russia—The reason why these two powers have increased during the last century—How Napoleon meant to conquer India
Death of General Foy—His funeral—The Royal Highness—Assassination of Paul-Louis Courier—Death of Emperor Alexander—Comparing England and Russia—Reasons these two powers have expanded over the last century—Napoleon's plan to conquer India.
Since we have just uttered the word death let us consecrate this chapter entirely to the pale daughter of Erebus and Night.
Since we just said the word death, let's dedicate this chapter entirely to the pale daughter of Erebus and Night.
On 26 June, Princess Pauline Borghèse died at Florence, and, with her, one of the most striking memories of my early youth passed into the regions of eternity.
On June 26, Princess Pauline Borghèse passed away in Florence, and with her, one of the most vivid memories of my childhood was lost to time.
Then, on 28 November, I learnt news which was a more personally disastrous shock to me. As I was coming out of the office, I saw people talking together and heard them say, "You have heard that General Foy is dead!"
Then, on November 28, I received news that was a deeply personal shock to me. As I was leaving the office, I saw people gathered and heard them say, "Did you hear that General Foy has died!"
They were inclined to doubt the information! But there is a kind of news about which one is never in doubt; for who, if it were false, dare spread the news which the brazen lips of Destiny alone has the right to announce? Yes, General Foy had died directly after returning from a journey among the Pyrenees, where he had been to take the waters; he died of an aneurism, and news of his death came before the news of his illness. They had concealed the fact of the disease, in hope that it might not prove fatal; but for a week past it had made terrible strides; attacks of suffocation, beginning at intervals of fifteen minutes, succeeded one another more rapidly, and sickness occurred constantly. The general's two nephews were with him, never leaving his bedside for a moment, lavishing every possible care on him, and as they were both men, he did not attempt to hide from them his serious condition.
They were skeptical about the information! But there’s some news you can never doubt; who, if it were untrue, would dare to spread what only the bold voice of Fate has the right to declare? Yes, General Foy had died right after returning from a trip to the Pyrenees, where he had gone for some therapeutic waters; he died of an aneurysm, and the news of his death came before the news of his illness. They had kept his illness a secret, hoping it wouldn’t be fatal; however, over the past week, it had worsened severely; suffocation attacks, which initially happened every fifteen minutes, started to come more frequently, and illness was a constant presence. The general's two nephews stayed by his side, never leaving his bedside for a second, giving him every possible care, and since they were both men, he didn’t try to hide his serious condition from them.
"I can feel," he said, "some destroying power at work within me; I am fighting against it, but it is too strong for me, and will conquer my efforts."
"I can feel," he said, "some destructive force at work inside me; I'm fighting against it, but it's too powerful for me and will overcome my attempts."
When the final hour approached, he felt the need of more air, although it was November, and he longed for the comforting rays of the pale winter sunshine. His nephews placed him on a couch in front of the window, but he could not manage to sit up for more than a moment.
When the last hour came, he felt he needed more air, even though it was November, and he craved the warm touch of the weak winter sunshine. His nephews laid him on a couch in front of the window, but he couldn't stay propped up for more than a moment.
"My lads," he said to his nephews, "my dear lads, carry me back to my bed, and with God be the final issue."
"My boys," he said to his nephews, "my dear boys, take me back to my bed, and may God decide the outcome."
He had scarcely spoken the words before God freed his pure and loyal spirit from the body in which it was confined. I went home to my mother utterly miserable. Obscure as I was, I felt that the great man who had just passed away had a right to have expected some return from the unknown youth whose career in life he had really started. So I wrote the piece of poetry of which I have already quoted a stanza. They were not my first lines,—God pardon me the others,—but they were the first in which, however old and defective the form, appeared something that resembled an idea. Of some two hundred and fifty to three hundred lines, only that one stanza, happily, has remained in my memory. I had this ode printed—at my own expense, of course. It cost my poor mother two or three hundred francs; still, neither of us regretted it. All the poems that were written on this occasion were collected under the title Couronne poétique du General Foy, and they made a volume in themselves.
He had barely finished speaking before God released his pure and loyal spirit from the body that held it captive. I went home to my mother feeling completely miserable. Even though I was unknown, I felt that the great man who had just died deserved some acknowledgment from the anonymous youth whose journey he had truly begun. So, I wrote the poem I’ve already quoted a stanza from. They weren't my first lines—God forgive me for those—but they were the first where, despite the old and flawed structure, something resembling an idea came through. Out of about two hundred and fifty to three hundred lines, only that one stanza has thankfully stuck in my memory. I had this ode printed—at my own expense, of course. It cost my poor mother two or three hundred francs; still, neither of us regretted it. All the poems written for this occasion were gathered under the title Couronne poétique du General Foy, and they made a separate volume.
The most remarkable verses in the whole volume were by a beautiful young girl of seventeen or eighteen, called Delphine Gay, who had just become known by a volume of Essais poétiques. This is the elegy which the death of General Foy inspired her to write; it was quoted in all the newspapers of the day and was immensely popular:—
The most outstanding lines in the entire book were written by a beautiful young woman who was about seventeen or eighteen, named Delphine Gay. She had just gained recognition with a collection of Essais poétiques. This is the elegy that the death of General Foy inspired her to compose; it was featured in all the newspapers of the time and became hugely popular:—
"Pleurez, Français, pleurez! la patrie est en deuil;
Pleurez le défenseur que la mort vous enlève;
Et vous, nobles guerriers, sur son muet cercueil
Disputez-vous l'honneur de déposer son glaive!
[Pg 89]
Vous ne l'entendrez plus, l'orateur redouté
Dont l'injure jamais ne souilla l'éloquence;
Celui qui, de nos rois respectant la puissance,
En fidèle sujet parla de liberté:
Le ciel, lui décernant la sainte récompense,
A commencé trop tôt son immortalité!
Son bras libérateur dans la tombe est esclave;
Son front pur s'est glacé sous le laurier vainqueur,
Et le signe sacré, cette étoile du brave,
Ne sent plus palpiter son cœur.
Hier, quand de ses jours la source fut tarie,
La France, en le voyant sur sa couche étendu,
Implorait un accent de cette voix chérie ...
Hélas! au cri plaintif jeté par la patrie
C'est la première fois qu'il n'a pas répondu!"
"Cry, French people, cry! The homeland is in mourning;
Cry for the defender whom death has taken from you;
And you, noble warriors, by his silent coffin,
Compete for the honor to lay down his sword!
[Pg 89]
You will no longer hear him, the feared speaker
Whose insults never tarnished his eloquence;
He, who, respecting the power of our kings,
Spoke of freedom as a loyal subject:
Heaven, granting him the holy reward,
Has started his immortality too soon!
His liberating arm lies buried in the grave;
His pure brow has cooled under the victorious laurel,
And the sacred sign, that star of the brave,
No longer feels his heart beating.
Yesterday, when the source of his days ran dry,
France, seeing him lying on his bed,
Longed for a sound from that cherished voice ...
Alas! At the plaintive cry from the homeland,
It's the first time he didn't respond!"
General Foy's funeral took place on 30 November. The body was carried from his house to the church of Notre-Dame de Lorette; and thirty thousand persons followed it, in spite of a pouring rain which fell unceasingly from noon until four o'clock in the afternoon, and hundreds of thousands of spectators lined the roadway. The livery of the Duc d'Orléans could be distinguished among the mourning carriages which formed the procession. The day after the funeral the following song, directed against the prince who had just given a public expression of his appreciation of the talent and character of the noble general and illustrious patriot, could be heard in every street of Paris:—
General Foy's funeral happened on November 30. His body was transported from his home to the church of Notre-Dame de Lorette, and thirty thousand people followed it, despite a heavy rain that fell constantly from noon until four in the afternoon, with hundreds of thousands of spectators lining the roads. The livery of the Duc d'Orléans could be seen among the mourning carriages in the procession. The day after the funeral, the following song, aimed at the prince who had just publicly praised the talent and character of the noble general and distinguished patriot, echoed through the streets of Paris:—
AIR—Tous les bourgeois de Châtres
"Bon Dieu! quelle cohue!
Quel attroupement noir!
Il tient toute la rue
Aussi loin qu'on peut voir.
Est-ce pompe funèbre ou pompe triomphale?
Est-il mort quelque gros richard?
Car j'aperçois là-bas le char
D'une Altesse Royale.
[Pg 90]
Est-ce un songe civique?
Est-ce un de ses héros
Qu'ainsi la république
Mène au champ du repos?
Un déluge nouveau fond sur la capitale;
On ferait rentrer un canard!
Dehors pourquoi voit-on le char
D'une Altesse Royale?
Appuyé sur sa canne,
Un vieil et bon bourgeois
Me regarde, ricane,
Et me dit à mi-voix:
Un carbonaro mort cause tout ce scandale;
Tout frère a son billet de part;
C'est pourquoi nous voyons le char
D'une Altesse Royale.
'Le défunt qu'on révère,
C'est Foy l'homme de bien,
C'est Foy l'homme de guerre,
C'est Foy le citoyen.
Jamais à sa vertu, vertu ne fut égale!
Moi, je n'en crois rien pour ma part;
Mais, ici, j'aime à voir le char
D'une Altesse Royale.
'Ce Foy, d'après nature,
Ce député fameux,
Fut un soldat parjure,
Un Français factieux.
Aux vertus de Berton, la sienne fut égale;
Ce n'est pas l'effet du hasard,
Si nous voyons ici le char
D'une Altesse Royale.
'Sortis de leurs repaires,
Au tricolor signal,
Les amis et les frères
Suivent leur général.
De la France c'est là l'élite libérale;
Qu'ils sont bien près du corbillard!
Qu'ils sont bien tous autour du char
D'une Altesse Royale!
[Pg 91]
'Philippe de ton père
Ne te souvient-il pas?
Dans la même carrière
Tu marches sur ses pas.
Tu crois mener, tu suis la horde libérale;
Elle rit sous ce corbillard,
En voyant derrière son char
Ton Altesse Royale.'"
AIR—All the bourgeois of Châtres
"Wow! What a crowd!"
What a crowd!
It covers the entire street
As far as you can see.
Is it a funeral or a victory parade?
Did a rich guy die?
Because I see the carriage over there
Of a royal highness.
[Pg 90]
Is this a community dream?
Is it one of their heroes?
That the republic
Is this leading to the resting place?
A new flood is pouring over the capital;
You could fit a duck in here!
Why do we see the carriage?
Of a royal highness?
Using his cane,
A traditional and respectable middle class
Looks at me, smirks,
And whispers to me:
A dead carbonaro is causing all this scandal;
Every brother has his ticket to entry;
That’s why we see the carriage.
Of a royal highness.
'The deceased we're honoring,
Is Foy a good guy?
Is Foy the fighter,
Is Foy the citizen?
Never was there a virtue equal to his!
As for me, I don't believe any of it;
But here, I love seeing the carriage.
Of a royal highness.
'This Foy, by nature,'
This well-known deputy,
He was a treacherous soldier,
A divisive Frenchman.
Just as virtuous as Berton; it’s no accident,
That we see here the carriage
Of a Royal Highness.
'Emerging from their hideouts,
At the tricolor signal,
Friends and brothers
Follow their leader.
This is the elite of liberal France;
They’re so close to the hearse!
They’re all around the carriage
Of a Royal Highness!
[Pg 91]
'Philippe, doesn't your dad
Sound familiar?
On the same path
You’re following in his path.
You think you’re leading, but you’re following the liberal crowd;
They laugh beneath this hearse,
Seeing behind the car
Your Highness.
Although this petty insult was anonymous, the quarter whence it came was guessed, especially as a hundred thousand copies were printed and distributed gratis. Only Government-endowed poets could produce such doggerel; only works that cannot be sold are printed by the hundred thousand. Let us drop this wretched side of the affair. There was a great and noble and magnificent side to it when it was noised abroad that General Foy had died without being able to bequeath his wife anything save his renowned name: a subscription was started which, in three months' time, produced a million [francs].
Although this petty insult was anonymous, people guessed where it came from, especially since a hundred thousand copies were printed and distributed for free. Only government-funded poets could create such terrible verses; only works that can't be sold are printed in such large quantities. Let’s forget about this unpleasant side of things. There was a great, noble, and magnificent aspect to it when word got out that General Foy had died without being able to leave his wife anything but his famous name: a fundraiser was started that, within three months, raised a million francs.
In the course of one year a Government and a people had each shown that rare article, a fine sense of gratitude: the American Government had voted a million to la Fayette, and the French people had raised a million for the widow and children of General Foy.
In the span of one year, both a Government and its people demonstrated that rare quality, a genuine sense of gratitude: the American Government allocated a million for La Fayette, and the French people collected a million for the widow and children of General Foy.
Towards the beginning of the year, the death had taken place of a man who had contributed as much to the emancipation of France by his pen, as General Foy had by his speeches. About ten o'clock on the morning of 11 April, Paul-Louis Courier de Méré was found, assassinated within three-quarters of a league of his country residence, in the wood of Larçay. He had been killed by a gun or pistol shot, which had entered his right thigh low down; the weapon had been loaded with three small balls, one of which remained in the body, and the other two had gone through and out again. The wad was found by the side of the shot inside the body, showing that the victim had been killed at close quarters; his clothes, too, were singed round the wounded part. Three people were arrested, Symphorien and Pierre Dubois, carters, who both pleaded,[Pg 92] and proved, an alibi and were discharged; and Louis Frémont, whom the jury acquitted. So Paul-Louis Courier, the famous savant, the precursor of M. de Cormenin, a pre-eminently intellectual man, was murdered without his assassinator being found out. The Liberal party lost in Courier one of their hardiest champions; he did for the pamphlet what Béranger did for the chanson.
At the start of the year, a man who had played a significant role in the liberation of France through his writing passed away, just as General Foy had through his oratory. Around 10 a.m. on April 11, Paul-Louis Courier de Méré was discovered, murdered about three-quarters of a league from his country home, in the woods of Larçay. He had been shot with a gun or pistol, the bullet having entered low on his right thigh; the weapon had been loaded with three small bullets, one of which remained in his body while the other two exited. The wad was found alongside the bullet inside him, indicating that he had been shot at close range; his clothes were also burned around the wound. Three individuals were arrested: Symphorien and Pierre Dubois, carters, who both provided an alibi and were released, and Louis Frémont, who was acquitted by the jury. Thus, Paul-Louis Courier, the renowned scholar, the forerunner of M. de Cormenin, an exceptionally intellectual figure, was murdered with his killer never discovered. The Liberal party lost one of its most dedicated advocates in Courier, as he revolutionized pamphleteering in the same way Béranger transformed song.
But the death that produced the profoundest and most stirring sensation was that of the Emperor Alexander, which was to influence not only the affairs of France, but the fate of the whole world. When I was a little child, I narrowly escaped being run over at Villers-Cotterets by a small kibitz, driven by a coachman who was bending over the three horses he was urging forward at a great pace, by the use of a short whip. This coachman wore a leather cap and a green uniform, he had a budding beard, gold rings in his ears, and his face was spotted with freckles. He was driving two officers dressed almost alike, wearing a star, two or three crosses and two enormous epaulettes. One of these two officers was a species of Kalmouk, hideous in countenance, rough in manner, noisy of voice; he swore in French at the top of his voice, and seemed to be particularly well acquainted with our language, so far as its coarse slang expressions were concerned. The other was a handsome man of thirty-three or thirty-four, who looked as gentle and as polished, as his companion seemed vulgar and ill-bred. His hair was golden blond, and although he looked strong and healthy, a sad sweet smile played about his lips whenever he corrected his foul-mouthed companion.
But the death that made the biggest impact was that of Emperor Alexander, which affected not just France's affairs, but the destiny of the entire world. When I was a little kid, I almost got run over at Villers-Cotterets by a small kibitz, driven by a coachman who was leaning over the three horses he was pushing forward at a fast pace with a short whip. This coachman wore a leather cap and a green uniform, had a budding beard, gold rings in his ears, and his face was sprinkled with freckles. He was driving two officers who looked almost identical, wearing a star, two or three crosses, and two huge epaulettes. One of these officers was a sort of Kalmouk, unattractive in appearance, rough in demeanor, and loud in voice; he cursed in French at the top of his lungs and seemed particularly familiar with our language, especially its crude slang. The other was a handsome guy in his early thirties, who looked as gentle and refined as his companion appeared rude and unrefined. His hair was golden blonde, and although he looked strong and healthy, a sad, sweet smile would play around his lips whenever he corrected his foul-mouthed companion.
He was the Emperor Alexander: according to Napoleon, the most beautiful and the most treacherous of Greeks. His companion was the Grand-Duke Constantine, and their driver was the Grand-Duke Michel. A strange trio it was, an almost grotesque vision, that passed before my eyes and impressed itself so vividly on my memory that I can see it pass before me to-day, thirty-seven years after—the low carriage drawn by its three horses, the driver and his two companions. Well, the possessor of the gentle and melancholy face, who lived longest[Pg 93] in my memory of those three men, was the first to die. Napoleon had done his utmost at Erfürt to make not merely an ally of this man, but a brother. They had called each other Charlemagne and Constantine, and Napoleon had offered Alexander the Empire of the East on condition he would leave him in peaceful possession of the Empire of the West. For the emperor had been impressed with one dominant idea during his reign—he had comprehended that our natural ally against our natural enemy England, was Russia. And of a truth, I beg my readers to ponder the question well, instead of accepting hackneyed political traditions that have been handed on ready-made: alliances between nations become firm on account of difference of interests and not because of similarity of principles. Now, of what consequence was it that England proclaimed similar principles to those of France, if she had the same interests throughout the world? What matters it that Russia has different principles so long as her interests are different from ours? Look back over a century, and see how England has increased in power; and you will find that she has robbed us, her neighbouring country and ally, of all she could lay her hands on. Look back over a century of Russian growth and you will see that she has not touched anything belonging to us. Reckon up the colonies of the one and consider the limits of the other. England, who a century ago possessed only five factories in India—Bombay, Singapore, Madras, Calcutta and Chandernagor; who possessed only Newfoundland, in North America, and that strip of coast-line which extends like a fringe from Arcadia to Florida; who possessed only the Lucaya Isles among the Bahamas, the Barbadoes among the Lesser Antilles and Jamaica in the Gulf of Mexico; whose only station in the equinoctial portion of the Atlantic Ocean was St. Helena, of unhappy memory; to-day, like a gigantic sea-spider, has stretched out her web over the five parts of the globe. In Europe she possesses Ireland, Malta, Heligoland and Gibraltar;—in Asia, the town of Aden, which commands the Red Sea, as Gibraltar the Mediterranean; Ceylon, that[Pg 94] great peninsula of India, Nepal, Lahore, the Sind, Baluchistan and Kabul; the Singapore Isles, Poulo-Penang and Sumatra; that is to say, a total of 122,333 square leagues of territory, supporting 723,000,000 of men. Without counting, in Africa, Bathurst, the Isles of Léon, Sierra-Leone, a portion of the coast of Guinea, Fernando-Po, Ascension Isle, and St. Helena, which has already been mentioned; Cape Colony, Natal, Mauritius, Rodriguez, the Seychelles, Socotra; in America, Canada, the whole of the northern continent from the Bank of Newfoundland to the mouth of the Mackenzie River; nearly the whole of the Antilles; Trinidad, part of Guiana, Falkland Isles, Belize, Tuathan and the Bermudas; in the Pacific, half of Australia, Van-Diemen's Land, New Zealand, Norfolk Island, Hawaii, and the general protectorate of the Polynesian Isles. She foresaw everything and is ready for everything. Perhaps one day the isthmus of Panama will be cut through; if so, she has Belize ready on the spot. Perhaps the isthmus of Suez will also be opened up; if so, she has Aden as sentry on guard. The passage from the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean will belong to her, and the passage from the Gulf of Mexico to the immense Pacific Ocean. In her Admiralty safes she will hold the keys of India and of the Pacific, as she already does those of the Mediterranean. But this is not all. Through her title of protectress of the Ionian Isles, she holds the entrance to and exit from the Adriatic and the Ægean Seas; she has placed her foot on the territory of the ancient Epirotes and the modern Albanians. When Ireland refuses to lend her her peasantry and Scotland her Highlanders, when the slave-markets of men kept by German princes shall be closed to her, she will draw her recruits from warlike tribes, she will have her Arnautes, like the Viceroy of Egypt, or like the Pacha of Acre and of Tripoli. She will have a squadron at Corfu which will be able to reach the Dardanelles in a few days; she will have at Cephalonia an army which will be able to reach the summit of the Balkans in a week. Then, when she has destroyed our influence at Constantinople, she will do her utmost to[Pg 95] supersede Russian influence in Greece, and she will only need a few warships to destroy the whole of Austria's commercial seaboard. That is what England has been doing; and you can see with what powerful allies she has increased her strength—Canada, India, the Antilles and Mauritius;—you can see how she has complete control of the Mediterranean, which Napoleon called a French lake and which was to have no other masters than ourselves; you can see how England has snatched from us piecemeal our protectorate over the Holy Land, Egypt and Tunis, envying us our possession of Algiers, which we bought with blood and treasure and which she managed to cheat us of twenty years ago.
He was Emperor Alexander: according to Napoleon, the most beautiful and the most deceitful of the Greeks. His companion was Grand-Duke Constantine, and their driver was Grand-Duke Michel. It was a strange trio, almost a grotesque sight, that passed before me and left such a vivid impression on my memory that I can picture it even today, thirty-seven years later—the low carriage pulled by its three horses, the driver, and his two companions. Well, the one with the gentle and melancholy face, who remained longest in my memory of those three men, was the first to die. Napoleon had tried his best at Erfürt to make this man not just an ally but a brother. They called each other Charlemagne and Constantine, and Napoleon offered Alexander the Empire of the East on the condition that he would let him keep the Empire of the West peacefully. The emperor had been focused on one dominant idea throughout his reign—he realized that our natural ally against our natural enemy, England, was Russia. And truly, I ask my readers to think about this carefully, rather than accepting tired political traditions that have been handed down: alliances between nations are solidified due to differences in interests and not because of similarities in principles. Now, what does it matter that England proclaimed principles similar to those of France, if it had the same interests all over the world? What difference does it make that Russia has different principles as long as its interests are different from ours? Look back over the last century and see how England has grown in power; you’ll find that she has taken everything she could from us, her neighboring country and ally. Look back over a century of Russian growth, and you’ll see that she hasn’t taken anything from us. Count up the colonies of one and consider the limits of the other. England, which a century ago had only five trading posts in India—Bombay, Singapore, Madras, Calcutta, and Chandernagor; which had only Newfoundland in North America and that stretch of coastline from Arcadia to Florida; which owned only the Lucaya Islands among the Bahamas, Barbados in the Lesser Antilles, and Jamaica in the Gulf of Mexico; whose only station in the equatorial Atlantic Ocean was St. Helena, of unfortunate memory; today, like a gigantic sea spider, has stretched her web across the globe. In Europe, she possesses Ireland, Malta, Heligoland, and Gibraltar; in Asia, the town of Aden, which controls the Red Sea, just like Gibraltar controls the Mediterranean; Ceylon, that vast peninsula of India, Nepal, Lahore, Sind, Baluchistan, and Kabul; the Singapore Islands, Poulo-Penang, and Sumatra; in total, 122,333 square leagues of territory, supporting 723 million people. Not counting, in Africa, Bathurst, the Léon Islands, Sierra Leone, part of the coast of Guinea, Fernando Po, Ascension Island, and St. Helena, which has already been mentioned; Cape Colony, Natal, Mauritius, Rodriguez, the Seychelles, Socotra; in America, Canada, all of the northern continent from the Bank of Newfoundland to the mouth of the Mackenzie River; nearly the entire Caribbean; Trinidad, part of Guiana, the Falkland Islands, Belize, Tuathan, and the Bermudas; in the Pacific, half of Australia, Van Diemen’s Land, New Zealand, Norfolk Island, Hawaii, and the general protectorate of the Polynesian Islands. She anticipates everything and is prepared for everything. Perhaps one day the isthmus of Panama will be dug through; if so, she has Belize ready at hand. Perhaps the isthmus of Suez will also be opened; if so, she has Aden ready to keep watch. The passage from the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean will belong to her, as will the passage from the Gulf of Mexico to the vast Pacific Ocean. In her Admiralty safes, she will hold the keys to India and the Pacific, just as she already holds those of the Mediterranean. But that’s not the end of it. Through her title as protector of the Ionian Islands, she controls the entrance to and exit from the Adriatic and the Aegean Seas; she has stepped onto the lands of the ancient Epirotes and modern Albanians. When Ireland won’t provide her with peasants and Scotland won’t supply her Highlanders, when the human slave markets run by German princes are closed to her, she will recruit from warrior tribes; she will have her Arnautes, like the Viceroy of Egypt, or like the Pasha of Acre and Tripoli. She will have a squadron in Corfu that can reach the Dardanelles in just a few days; she will have an army in Cephalonia that can reach the peaks of the Balkans in a week. Then, when she has undermined our influence in Constantinople, she will do her utmost to overtake Russian influence in Greece, and she will only need a few warships to dismantle all of Austria's commercial coastline. That is what England has been doing; and you can see with what powerful allies she has grown her strength—Canada, India, the Caribbean, and Mauritius;—you can see how she has total control over the Mediterranean, which Napoleon called a “French lake,” meant to have no masters but us; you can see how England has gradually snatched away our protectorate over the Holy Land, Egypt, and Tunis, envying our possession of Algiers, which we purchased with blood and treasure, and which she managed to cheat us out of twenty years ago.
Now let us pass on to Russia, and see what a foreign country it is compared with our own. A hundred years ago, Russia extended from Kiev to the island of St. Lawrence, from the great Ural Mountains to the Gulf of Yenisei, and possibly those are in the right who think that it was with a view to setting a bound to her extension that Behring discovered the Straits which bear his name.
Now let's move on to Russia and see how different it is from our own country. A hundred years ago, Russia stretched from Kiev to St. Lawrence Island, from the vast Ural Mountains to the Yenisei Gulf. Some believe that Behring discovered the strait named after him to limit Russia's expansion.
Russia was not to be kept back and has not stopped there—she has broken her ancient limit of Kiev. The Scandinavian serpent which enfolded two-thirds of the globe has expanded: it has opened its jaws to devour Prussia;—in the West, its jaws touch the Vistula on the one side, and on the other the Gulf of Bothnia. In the East, in one of its worm-like expansions, it has leapt across the Behring Straits and has come to a full stop only upon meeting the domains of England. Divided from the other extremity of the world, at the foot of Mt. Saint-Elias and the Blackburn Mountains, as though a barrier mounted up behind it, it bears sway to-day over the whole of that indented coast-line which, by way of an ultimate limit to the surface of the globe, fringes the Arctic Ocean from the Piasina river to the Bear Isles; from Lake Piasina to Holy Cape. Thus, in a century, Russia has acquired Finland, Abo, Viborg, Esthonia, Livonia, Riga, Reval and a part of Lapland from Sweden;—Kurland and Samogitia from Germany;—Lithuania, Volhynia, a part of Galicia, Mohileff, Vitebsk, Polotsk,[Pg 96] Minsk, Bialystok, Kamenetz, Tarnopol, Vilna, Grodno, Warsaw, from Poland;—part of Little Tartary, the Crimea, Bessarabia, the coast of the Black Sea, the protectorate of Servia, of Moldavia and of Wallachia, from Turkey;—Georgia, Tiflis, Erivan and a part of Circassia from Persia;—the Aleutian Isles and the north-west part of the northern continent from the St. Lawrence archipelago, from America. From the other side of the Black Sea, she watches Turkey, whom she is ever ready to invade, as soon as France and England permit her. Then if, as seems probable, she some day annexes Sweden, she can close the Straits of Sund on the west and the Dardanelles on the east, and no one can then enter without her leave the Black Sea or the Baltic, those two great mirrors in which are reflected already the towers of Odessa and of St. Petersburg. Her greatest length extends 3800 leagues, and her greatest width is 1400 leagues. In all that extent of territory she has not one inch of land once ours. She has 70,000,000 inhabitants and not one single soul ever belonged to us.
Russia couldn't be held back and has gone further—she has crossed her old boundary of Kiev. The Scandinavian empire that wrapped around two-thirds of the globe has expanded: it has opened its jaws to consume Prussia;—in the West, its jaws reach the Vistula on one side, and on the other, the Gulf of Bothnia. In the East, in one of its snake-like extensions, it has jumped across the Bering Straits and only stopped when it encountered the territories of England. Separated from the far end of the world, at the base of Mt. Saint Elias and the Blackburn Mountains, as if a barrier had risen behind it, it now controls the entire jagged coastline that marks the ultimate edge of the globe, bordering the Arctic Ocean from the Piasina River to the Bear Isles; from Lake Piasina to Holy Cape. In just a century, Russia has taken Finland, Abo, Viborg, Estonia, Livonia, Riga, Reval, and part of Lapland from Sweden;—Kurland and Samogitia from Germany;—Lithuania, Volhynia, part of Galicia, Mohileff, Vitebsk, Polotsk,[Pg 96] Minsk, Bialystok, Kamenetz, Tarnopol, Vilna, Grodno, and Warsaw from Poland;—part of Little Tartary, the Crimea, Bessarabia, the Black Sea coastline, and the protectorates of Servia, Moldavia, and Wallachia from Turkey;—Georgia, Tiflis, Erivan, and part of Circassia from Persia;—the Aleutian Islands and the northwest part of the northern continent from the St. Lawrence archipelago, from America. From the other side of the Black Sea, she watches Turkey, always ready to invade as soon as France and England allow it. If, as seems likely, she annexes Sweden one day, she can close the Sund Straits to the west and the Dardanelles to the east, and then no one can enter the Black Sea or the Baltic without her permission, those two great mirrors that already reflect the towers of Odessa and St. Petersburg. Her greatest length is 3,800 leagues, and her greatest width is 1,400 leagues. Throughout all that territory, she has not a single inch of land that was ever ours. She has 70,000,000 inhabitants, and not one of them ever belonged to us.
On 24 June 1807, Lariboissière, general of artillery, had a raft constructed on the Niemen and placed a pavilion upon it. On the 25th, at one in the afternoon, the Emperor Napoleon, with the Grand-Duke de Berg, Murat, Marshals Berthier and Bessières, General Duroc, and Caulaincourt the grand equerry, crossed from the left bank of the river to visit this pavilion, prepared for him. The Emperor Alexander set out at the same time from the right bank, accompanied by the Grand-Duke Constantine, Benigsen, General-in-chief Prince Labanof, General Ouvarov and Count de Liéven, general aide-de-camp. The two boats both reached the raft at the same time, and thus two emperors stepped on the floating island, confronted one another, clasped hands with each other and embraced.
On June 24, 1807, Lariboissière, the general of artillery, had a raft built on the Niemen and set up a pavilion on it. On the 25th, at one in the afternoon, Emperor Napoleon, along with Grand-Duke de Berg, Murat, Marshals Berthier and Bessières, General Duroc, and Caulaincourt the grand equerry, crossed from the left bank of the river to visit the pavilion prepared for him. At the same time, Emperor Alexander set out from the right bank, accompanied by Grand-Duke Constantine, Benigsen, General-in-chief Prince Labanof, General Ouvarov, and Count de Liéven, the general aide-de-camp. Both boats reached the raft simultaneously, allowing the two emperors to step onto the floating island, face each other, shake hands, and embrace.
This meeting was the prelude to the peace of Tilsit: and the peace of Tilsit was meant to destroy England. First of all, by the Berlin decree concerning the Continental blockade, England had been placed in the dock before a European tribunal. In the North Seas, Russia, Denmark and Holland, and in the[Pg 97] Mediterranean, France and Spain, had closed their ports to her, and had solemnly engaged to hold no commerce with her.
This meeting was the lead-up to the peace of Tilsit, which was intended to undermine England. First off, the Berlin decree about the Continental blockade had put England on trial in front of a European court. In the North Sea, Russia, Denmark, and Holland, and in the[Pg 97] Mediterranean, France and Spain had shut their ports to her and had officially committed to not trading with her.
There were therefore only Portugal on the Atlantic Ocean and Sweden on the Baltic open to her.
There were only Portugal on the Atlantic Ocean and Sweden on the Baltic available to her.
By a treaty dated 27 October 1807, Napoleon decided that the House of Braganza had ceased to reign, and on 27 September 1808, Alexander determined to go to war against Gustavus IV. But this was not all. Upon that raft, and in that pavilion, on the Niemen, a much more terrible scheme was arranged.
By a treaty dated October 27, 1807, Napoleon declared that the House of Braganza was no longer in power, and on September 27, 1808, Alexander resolved to go to war against Gustavus IV. But that wasn’t everything. On that raft, and in that pavilion on the Niemen, a far more dreadful plan was put together.
"It is through India that England must be struck down," Bonaparte had said when he was inducing the Directory to begin the Egyptian campaign. And, from Alexandria, he had despatched a messenger to Tippoo-Sahib, to encourage him to take up arms. But the messenger did not get beyond Aden: the throne of Mysore had fallen and Tippoo-Sahib was dead. From that moment, the conquest of India, which had been one of Bonaparte's dreams, became the rooted purpose of Napoleon.
"It is through India that England must be defeated," Bonaparte had said when he was urging the Directory to start the Egyptian campaign. And from Alexandria, he sent a messenger to Tippoo-Sahib to motivate him to rise up. But the messenger didn’t make it past Aden: the throne of Mysore had fallen and Tippoo-Sahib was dead. From that point on, the conquest of India, which had been one of Bonaparte's dreams, became a core goal for Napoleon.
Why had he made his peace with Alexander? Why had he embraced him on the Niemen? Why had he addressed him as Constantine? Why had he offered him the Empire of the East? In order to gain him as a sure ally, so that, supported on the alliance, he could conquer India. What was to hinder Napoleon from doing what Alexander had done, two thousand two hundred years before his time? It would be ridiculously easy, as you will perceive! Thirty-five thousand Russians could embark on the Volga, descend the river as far as Astrakan, sail down the Caspian Sea and land at Astrabad. Thirty-five thousand French could descend the Danube to the Black Sea; there, they could embark, and at the extreme end of the Sea of Azov land on the banks of the Don; they could ascend the river for nearly a hundred leagues, cross the twelve or fourteen leagues that separated the two rivers, the Don and the Volga, at the point of their nearest approach, then sail down the latter river as far as Astrakan, and at Astrakan embark to join the Russians at Astrabad. Seventy thousand men would meet in the heart of Persia before England was aware of their[Pg 98] movements. At Astrabad, they would be exactly a hundred and fifty leagues off the kingdom of Kabul, and it would only take them twelve days to reach India; a dozen days would be sufficient to reach Herat from Astrabad by way of the fertile valley of Herio Rud.
Why did he make peace with Alexander? Why did he embrace him on the Niemen? Why did he call him Constantine? Why did he offer him the Empire of the East? To secure him as a reliable ally, so that, with this alliance, he could conquer India. What would stop Napoleon from doing what Alexander did two thousand two hundred years earlier? It would be ridiculously easy, as you’ll see! Thirty-five thousand Russians could get on boats on the Volga, travel down the river to Astrakan, sail across the Caspian Sea, and land at Astrabad. Thirty-five thousand French could travel down the Danube to the Black Sea; there, they could board ships and at the far end of the Sea of Azov land on the banks of the Don; they could move up the river for nearly a hundred leagues, cross the twelve or fourteen leagues separating the Don and the Volga at their closest point, then sail down the Volga to Astrakan, and from Astrakan launch to join the Russians at Astrabad. Seventy thousand men would come together in the heart of Persia before England even knew about their[Pg 98] movements. At Astrabad, they would be exactly a hundred and fifty leagues from the kingdom of Kabul, and it would only take them twelve days to reach India; just twelve days would be enough to get to Herat from Astrabad via the fertile valley of Herio Rud.
From Herat to Kandahar there were a hundred leagues of splendid road; from Kandahar to Ghizni fifty leagues; from Ghizni to Attock, sixty; and the two armies would be on the Indus, a river with a flow of about a league an hour, with any number of fords, never more than ten to fifteen feet deep, between Attock and Dera-Ismail-Khan. Moreover, it was the route followed by all previous Indian invaders, from the year 1000 to 1729—from Mahmoud de Ghizni to Nadir-Shah. Mahmoud de Ghizni alone had invaded India seven times between the years 1000 and 1021. In his sixth expedition, in three months he had penetrated from his capital at Ghizni, to Chanaud, a town situated a hundred miles south-west of Delhi; in the seventh, he penetrated as far as the centre of Gujarat and razed the temple of Somnath. Then, in 1184, came Mahomet Gouri, who marched upon Delhi by the same route, viâ Attock and Lahore, seized the town and substituted his dynasty for that of Mahmoud de Ghizni. Then, in 1396, came Timur the lame, known commonly as Tamerlane. He set forth from Samarcand, crossed the river Amou, leaving Balkh on his right, descended Kabul by the defile of Andesab, followed the river banks until he reached Attock, where he crossed it and invaded the Punjaub, seizing Delhi, which he put to fire and sword, and, the next year, after fourteen months' campaign, returned to Tartary. Then came Baber in 1505, who again crossed the Indus, established himself at Lahore, and from Lahore attacked Delhi, which he took, founding the Mongolian dynasty there. Finally, in 1739, Nadir-Shah descended from Persia upon Kabul, and, following the same route to Lahore, took possession of Delhi, which he pillaged for three days. It would probably be at Delhi that the two combined armies of Russia and France would meet the Anglo-Indian forces. When Napoleon and Alexander[Pg 99] had demolished that army, they would march next upon Bombay, rather than on Calcutta, which is only a commercial centre; the destruction of Bombay would be far more damaging to England than that of Calcutta, since it is through Bombay that England communicates with the Red Sea and Europe. If Bombay were taken, the head of the serpent would be crushed; there would only be Madras left, with its poor fortification, and Calcutta with its fortress, which, without being able to support them, would need fifteen thousand men to defend it.
From Herat to Kandahar, there were a hundred leagues of great road; from Kandahar to Ghizni, fifty leagues; from Ghizni to Attock, sixty; and the two armies would reach the Indus, a river flowing at about a league an hour, with plenty of fords, never more than ten to fifteen feet deep, between Attock and Dera-Ismail-Khan. Additionally, this was the path taken by all previous Indian invaders from the year 1000 to 1729—from Mahmoud de Ghizni to Nadir-Shah. Mahmoud de Ghizni himself invaded India seven times between 1000 and 1021. In his sixth expedition, he advanced from his capital at Ghizni to Chanaud, a town located a hundred miles southwest of Delhi in just three months; in the seventh, he reached the center of Gujarat and destroyed the temple of Somnath. Then, in 1184, Mahomet Gouri entered Delhi via the same route, through Attock and Lahore, took the city, and replaced Mahmoud de Ghizni's dynasty with his own. After that, in 1396, came Timur the lame, commonly known as Tamerlane. He started from Samarcand, crossed the Amou River, left Balkh behind, descended into Kabul through the Andesab pass, followed the riverbanks until he reached Attock, where he crossed and invaded the Punjab, capturing Delhi, which he ravaged. The following year, after a fourteen-month campaign, he returned to Tartary. In 1505, Baber crossed the Indus once more, established himself in Lahore, and from there attacked Delhi, which he captured, founding the Mongolian dynasty. Finally, in 1739, Nadir-Shah came down from Persia to Kabul and, following the same route to Lahore, took control of Delhi, pillaging it for three days. It was likely in Delhi that the combined armies of Russia and France would confront the Anglo-Indian forces. After Napoleon and Alexander[Pg 99] defeated that army, they would march towards Bombay instead of Calcutta, which is just a commercial hub; taking Bombay would cause much more harm to England than taking Calcutta, since it is through Bombay that England connects with the Red Sea and Europe. If Bombay fell, the head of the serpent would be crushed; only Madras with its weak fortifications and Calcutta with its fortress would remain, which would require fifteen thousand men to defend, but could not support them.
England's power in India would be annihilated, and Russia would succeed her: Alexander would take as his share, Turkey in Europe, Turkey in Asia, Persia and India; while we should take Holland, Italy, Spain, Portugal, the whole of the African seaboard from Tunis to Cairo, the Red Sea with its Christian colonies and Syria as far as the Persian Gulf.
England's influence in India would be wiped out, and Russia would take over: Alexander would claim Turkey in Europe, Turkey in Asia, Persia, and India for himself; while we would take Holland, Italy, Spain, Portugal, the entire African coastline from Tunis to Cairo, the Red Sea with its Christian territories, and Syria up to the Persian Gulf.
I need hardly add that Malta, the Ionian Isles and Greece, to the Dardanelles, would also be yielded up to us. And then the Mediterranean would be truly a French lake, by means of which we should share the commerce of India with our sister Russia.
I hardly need to say that Malta, the Ionian Islands, and Greece, up to the Dardanelles, would also be handed over to us. And then the Mediterranean would truly be a French lake, through which we would share the trade of India with our ally Russia.
Had Alexander but kept his promise, instead of betraying his ally, this dream would have become a reality.
If Alexander had just kept his promise instead of betraying his ally, this dream would have come true.
So it will be seen that there was another reason for the war with Russia, besides the refusal of the hand of Princess Olga, which everyone persists in thinking the sole cause. Alexander conquered, he would be compelled by force to do what he had refused to do out of goodwill. But God saw otherwise.
So it will be clear that there was another reason for the war with Russia, besides the rejection of Princess Olga’s hand, which everyone insists is the only cause. If Alexander conquered, he would be forced to do what he had refused to do out of goodwill. But God had other plans.
CHAPTER IX
The Emperor Alexander—Letter from Czar Nicolas to Karamsine—History after the style of Suetonius and Saint-Simon—Catherine and Potemkin—Madame Braniska—The cost of the imperial cab-drive—A ball at M. de Caulaincourt's—The man with the pipe—The emperor's boatman and coachman
Emperor Alexander—Letter from Czar Nicolas to Karamsine—History written like Suetonius and Saint-Simon—Catherine and Potemkin—Madame Braniska—The price of the imperial cab ride—A ball at M. de Caulaincourt's—The guy with the pipe—The emperor's boatman and coachman
We will now devote a few words to the emperor who had failed Napoleon in his lofty mission of sharing the world, and to the Grand-Duke Constantine, whom the whole of Europe, in ignorance of the family secret we are about to relate, looked upon as his successor.
We will now spend a moment discussing the emperor who succeeded Napoleon in his grand mission of dividing the world, and the Grand Duke Constantine, whom all of Europe, unaware of the family secret we are about to reveal, saw as his heir.
Russian history is less known than that of other countries, not because it is not worth being known, but because no one dare write it. One man only, Karamsine, received that mission, but he died before he had accomplished his task, on 3 June 1826, in the palace of the Taurida, where the emperor had lodged him.
Russian history is less known than that of other countries, not because it isn't worth knowing, but because no one dares to write it. Only one person, Karamsine, took on that mission, but he died before completing his task, on June 3, 1826, in the Taurida Palace, where the emperor had put him up.
Three weeks before his death, the Emperor Nicolas, who had been six months on the throne, wrote him the following letter, which might very well serve as an example to certain heads of Governments, who flatter themselves that their ideas are more liberal than, say they, are those of the Czar of All the Russias:—
Three weeks before he died, Emperor Nicolas, who had been on the throne for six months, wrote him the following letter, which could serve as a great example to some government leaders who believe their ideas are more progressive than, as they say, those of the Czar of All the Russias:—
CZARKOSJELO, 25 May 1826
CZARKOSJELO, 25 May 1826
"NICOLAI-MIKAÏLOVITCH,—As your failing health makes it necessary for you to leave your native country for a time to seek a warmer climate, it gives me much pleasure to express to you, on this occasion, the earnest hope that you will soon return among us with renewed strength, still to serve the interests and the honour of your country as you have hitherto[Pg 101] done. I have much pleasure in bearing witness, on behalf of the late Emperor, who was aware of your noble and disinterested devotion to his person, on my own behalf and in the name of all Russia, to our grateful recognition of your services both as citizen and author. The Emperor Alexander said to you, 'The Russian people deserves to know its history'; and the history you have written is worthy of the Russian people.
"NICOLAI-MIKAÏLOVITCH,—Since your declining health requires you to temporarily leave your homeland for a warmer climate, I’m glad to take this chance to sincerely express my hope that you will return to us soon, rejuvenated and ready to continue serving your country's interests and honor as you always have[Pg 101]. I’m pleased to affirm, on behalf of the late Emperor, who appreciated your noble and selfless dedication to him, as well as my own behalf and on behalf of all of Russia, our heartfelt gratitude for your contributions as both a citizen and a writer. Emperor Alexander once told you, 'The Russian people deserve to know its history'; and the history you’ve written is indeed worthy of the Russian people."
"I now fulfil the intention which my brother had not time to carry out. The accompanying paper will assure you of my goodwill; it is but an act of justice, so far as I am concerned, but I also regard it in the light of a sacred legacy deputed me by the Emperor Alexander.
"I am now fulfilling the task that my brother didn’t have time to complete. The attached document will confirm my goodwill; this is simply a matter of fairness on my part, but I also see it as a sacred duty given to me by Emperor Alexander."
"I trust your travels will be beneficial to you, and give you ample strength to finish the principal work of your life."
"I hope your travels will be fulfilling and provide you with the energy needed to finish the most important work of your life."
This letter might have been signed by François I., Louis XIV. or Napoleon, but it was simply signed "Nicolas." With it was a ukase, informing the Minister of Finance that His Imperial Majesty had granted a pension of five thousand roubles to M. de Karamsine, to be continued to his wife and to his children; the sons were to enjoy the pension until they were old enough to enter the army, the daughters till they married.
This letter could have been signed by François I, Louis XIV, or Napoleon, but it was just signed "Nicolas." Along with it was a decree informing the Minister of Finance that His Imperial Majesty had approved a pension of five thousand roubles for M. de Karamsine, which would continue to his wife and children; the sons would receive the pension until they were old enough to join the army, and the daughters until they got married.
Karamsine died before he could finish his history; but, had it been finished, it would only have informed us of the general facts and great events connected with the Russian Empire, and it would not have given us any details of the kind we are about to relate.
Karamsine died before he could finish his history; however, if it had been completed, it would have only shared the main facts and significant events related to the Russian Empire, and it wouldn’t have provided the kind of details we are about to describe.
There are two ways of writing history: one, after the fashion of Tacitus, the other after that of Suetonius; one like Voltaire, the other like Saint-Simon. Tacitus is magnificent, but we find Suetonius more amusing. Voltaire is limpidly clear, but Saint-Simon is a far more picturesque writer.
There are two ways to write history: one like Tacitus, and the other like Suetonius; one like Voltaire, and the other like Saint-Simon. Tacitus is impressive, but we find Suetonius more entertaining. Voltaire is perfectly clear, but Saint-Simon is a much more colorful writer.
We will now write a few pages of Russian history as Suetonius wrote Roman history and as Saint-Simon wrote French history. The reader, of course, knows Catherine II. by name?—she whom Voltaire called the Semiramis of the North; who gave pensions to our literary men when Louis XV. proscribed them or left them to die of hunger even when he had not proscribed them.
We will now write a few pages of Russian history like Suetonius wrote Roman history and Saint-Simon wrote French history. The reader, of course, knows Catherine II. by name, right? She was the one Voltaire called the Semiramis of the North; she provided pensions to our writers when Louis XV. either banned them or left them to starve, even when he hadn’t banned them.
Catherine II. was thirty-three years of age; she was beautiful, benevolent and pious; up to that age she had been considered faithful to her husband, Peter III., when, all at once, she learnt that the emperor intended to repudiate her, in order to marry Countess Vorontsov, and as an excuse for this repudiation he proposed to declare that the birth of Paul-Petrovitch had been illegitimate. She quickly perceived that it was a matter of life and death for her, and of the throne for her son; there was a game to be played, and he who was first in the field would win. The tidings were announced to her at ten one night. By eleven, she had left the castle of Peterhof, where she lived, and, as she did not wish her departure to be known by ordering her carriage to be made ready, she stopped a peasant's cart and mounted beside him, the carter imagining he was merely taking up a country woman. She reached St. Petersburg just as day was beginning to dawn. Directly she arrived, she ordered out the regiments in the garrison there without revealing for what object, got together the few friends upon whom she believed she could rely, and went on parade with them before the assembled soldiers. She rode on horseback up and down the lines, addressed the officers, invoking their chivalry as men of honour and appealing to their loyalty as soldiers; then she seized hold of a sword, drew it from its scabbard, flung the scabbard far from her, and, fearing lest the sword might drop out of her unaccustomed hands, asked for a sword-knot to tie it to her wrist. A young officer of twenty-eight heard his sovereign's request through the din of the shouts of enthusiasm raised by the regiments, broke through the ranks, ran up to her side offering her his sword-knot; then, when Catherine had accepted his offer with the gracious smile of a woman bent on reigning as empress, a queen in quest of a throne, the young officer turned aside to fall back in his place; but his horse, which was one day to share in his master's good fortune, refused to turn aside; it reared and danced about, and, being used to cavalry manœuvres, persisted in ranging itself by the side of the empress's horse. Catherine, who was as superstitious as all are who stake their[Pg 103] fortunes upon the cast of a die, fancied she augured from the horse's persistency that its rider would become one of her most powerful defenders; and she promoted him. A week later, after Peter III., who had been made prisoner by the very person whom he thought to make captive, had resigned into Catherine's hands the crown which he had intended to snatch from her, the empress sent for the young officer from the place du Sénat, made him one of her suite and appointed him groom of the chamber in her palace. This young man's name was Potemkin. From that day, without hindering in the least the reign of the twelve Cæsars, as the new régime was dubbed, Potemkin became the favourite of the empress, and her partiality for him continued to increase.
Catherine II was thirty-three years old; she was beautiful, kind, and religious. Until that age, she had been seen as loyal to her husband, Peter III, until she suddenly found out that the emperor planned to divorce her to marry Countess Vorontsov, claiming that the birth of Paul-Petrovitch was illegitimate as an excuse for his decision. She quickly realized that this was a matter of life and death for her and her son’s claim to the throne; it was a competition where the first to act would win. She received the news at ten one night. By eleven, she had left Peterhof castle, where she lived, and didn’t want anyone to notice her departure by calling for her carriage, so she stopped a peasant’s cart and got in, the carter thinking he was just giving a ride to a local woman. She arrived in St. Petersburg just as dawn was breaking. As soon as she got there, she called out the regiments in the garrison without explaining why, gathered the few loyal friends she could rely on, and went on parade with them in front of the gathered soldiers. She rode along the lines, spoke to the officers, appealing to their honor as men and their loyalty as soldiers; then she grabbed a sword, pulled it from its scabbard, threw the scabbard away, and because she feared the sword might slip from her hands, asked for a sword-knot to tie it to her wrist. A young officer, twenty-eight, heard her request amid the cheering of the regiments, broke through the ranks, rushed to her side, and offered her his sword-knot. When Catherine graciously accepted, eager to claim her throne, the young officer returned to his place; but his horse, destined to share in its rider's fortune, refused to move aside, rearing and prancing around, and, having been trained for cavalry maneuvers, positioned itself next to the empress's horse. Catherine, as superstitious as anyone who bets their future on a chance, believed that the horse's insistence meant its rider would become one of her strongest supporters; so she promoted him. A week later, after Peter III, who had been captured by the very person he thought he would capture, surrendered the crown he intended to take from her, the empress summoned the young officer from the place du Sénat, made him part of her inner circle, and appointed him groom of the chamber in her palace. This young man was named Potemkin. From that day on, without disrupting the reign of the twelve Cæsars, as the new regime was called, Potemkin became the empress's favorite, and her affection for him kept growing.
Many, hoping to replace him, sought to undermine his position and ruined themselves. A young Servian, called Lovitz, himself a protégé of Potemkin, imagined he had succeeded. He had been placed near the empress by his patron, and resolved to take advantage of his protector's absence to ruin him. How did he bring it about? That must remain one of the secrets of the closet which the walls of the palace of the Hermitage has not revealed to us. It is only known that Potemkin was sent for to the palace; that, upon entering his apartments, he was told he was utterly disgraced, that he was exiled, and he was threatened with death if he did not obey. He went at once, travel-stained as he was after his journey, to the empress's rooms. A young orderly officer tried to bar his entrance, but Potemkin took him round the hips, lifted him up, flung him across the chamber, entered the empress's room and, in ten minutes' time, came out with a paper in his hand.
Many people, eager to take his place, tried to undermine him and ended up ruining themselves. A young Serbian named Lovitz, who was a protégé of Potemkin, thought he had succeeded. His patron had set him up close to the empress, and he decided to seize the opportunity of his protector's absence to sabotage him. How he managed to pull it off? That's one of the secrets of the palace that the walls of the Hermitage won’t reveal. What is known is that Potemkin was summoned to the palace; upon entering his quarters, he was informed that he was completely disgraced, exiled, and threatened with death if he didn't comply. Despite being travel-worn from his journey, he immediately went to the empress's chambers. A young orderly officer tried to block his way, but Potemkin grabbed him around the waist, lifted him up, tossed him across the room, entered the empress's room, and ten minutes later, came out with a paper in his hand.
"Here, monsieur," he said to the young officer, who was still considerably knocked about by the treatment he had just received, "this is the brevet of a captaincy that Her Majesty has been graciously pleased to sign for you."
"Here you go, sir," he said to the young officer, who was still quite shaken up from the treatment he had just endured, "this is the captaincy certificate that Her Majesty has kindly signed for you."
That same day, Lovitz was exiled to the town of Schaklov, which was made into a principality for him.
That same day, Lovitz was sent into exile in the town of Schaklov, which was turned into a principality for him.
From time to time Potemkin dreamt of the duchy of[Pg 104] Courland and the throne of Poland; but, upon further reflection, he saw that he did not want either, for whether the crown were ducal or regal, he knew he could not be more powerful nor more fortunate than he was in his present position. Did not there pass through his hands every hour, to play with as a cowboy plays with pebbles, more diamonds, rubies and emeralds than any one crown could contain? Had he not couriers at his beck and call to fetch him sturgeon from the Volga, water melons from Astrakan, grapes from the Crimea, and most beautiful flowers from whatever quarter they could be found? Did he not give his sovereign every New Year's Day a plate of cherries that cost him ten thousand roubles?
From time to time, Potemkin fantasized about the duchy of[Pg 104] Courland and the throne of Poland; but after thinking it over, he realized that he didn’t really want either. Whether the crown was ducal or royal, he knew he couldn't be more powerful or luckier than he was in his current position. Didn’t he have more diamonds, rubies, and emeralds at his disposal every hour, to toy with like a cowboy plays with pebbles, than any single crown could hold? Didn’t he have couriers at his command to bring him sturgeon from the Volga, watermelons from Astrakan, grapes from the Crimea, and the most beautiful flowers from wherever they could find them? Didn’t he give his sovereign a plate of cherries every New Year’s Day that cost him ten thousand roubles?
The Prince de Ligne (grandfather of the prince of that name, with whom we are acquainted), author of the charming memoirs which bear his name, and of the most intellectually refined letters that have probably ever been penned, knew Potemkin, and said of him—
The Prince de Ligne (the grandfather of the prince we know), who wrote the delightful memoirs that carry his name and some of the most intellectually sophisticated letters ever written, was acquainted with Potemkin and remarked about him—
"That man was a compound of colossal, romantic and barbaric ideas."
"That man was a mix of huge, romantic, and wild ideas."
The Prince de Ligne was right. For thirty years, not a single action, good or bad, was done in Russia save through his instrumentality: angel or demon, he created or destroyed as the caprice took him; he set everything at sixes and sevens, but he inspired life into everything; nothing went on without him; when he reappeared everything else disappeared and, before his presence, vanished into Limbo.
The Prince de Ligne was right. For thirty years, not a single action, good or bad, happened in Russia without his involvement: whether he was an angel or a demon, he created or destroyed on a whim; he threw everything into chaos, but he also brought life to everything; nothing happened without him; when he showed up, everything else faded away and, in his presence, disappeared into nothingness.
One day he conceived the notion of building a palace for Catherine; she had just conquered Taurida, and this palace was to be a monument in memory of that conquest. In three months' time, the palace was raised in Catherine's capital, without Catherine knowing anything about it; then, one evening, Potemkin invited the empress to a night-fête which he desired to give in her honour, he said, in the palace that extended along the left bank of the Neva; and there, amidst fine trees, brilliantly lighted up, and shining with marble, she found the fairy palace that seemed to have sprung up at one wave of a wand, filled with statues,[Pg 105] magnificently furnished, its lakes abounding in gold and silver and azure fishes.
One day, he came up with the idea of building a palace for Catherine; she had just taken Taurida, and this palace was meant to be a tribute to that victory. In just three months, the palace was constructed in Catherine's capital, all without her knowledge; then, one evening, Potemkin invited the empress to a night celebration he wanted to host in her honor, in the palace that stretched along the left bank of the Neva. There, among beautiful trees, brilliantly lit and sparkling with marble, she discovered the enchanting palace that seemed to have appeared with a wave of a wand, filled with statues,[Pg 105] lavishly furnished, its lakes teeming with gold and silver and blue fish.
Everything connected with this man was mysterious, his death as well as his life, his unexpected end just as his undreamt of beginning. He had passed a year in St. Petersburg in fêtes and orgies of all kinds, had succeeded in advancing Russia's boundaries as far as the Caucasus, and was thinking that, this new frontier line now made, he had done enough for his and Catherine's glory. Suddenly, he learnt that old Repnin had taken advantage of his absence to defeat the Turks, and, forcing them to demand peace, had accomplished more in two months than he had in three years. So there was then no more rest for the favourite, but more glory ahead for the general. He was ill, but that did not matter! He would wrestle with his disease and slay it. He set out, crossed Jassy and reached Otchakoff, where he halted for a night's rest; next day, at dawn, he resumed his journey; but, after traversing several versts, the atmosphere inside his carriage stifled him, and he had it stopped: his cloak was spread on the bank of a ditch, and he lay down on it, panting for breath; he died in his niece's arms before a quarter of an hour had elapsed! I knew his niece; I have heard her relate the details of her uncle's death as though it had only just happened. She was seventy when I knew her. Her name was Madame Braniska, and she lived at Odessa. She was very wealthy, being worth between sixty and a hundred millions, possibly. She possessed some of the finest sapphires, pearls, rubies and diamonds in the world. How had she begun such a collection of precious gems? She would relate—for she dearly loved talking about anything that concerned her uncle—that Potemkin, as we have said, liked nothing better than playing with precious stones which he poured in cascades from hand to hand; those which, escaping from the main stream of the cataract, dropped to the ground, fell to the spoilt child, who made a collection of them. Often, when he composed himself to rest, on an ottoman, a divan or a couch, Potemkin would push his arms[Pg 106] under the cushion, and then, when he fell asleep, his hands would relax and a handful of pearls dropped out, which he would forget to pick up when he awoke. His niece knew this, and, either during his sleep or after he awoke, she used to raise the cushion and carry off the treasures. What did it matter to Potemkin? His pockets were full of other precious stones! And, when his pockets were empty, had he not casks full, like the sovereigns of Samarcand, Bagdad and of Bassora, mentioned in the Thousand and One Nights?
Everything about this man was shrouded in mystery—his life and death, his unexpected end just as much as his unimagined beginning. He spent a year in St. Petersburg indulging in parties and wild festivities, managed to expand Russia's borders to the Caucasus, and thought that, with this new frontier established, he had done enough for his own glory and Catherine's. Suddenly, he found out that old Repnin had used his absence to outmaneuver the Turks, forcing them to seek peace, achieving more in two months than he had in three years. So there was no rest for the favorite, but more glory ahead for the general. He was ill, but that didn’t matter! He would fight his illness and conquer it. He set out, crossed Jassy, and reached Otchakoff, where he took a night’s rest; the next day, at dawn, he continued his journey; however, after traveling several verste, the air in his carriage suffocated him, so he had it stopped: his cloak was spread on the bank of a ditch, and he lay down on it, gasping for breath; he died in his niece's arms within a quarter of an hour. I knew his niece; I heard her recount the details of her uncle's death as if it had just happened. She was seventy when I met her. Her name was Madame Braniska, and she lived in Odessa. She was very wealthy, worth between sixty and a hundred million, perhaps. She owned some of the most exquisite sapphires, pearls, rubies, and diamonds in the world. How did she start such a collection of precious gems? She would share—she loved to talk about anything related to her uncle—that Potemkin, as we’ve mentioned, enjoyed nothing more than playing with precious stones, pouring them from hand to hand like a cascading waterfall; the ones that slipped from the main stream fell to the spoiled child, who began her collection. Often, when he settled down to rest on an ottoman, divan, or couch, Potemkin would shove his arms under the cushion, and then, as he drifted off to sleep, his hands would loosen, and a handful of pearls would spill out, which he would forget to pick up upon waking. His niece was aware of this, and either during his slumber or after he woke up, she would lift the cushion and take the treasures. What did it matter to Potemkin? His pockets were full of other precious stones! And when his pockets were empty, didn’t he have barrels full, like the kings of Samarcand, Bagdad, and Bassora described in the Thousand and One Nights?
This Madame Braniska was a singular character, with her sixty to a hundred millions. She often had fits of avarice, interspersed with bursts of generosity—very unusual traits to find combined in one person. For instance, she would send her son, who lived either at Moscow or St. Petersburg, 500,000 francs for a New Year's gift, and add a postscript to the letter in closing it, saying—
This Madame Braniska was a unique character, with her sixty to a hundred million. She often experienced fits of greed, mixed with moments of generosity—very unusual traits to find in one person. For example, she would send her son, who lived either in Moscow or St. Petersburg, 500,000 francs as a New Year's gift, and add a postscript to the letter when closing it, saying—
"I have a dreadful cold; send me some jujubes, but wait till you see a convenient opportunity; the carriage from Moscow and Odessa is ruinous!"
"I have a terrible cold; send me some jujubes, but wait until you find a good opportunity; the carriage from Moscow and Odessa is a disaster!"
Catherine nearly died when she heard of Potemkin's death; those two great hearts and lives seemed to beat in perfect unison. She fainted away three times on receipt of the fatal news, mourned him for long and ever regretted him.
Catherine was nearly devastated when she heard about Potemkin's death; their two strong hearts and lives seemed to beat together in perfect harmony. She fainted three times upon receiving the tragic news, mourned him for a long time, and always regretted his loss.
Paul-Petrovitch, for whom she had saved the crown when she took it away from Peter III., became the father of that rich posterity of which I had seen a specimen in the kibitz driven by the Grand Duke Michael, besides the emperor reigning to-day.
Paul-Petrovitch, for whom she had saved the crown when she took it from Peter III, became the father of that wealthy lineage of which I had seen an example in the kibitz driven by Grand Duke Michael, along with the current reigning emperor.
At that period no one for a moment thought he would ever reign. Ranging over her fine and numerous company of descendants, the eyes of Catherine were most constantly fixed on the two eldest, and by their very names—one was called Alexander and the other Constantine—she seemed to have divided the world in advance between them. This idea had, indeed, been so firmly rooted in her mind, that she had them painted, while they were both infants, one cutting the Gordian knot, the other carrying the Roman standard. She carried the idea even farther, and had them educated in conformity with the[Pg 107] same two great ideas. Constantine, whom she destined for the Empire of the East, had only Greek nurses and tutors, whilst Alexander, destined to rule the Western Empire, was surrounded by English, Germans and French. Nothing could have been more diametrically different than the methods employed in the education of the august pupils. Whilst Alexander, aged twelve, said to Graft, his professor in experimental physics, who was telling him that light was a continual emanation from the sun, "That cannot be true, or the sun would grow smaller every day," Constantine said to his special tutor, Saken, who was endeavouring to get him to learn to read, "No, I do not want to learn to read; you are everlastingly reading, and it only makes you more and more stupid."
At that time, no one believed for a second that he would ever be king. Looking over her large and impressive group of descendants, Catherine focused mainly on the two oldest, named Alexander and Constantine, suggesting she had already divided the world between them. This idea was so deeply ingrained in her mind that she had them painted as infants, with one cutting the Gordian knot and the other holding the Roman standard. She took it even further by educating them according to these two grand ideas. Constantine, whom she intended for the Eastern Empire, had only Greek nurses and tutors, while Alexander, who was meant to rule the Western Empire, was surrounded by English, Germans, and French. The methods used to educate these royal students could not have been more contrasting. When Alexander, at twelve, told Graft, his professor of experimental physics, that "That can't be true, or the sun would get smaller every day," Constantine responded to his tutor Saken, who was trying to teach him to read, by saying, "No, I don't want to learn to read; you keep reading endlessly, and it just makes you more and more stupid."
We shall see later how mistaken the empress's forecasts were with regard to Constantine; but first we will devote a little attention to the Emperor Alexander.
We will see later how wrong the empress's predictions were about Constantine; but first, let's focus a bit on Emperor Alexander.
He was much beloved both by the people and the nobles; loved on account of his own character, and perhaps even more so because of the fear with which Constantine was regarded. There are hosts of anecdotes told in his praise, doing honour to his kindliness, his courage and his ability. Once, when he was walking on foot, as was his custom, seeing threatenings of rain, he hailed a drovsky to take him to the imperial palace; on arrival, the emperor searched in his pockets and saw he had no money.
He was greatly admired by both the common people and the nobles; appreciated for his own character and maybe even more so because of the fear that surrounded Constantine. Many stories are shared in his honor, highlighting his kindness, bravery, and skill. One time, while he was walking, as he often did, and noticed that it was about to rain, he called a carriage to take him to the imperial palace. Upon arriving, the emperor checked his pockets and realized he had no money.
"Wait," he said to the driver; "I will have your fare sent out to you."
"Wait," he told the driver; "I'll get your fare to you."
"Oh yes, I know that tale," growled the man.
"Oh yeah, I know that story," the man grumbled.
"What are you saying?" demanded the emperor.
"What are you talking about?" demanded the emperor.
"I am saying that I can't rely on your promises."
"I’m saying that I can’t trust your promises."
"Why not?" asked Alexander.
"Why not?" Alexander asked.
"Oh, I know what I am talking about," said the driver.
"Oh, I know what I'm talking about," said the driver.
"Well, let me hear all about it."
"Alright, tell me everything."
"I say that there are too many persons whom I take up to houses with double doors, who go inside without paying me their fares, too many debtors whom I never see again."
"I’m saying that there are too many people I take to homes with double doors who go inside without paying me, too many debtors I never see again."
"What! even at the emperor's palace?"
"What! Even at the emperor's palace?"
"Oh, there are more there than anywhere else; you don't know what short memories great nobles have."
"Oh, there are more here than anywhere else; you don't realize how short the memories of great nobles can be."
"But you should complain, and denounce the thieves, and have them taken up," said Alexander.
"But you should speak up, call out the thieves, and have them arrested," said Alexander.
"I have a nobleman taken up! Your excellency surely knows that we poor devils have no power to do anything of the kind. If it were one of ourselves, it would be another matter and easy enough," added the driver, pointing to his long beard, "for they know how to get hold of us; but all you great nobles have your chins too smoothly shaven for that.... Good-night, there is nothing more to be said, unless your excellency will please search your pockets once more, in case there is a trifle with which to pay me."
"I have a nobleman captured! Your excellency must realize that we poor folks have no ability to do anything like that. If it were one of us, it would be a different story and quite simple," the driver added, gesturing to his long beard, "because they know how to find us; but all you highborn nobles have your chins too neatly shaven for that.... Good night, there’s nothing more to discuss unless your excellency would kindly check your pockets again, maybe you have a little something to pay me."
"No," said the emperor, "it would be useless ... but I have an idea."
"No," said the emperor, "that would be pointless ... but I have an idea."
"What is it?"
"What's that?"
"You see this cloak—it is worth more than your fare, is it not?"
"You see this cloak—it’s worth more than your fare, right?"
"Certainly! And if you excellency wishes to give it me without expecting the change ...?"
"Of course! And if you’d like to give it to me without expecting any change...?"
"No! keep it as a pledge and do not give it up till I send someone for it with your fare."
"No! Keep it as a promise and don’t give it up until I send someone for it with your payment."
"All right, well and good; you are something like a reasonable gentleman, you are," replied the driver.
"Okay, that's fine; you seem like a reasonable guy," replied the driver.
Five minutes later, the driver received a note for a hundred roubles, in exchange for the pledged cloak. The emperor had paid off the debts of those who came to see him as well as his own; but the driver made out he was still out of pocket.
Five minutes later, the driver got a note for a hundred roubles, in exchange for the pledged cloak. The emperor had covered the debts of those who came to see him, as well as his own; but the driver pretended he was still at a loss.
During the time in which Napoleon and Alexander were on friendly terms, when he inclined towards him and smiled at the line,
During the period when Napoleon and Alexander were getting along, when he leaned towards him and smiled at the line,
"L'amitié d'un grand homme est un bienfait des dieux!"
"Loyalty from a great person is a gift from the gods!"
the Emperor Alexander was one night at a ball, given by M. de Caulaincourt, the French Ambassador, and at midnight the host was informed that the house was on fire. The[Pg 109] remembrance of the terrible accidents that had happened in a fire at the Prince of Schwartzenberg's ball was still in everybody's mind, so Caulaincourt's first fear when he received news of the fire was that there would be a panic and the same disastrous results would happen at his house. He therefore decided to make sure first himself how serious the danger was, so he placed an aide-de-camp at every door with directions that no one should be allowed to go out, and he made his way up to the emperor.
the Emperor Alexander was at a ball one night hosted by M. de Caulaincourt, the French Ambassador, when, at midnight, the host was informed that the house was on fire. The[Pg 109] memory of the terrible incidents that had occurred during a fire at the Prince of Schwartzenberg's ball was fresh in everyone's mind, so Caulaincourt's first worry upon hearing about the fire was that panic would ensue and the same disastrous outcome would occur at his event. He decided to assess the seriousness of the situation himself, so he stationed an aide-de-camp at every door with orders that no one should be allowed to leave, and he made his way up to the emperor.
"Sire, the house is on fire," he said in a whisper. "I am going myself to see how things are; it is important that no one should be told of the danger until we can ascertain the amount and nature of the peril. My aides-de-camp have received orders to prevent any person from going out, except your Majesty and their Imperial Highnesses the Grand-Dukes and Grand-Duchesses. If your Majesty therefore desires to withdraw, the way is clear.... But I may, perhaps, be permitted to suggest that no one will be so ready to take fright at the fire if they see your Majesty among them."
"Sire, the house is on fire," he whispered. "I’m going to check on things myself; it’s crucial that no one knows about the danger until we can figure out how serious it is. My aides-de-camp have been instructed to stop anyone from leaving, except for your Majesty and their Imperial Highnesses the Grand-Dukes and Grand-Duchesses. So, if your Majesty wants to leave, the path is clear… But I might suggest that no one will panic about the fire if they see your Majesty with them."
"Very good," said the emperor; "go, I will stay here."
"Sounds good," said the emperor; "you go ahead, I'll stay here."
M. de Caulaincourt went out and discovered that, as he had anticipated, the danger was not so grave as he had at first been given to understand. He went back to the ballroom, and found the emperor dancing a polonaise. They exchanged significant glances, and the emperor danced to the finish. When the dance was at an end, he asked Caulaincourt how matters stood.
M. de Caulaincourt went outside and found that, as he had expected, the danger wasn't as serious as he had initially thought. He returned to the ballroom and saw the emperor dancing a polonaise. They exchanged meaningful looks, and the emperor continued dancing until the end. When the dance finished, he asked Caulaincourt how things were.
"It is all right, sire," the ambassador replied; "the fire has been extinguished." And that was all.
"It’s okay, sir," the ambassador replied; "the fire is out." And that was it.
It was not until the next day that the guests who had attended that magnificent fête learnt that, for a quarter of an hour, they had, as M. de Salvandy expressed it, been "dancing upon a volcano."
It wasn't until the next day that the guests at that amazing party learned that, as M. de Salvandy put it, they had been "dancing on a volcano" for a quarter of an hour.
We have mentioned that the Emperor Alexander liked walking alone about the streets of St. Petersburg; he also indulged in the same habit when he travelled about. He was once journeying through Little Russia, when he reached a large[Pg 110] village, and whilst the grooms were changing horses he jumped out of his carriage and told the postillions that he meant to walk on on foot for a while, therefore they need not hurry after him. Then, alone, clad simply in a military cloak, and divested of all his insignia, he began his walk. When he got to the end of the village, he found there were two roads and did not know which he ought to take, so he went up to a man who was dressed in a military cloak very similar to his own. The man was sitting smoking a pipe at his front door.
We’ve noted that Emperor Alexander enjoyed walking alone around the streets of St. Petersburg; he had the same habit when he traveled. Once, while he was journeying through Little Russia, he arrived at a large[Pg 110] village. While the grooms were changing horses, he jumped out of his carriage and told the postillions that he planned to walk on foot for a while, so they didn’t need to rush after him. Alone, wearing just a military cloak and stripped of all his insignia, he started his walk. At the end of the village, he found two roads and wasn’t sure which one to take, so he approached a man dressed in a military cloak similar to his own. The man was sitting outside, smoking a pipe at his front door.
"My friend," inquired the emperor, "which of those two roads ought I to take to get to——?"
"My friend," asked the emperor, "which of those two roads should I take to get to——?"
At this question, the man with the pipe eyed the interrogator from head to foot and, astounded that such an ordinary looking traveller should dare to speak with that familiarity to a man of his importance (especially in Russia, where differences in rank place a great gulf between superiors and inferiors), he went on puffing at his pipe, and snapped out—
At this question, the man with the pipe assessed the interrogator from head to toe and, shocked that such an ordinary-looking traveler would dare to speak so casually to someone of his status (especially in Russia, where rank creates a significant divide between superiors and inferiors), he continued puffing on his pipe and retorted—
"The road to the right."
"The road on the right."
The emperor understood, and respected the reason for his haughty indignation.
The emperor understood and respected the reason for his arrogant anger.
"Forgive me, monsieur," he said, touching his cap, as he went up to the man with the pipe, "may I ask one more question ...?"
"Excuse me, sir," he said, touching his cap as he approached the man with the pipe, "can I ask one more question...?"
"What is it?"
"What's that?"
"May I ask your rank in the army?"
"Can I ask what your rank is in the army?"
"Guess it."
"Take a guess."
"Well ... perhaps Monsieur is a lieutenant?"
"Well ... maybe you're a lieutenant, sir?"
"Higher."
"Up."
"A captain?"
"Is that a captain?"
"Higher still."
"Even higher."
"Major?"
"Major?"
"Go on."
"Go ahead."
"Commandant of a battalion?"
"Battalion commander?"
"Yes, and I didn't gain it save by hard work!..."
"Yes, and I only earned it through hard work!..."
The emperor bowed.
The emperor bowed.
"And now," said the man with the pipe, persuaded that he was talking to an inferior, "who are you, my good man?"
"And now," said the guy with the pipe, thinking he was talking to someone beneath him, "who are you, my good man?"
"Guess," replied the emperor, in his turn.
"Guess," the emperor replied in return.
"Lieutenant?"
"Lieutenant?"
"Higher."
"More elevated."
"Captain?"
"Captain?"
"Higher still."
"Even higher."
"Major?"
"What's your major?"
"Go on."
"Proceed."
"Commandant of a battalion?"
"Commander of a battalion?"
"Try again."
"Give it another shot."
The questioner drew his pipe out of his mouth.
The questioner took the pipe out of his mouth.
"Colonel?"
"Colonel?"
"You haven't got it yet."
"You still don't have it."
The man stood up and assumed a more respectful attitude.
The man stood up and took on a more respectful demeanor.
"Your excellency is a lieutenant-general, perhaps?"
"Your excellency is a lieutenant general, maybe?"
"You are getting nearer."
"You're getting closer."
"Then your Highness must be a field-marshal?"
"Then Your Highness must be a field marshal?"
"Have one more guess, Commandant."
"Take one more guess, Commandant."
"His Imperial Majesty!" exclaimed the stupefied questioner, letting his pipe fall and breaking it in pieces.
"His Imperial Majesty!" shouted the shocked questioner, dropping his pipe and shattering it into pieces.
"Exactly so," Alexander replied, with a smile.
"Exactly," Alexander said, smiling.
"Ah! sire," cried the officer, clasping his hands together, "I entreat your forgiveness!"
"Ah! Sir," exclaimed the officer, putting his hands together, "I beg for your forgiveness!"
"Oh! what the deuce is there to forgive?" said Alexander. "I asked you to tell me the way and you told me. Thank you."
"Oh! What on earth is there to forgive?" said Alexander. "I asked you for directions, and you gave them to me. Thanks."
And the emperor, waving his hand to the poor stupefied commandant, took the road on his right and was soon caught up by his carriage.
And the emperor, waving his hand to the confused commandant, took the path on his right and was soon reached by his carriage.
On another occasion also, when he was travelling (for the life of Alexander the son of Paul was spent like that of Alexander the son of Philip, in perpetual journeyings), while crossing a lake in the department of Archangel, the emperor was overtaken by a violent gale. Alexander was of a melancholy temperament, and the melancholy grew upon him, so he would oftener than not travel quite alone. He was thus alone in a boat with only the boatman, and the waves of the lake, lashed by the tempest, rose high and threatened to swamp them.
On another occasion, while he was traveling (because the life of Alexander, the son of Paul, was spent like that of Alexander, the son of Philip, in constant journeys), he was crossing a lake in the Archangel region when a violent storm hit. Alexander had a melancholy nature, and this sadness often made him prefer to travel by himself. So, he found himself alone in a boat with just the boatman, as the stormy waves of the lake rose up high and threatened to capsize them.
"My friend," said the emperor to the boatman, who was[Pg 112] fast losing his nerve under the weight of the responsibility that rested on him, "about eighteen hundred years ago Cæsar was placed in just such a position as we are, and he said with pride to his boatman, 'Do not be afraid, you are carrying Cæsar and his good luck!' I am not Cæsar; I believe more in God and have less faith in my luck than the conqueror of Pompey, but just listen to me: forget that I am the emperor, look upon me simply as a man like yourself, and try to save both of us."
"My friend," said the emperor to the boatman, who was[Pg 112] quickly losing his courage under the burden of responsibility he felt, "about eighteen hundred years ago Caesar was in a similar situation as we are now, and he confidently told his boatman, 'Don't be afraid, you're carrying Caesar and his good fortune!' I am not Caesar; I have more faith in God and less faith in my luck than the conqueror of Pompey, but just listen to me: forget that I'm the emperor, see me simply as a man like you, and do your best to save both of us."
At these words, which the Russian boatman no doubt understood much better than the pilot Opportunus understood Cæsar's injunctions, the brave fellow renewed his struggle, and by strenuous efforts managed to land the boat safely on the shore.
At these words, which the Russian boatman probably understood much better than the pilot Opportunus understood Caesar's instructions, the brave guy renewed his effort and, with a lot of hard work, managed to get the boat safely onto the shore.
Unluckily, Alexander was not so fortunate in his coachman as he was with his boatman. When he was once travelling in the provinces bordering the Don, he was violently thrown out of his drovsky and his leg was injured. Being a slave to that discipline which he enforced on others, and which he made more efficacious by his own example, he insisted on continuing his journey in spite of his injuries, in order to arrive at his destination on the promised day. But fatigue and want of prompt attention caused blood-poisoning from the wound. Erysipelas set in in the leg, recurred again and again, confining the emperor to bed for weeks, and leaving him lame for months. He had a violent attack of the same complaint during the winter of 1824. He was living at Czarkosjelo, his favourite retreat, to which he became more and more attached, as it enabled him to give way to the deep melancholy which preyed upon his spirits. He had been out walking until late, forgetting the cold, so absorbed was he in his melancholy reflections, and when he reached home he was frozen; he ordered his meal to be sent up to his room, and that same night he was attacked by erysipelas, accompanied by a higher temperature than in any of his previous illnesses. The fever was so sharp that he became delirious in a few hours. They took the emperor in a closed sledge to St. Petersburg, and as[Pg 113] soon as they got him there, they put him in the hands of the cleverest physicians. All these, except his own special surgeon, Dr. Wylie, were unanimously of opinion that his leg must be amputated. But Wylie took upon himself the sole responsibility of attending to the august patient, and once more managed to save his life. The emperor returned to Czarkosjelo almost before he had recovered from his illness; for all his other residences had become distasteful to him. There he was alone with the phantom of his solitary grandeur—a phantom that necessarily terrified him. He only gave audience at special hours to those ministers who did his business for him; his life was more like a Trappist mourning over his sins than that of a great emperor with countless lives in his care.
Unfortunately, Alexander wasn't as lucky with his coachman as he had been with his boatman. While he was traveling through the provinces near the Don, he was violently thrown from his drovsky and injured his leg. Sticking to the discipline he enforced on others, and setting an example himself, he insisted on continuing his journey despite his injuries to reach his destination on the promised day. However, fatigue and lack of immediate care led to blood poisoning from the wound. Erysipelas developed in his leg, recurring multiple times, forcing the emperor to stay in bed for weeks and leaving him lame for months. He suffered a severe attack of the same illness during the winter of 1824. He was staying at Czarkosjelo, his favorite retreat, to which he had become increasingly attached as it allowed him to indulge in the deep melancholy that weighed on his mind. He had been out walking late into the evening, oblivious to the cold, so lost in his sorrowful thoughts that by the time he got home, he was frozen. He had his meal sent to his room, and that same night he was struck by erysipelas, which came with a higher fever than during any of his previous illnesses. The fever was so intense that he became delirious within hours. They transported the emperor in a closed sled to St. Petersburg, and as[Pg 113] soon as he arrived, he was placed in the care of the best physicians. All of them, except for his personal surgeon, Dr. Wylie, unanimously agreed that his leg needed to be amputated. But Wylie chose to take full responsibility for treating the esteemed patient and once again managed to save his life. The emperor returned to Czarkosjelo almost before he fully recovered from his illness; all his other residences had become unappealing to him. There, he was alone with the ghost of his solitary greatness—a ghost that inevitably frightened him. He only held audiences at specific times with the ministers who managed his affairs; his life resembled that of a Trappist monk mourning his sins rather than that of a great emperor responsible for countless lives.
Alexander rose at six in winter and at five in summer, dressed himself, went into his study, where he would find a fine cambric handkerchief folded and laid at the left of his desk, and a packet of ten freshly-cut quill pens at the right side of it. There the emperor would set himself to work, never using the same pen twice over if he were interrupted in his labours, though his pens were only used to sign his name; then, when he had finished his morning's budget and signed everything, he would go out into the park, where, no matter what rumours of conspiracy were abroad (and for two years I there had been no lack of these), he would always walk unattended, with no other guard than the palace sentinels.
Alexander got up at six in winter and five in summer, got dressed, and went to his study, where he would find a nice cambric handkerchief neatly folded on the left side of his desk, and a bundle of ten freshly cut quill pens on the right. There, the emperor would begin his work, never using the same pen again if he was interrupted, even though he used the pens only to sign his name. Once he finished his morning tasks and signed everything, he would head out to the park, where, despite any rumors of conspiracies (and for two years, there had been plenty), he would always walk alone, with no other protection than the palace guards.
About five o'clock he would return to the palace, dine alone, and retire to bed in his private rooms to the melancholy strains of music selected by himself, lulled to sleep in the same sad frame of mind in which he had passed his waking hours.
About five o'clock, he would go back to the palace, have dinner by himself, and head to bed in his private rooms to the sad music he had chosen, drifting off to sleep in the same gloomy mood that had filled his waking hours.
The empress accepted this physical and mental separation with a philosophy that was characteristic of her. Her gentle influence could be felt surrounding the emperor, without ever being perceived, and she seemed to watch over her beloved husband like an angel from heaven.
The empress accepted this physical and emotional distance with a mindset that was typical of her. Her calming presence could be felt around the emperor, even if it was never directly noticed, and she appeared to watch over her beloved husband like an angel from above.
The winter and spring of 1824 passed in this manner; but, when summer came, the physicians unanimously declared that[Pg 114] a voyage was necessary for the restoration of the emperor's health, advising the Crimea as the best climate to hasten his convalescence. And, as though he had a prevision that he was reaching the end of his life, Alexander made no plans for the coming year. He consented with profound indifference to everything that was decided for him. The empress was more alarmed by this condition of morbid acquiescence, than if he had been in a constant state of irritability; she begged and obtained leave to accompany him; and, after a public service soliciting a blessing on his journey, attended by the whole of the imperial family, Alexander left St. Petersburg, driven by his faithful coachman Ivan, and followed by his surgeon Wylie, and by several orderly officers under the command of General Diebitch.
The winter and spring of 1824 went by like this; but when summer arrived, the doctors all agreed that[Pg 114] a trip was essential for the emperor’s recovery, recommending the Crimea as the best place to speed up his healing. And, as if he sensed he was nearing the end of his life, Alexander made no plans for the following year. He accepted everything that was decided for him with a deep sense of indifference. The empress was more worried about this state of passive acceptance than if he had been constantly irritable; she pleaded and got permission to go with him; and after a public service asking for blessings on his journey, attended by the entire imperial family, Alexander left St. Petersburg, driven by his loyal coachman Ivan and accompanied by his surgeon Wylie, along with several orderly officers under General Diebitch’s command.
He left on 13 September at four in the morning, and the empress started on the 15th. Only his dead body was destined to return to the capital four months later.
He left on September 13 at 4 AM, and the empress set off on the 15th. Only his lifeless body was meant to come back to the capital four months later.
CHAPTER X
Alexander leaves St. Petersburg—His presentiments of his death—The two stars seen at Taganrog—The emperor's illness—His last moments—How they learnt of his death in St. Petersburg—The Grand-Duke Constantine—His character and tastes—Why he renounced his right to the imperial throne—Jeannette Groudzenska
Alexander departs from St. Petersburg—His thoughts on his death—The two stars seen at Taganrog—The emperor's illness—His last moments—How the news of his death arrived in St. Petersburg—Grand Duke Constantine—His character and passions—The reasons he renounced his claim to the imperial throne—Jeannette Groudzenska
The departure of the emperor naturally meant an increase of work before he left, so that he was not able to write and bid his mother, the dowager-empress, adieu until four o'clock on the afternoon of 12 September. At four o'clock it suddenly became very dark, a great cloud overshadowing the light. The emperor called his valet.
The emperor's departure naturally meant more work before he left, so he wasn't able to write and say goodbye to his mother, the dowager-empress, until 4 PM on September 12. At 4 PM, it suddenly got very dark, a large cloud covering the light. The emperor called for his valet.
"Fœdor," he said, "bring me lights."
"Fedor," he said, "bring me some lights."
The valet brought four candles; but it grew light again before the emperor had done writing, and the valet immediately entered to put them out.
The valet brought in four candles, but it became light again before the emperor finished writing, and the valet quickly came in to extinguish them.
"Sire," he asked, "shall I take away the lights?"
"Sire," he asked, "should I turn off the lights?"
"Why so?" asked the emperor.
"Why's that?" asked the emperor.
"Because we look on it as an ill omen to write by artificial light when it is daylight."
"Because we see it as a bad sign to write with artificial light during the day."
"What conclusion do you draw from that?"
"What conclusion do you reach from that?"
"I, sire?... I do not infer anything from it."
"I, sir?... I don't take anything from it."
"But I do. I understand. You think that people passing by, seeing the light inside, will imagine there has been a death in in the house."
"But I do. I get it. You think that people walking by, seeing the light inside, will assume there's been a death in the house."
"Exactly so, sire."
"Exactly, Your Majesty."
"Ah, well, take away the candles."
"Okay, take away the candles."
The emperor did not seem to take any notice of his valet's observations, but the incident remained in his mind.
The emperor didn’t appear to pay any attention to his valet’s comments, but the incident stuck with him.
As we have already noted, he left the city of St. Petersburg[Pg 116] at four in the morning of 13 September, just as the sun began to rise.
As we have already noted, he left the city of St. Petersburg[Pg 116] at 4 a.m. on September 13, right as the sun started to come up.
He stopped his carriage, and stood looking back at the city of the Czar Peter, plunged in deep sadness, as though warned by some inward voice that he was looking upon it for the last time. The emperor had spent the previous night in prayer, both in the convent of Saint-Alexandre Nevsky and in the cathedral of Kasan. In the monastery he had an interview, lasting nearly an hour, with the monks and the metropolitan Seraphin. The latter related a story to the emperor of a monk of his convent who had voluntarily submitted himself to a life of the most scrupulous austerity by shutting himself up in a hollow place, scooped out of the thick walls of the convent, where he meant to pass all his remaining days. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the emperor asked to be taken to this monk's cell, and talked with him for nearly twenty minutes.
He stopped his carriage and looked back at the city of Czar Peter, filled with deep sadness, as if some inner voice warned him he was seeing it for the last time. The emperor had spent the previous night praying, both in the convent of Saint-Alexandre Nevsky and in the Kasan Cathedral. At the monastery, he had a nearly hour-long meeting with the monks and the metropolitan Seraphin. The latter shared a story about a monk from his convent who had willingly chosen a life of strict austerity by locking himself away in a hollowed-out space within the thick walls of the convent, intending to spend all his remaining days there. Despite the late hour, the emperor asked to be taken to this monk's cell and spoke with him for nearly twenty minutes.
Before leaving St. Petersburg, Alexander wished to see his beloved Czarkosjelo once more. He mounted on horseback at the palace door and rode over all his favourite haunts, as though to bid them farewell. When Fœdor asked Alexander when he expected to return to the imperial palace, he pointed with his finger to an image of Christ and said—
Before leaving St. Petersburg, Alexander wanted to see his beloved Czarkosjelo one last time. He got on his horse at the palace entrance and rode through all his favorite spots, as if to say goodbye to them. When Fœdor asked Alexander when he planned to return to the imperial palace, he pointed to an image of Christ and said—
"He alone knows!"
"He knows everything!"
The emperor reached Taganrog towards the close of September. On 5 October the empress, who could only journey by short stages on account of her state of health, also arrived there. The emperor advanced a little ahead of the empress, and together they made a solemn entry into the town.
The emperor arrived in Taganrog at the end of September. On October 5, the empress, who could only travel short distances due to her health, also made it there. The emperor went a bit ahead of the empress, and together they made a formal entrance into the town.
Why had the emperor taken a liking for Taganrog? It seemed inexplicable except on the grounds of that fatal destiny which compels men towards the place in which it is foreordained they are to die.
Why had the emperor developed an affection for Taganrog? It seemed impossible to explain except by that tragic fate that drives people toward the place where they are destined to die.
Taganrog is situated in the finest climate of the Crimea, in the midst of a fertile country and in a pleasant place at the entrance to the Sea of Azov, close to the mouths of the Don and the Volga; but the town itself contains nothing but a heap of tumbledown houses, of which about a sixth are built of brick[Pg 117] or stone, whilst the remainder are really nothing but wooden huts smeared over with a mixture of clay and mud. The streets are certainly wide, but they are unpaved, and the soil is so powdery that, after the least shower of rain, one sinks in mud up to one's knees. Then, when the heat of the sun has dried up this damp marsh, the cattle and horses that pass by raise such clouds of dust that it is impossible in full daylight to distinguish a man from a beast of burden ten paces away. This dust penetrates everything; it gets through closed blinds, tightly fastened shutters and the most impenetrable curtains; it makes its way through clothing, no matter how thick it be, and fills the water with a kind of crust that can only be precipitated by boiling it with salts of tartar. The emperor alighted at the governor's house, but he went out first thing in the morning and did not return until dinner-time at two o'clock. At four, he took another long excursion, not returning until nightfall, neglecting all the precautions that the natives of those parts themselves take against the dangerous malarial fevers common along the entire coast-line; at night, he slept on a camp bedstead, his head resting on a leather pillow. Presentiments of his approaching end never left him. The very evening of his arrival at Taganrog, just as his valet was about to leave him for the night, he said to him—
Taganrog is located in the best climate of Crimea, in a fertile area and a nice spot at the entrance to the Sea of Azov, near the mouths of the Don and the Volga. However, the town itself is just a collection of rundown houses, with about a sixth made of brick or stone, while the rest are just wooden shacks covered in a mix of clay and mud. The streets are wide but unpaved, and the soil is so dry that after even a light rain, you can sink in mud up to your knees. Then, when the sun dries up the wet ground, the cattle and horses passing by kick up so much dust that it’s impossible to tell a person apart from a pack animal even from just ten paces away. This dust gets into everything; it seeps through closed blinds, tightly shut shutters, and the most dense curtains; it works its way through clothes, no matter how thick, and forms a type of crust on the water that only boils away with cream of tartar. The emperor arrived at the governor's house, but he left early in the morning and didn’t come back until dinner at two o'clock. At four, he went out again for another long trip, not returning until dark, disregarding all the precautions that the locals take against the dangerous malaria that is common along the entire coast; at night, he slept on a camp bed, his head resting on a leather pillow. He was constantly aware of his impending end. On the very evening of his arrival in Taganrog, just as his valet was about to leave him for the night, he said to him—
"Fœdor, the candles that I ordered you to take out of my study at St. Petersburg constantly recur to my mind; before very long they will be burning for me."
"Fedor, the candles I asked you to take out of my study in St. Petersburg keep coming to my mind; soon they will be burning for me."
During one night in the month of October several of the inhabitants of Taganrog saw, at two in the morning, above the house where the emperor was living, two stars which at first were a wide distance apart from one another, then approached each other and then again separated. This phenomenon was repeated three times. Then one of the stars gradually grew into a luminous ball of considerable dimensions, obliterating the other, and soon afterwards disappeared below the horizon and was no longer seen. In its fall, the bigger star left the smaller one behind in its place; but it, too, paled by degrees, and soon also disappeared. The superstitious interpreted the[Pg 118] larger and more brilliant star to be the Emperor Alexander, and the other the empress; they augured from the portent that the emperor was soon to die, and that the empress was only to survive her husband for a few months.
During one night in October, several residents of Taganrog saw, at two in the morning, two stars above the house where the emperor was staying. At first, the stars were far apart, then they moved closer together before separating again. This happened three times. Then one of the stars gradually turned into a bright, large ball, overshadowing the other, and shortly after disappeared below the horizon and was no longer visible. As it fell, the larger star left the smaller one behind; however, the smaller one also faded gradually and soon disappeared as well. The superstitious interpreted the[Pg 118] larger and brighter star as representing Emperor Alexander, and the other as the empress. They saw this omen as a sign that the emperor was soon to die, and that the empress would only survive him for a few months.
Besides his daily excursions, the emperor would make others that lasted for days together, either in the country round the Don, or at Tcherkask or at Donetz. He was prepared to start for Astrakan, when Count Voronzov, Governor of Odessa, arrived to tell the emperor that discontent was increasing throughout the whole of the Crimea and would cause considerable trouble, if the emperor did not quell the insubordination, and calm the disquiet by his personal presence.
Besides his daily outings, the emperor would also go on longer trips that lasted several days, either in the countryside around the Don, or in Tcherkask or Donetz. He was ready to leave for Astrakan when Count Voronzov, the Governor of Odessa, came to inform the emperor that discontent was growing across the entire Crimea and would lead to significant issues if the emperor didn’t address the rebellion and calm the unrest with his own presence.
There was a distance of some three hundred leagues to be traversed; but what are three hundred leagues in Russia? Alexander promised the empress he would return within a month, and gave orders for his departure. He was impatient and irritable throughout the journey—an attitude of mind so at variance with his usual gentle melancholy that it surprised all around him; he complained that the horses did not go fast enough; of the badness of the roads, of the cold in the morning, the heat at noonday, the frost at night. Dr. Wylie advised the traveller to take precautions against the changes of temperature which he seemed to feel so much, but here the emperor's wayward mood showed itself: he rejected both cloaks and capes, apparently courting the very dangers his friends advised him to guard against. Finally, one evening he caught cold, and a persistent cough developed into an intermittent fever, which, aggravated by the patient's obstinacy, had, by the time they reached Oridov, become a serious fever, which the doctor recognised as an attack of the same kind that had raged all autumn through from Taganrog to Sebastopol. They immediately turned back towards Taganrog, the emperor himself giving the order to retrace their journey. Whilst on the way back, the doctor urged upon his patient the necessity for taking prompt measures, for he knew the gravity of the nature of his illness. But the emperor objected.
There was a distance of about three hundred leagues to cover, but what are three hundred leagues in Russia? Alexander promised the empress he would return within a month and ordered his departure. He was impatient and irritable throughout the journey—an attitude so different from his usual gentle melancholy that it surprised everyone around him. He complained that the horses weren't going fast enough, about the bad roads, the cold in the morning, the heat at noon, and the frost at night. Dr. Wylie advised him to take precautions against the temperature changes that bothered him so much, but the emperor's stubborn mood showed: he rejected both cloaks and capes, seemingly inviting the very dangers his friends warned him about. Finally, one evening he caught a cold, and a persistent cough turned into an intermittent fever, which, made worse by his stubbornness, had turned into a serious fever by the time they reached Oridov. The doctor recognized it as the same kind of illness that had been going around all autumn from Taganrog to Sebastopol. They immediately headed back toward Taganrog, with the emperor himself giving the order to retrace their steps. On the way back, the doctor insisted on the need for quick action, knowing how serious the illness was. But the emperor disagreed.
"Leave me alone," he said. "Surely I know myself best what I need—I want rest, solitude and quiet.... Look after my nerves, doctor; it is they that are in such a deplorable state."
"Leave me alone," he said. "I know myself best and what I need—I want rest, solitude, and peace.... Please take care of my nerves, doctor; they're in terrible shape."
"Sire," replied Wylie, "kings are much more subject to nervous disorders than ordinary individuals."
"Sire," Wylie replied, "kings are far more prone to anxiety issues than regular people."
"True," said Alexander in reply, "specially nowadays.... Ah! doctor, doctor," he continued, shaking his head, "I have ample reason for being unwell!"
"True," Alexander replied, "especially these days.... Ah! Doctor, doctor," he added, shaking his head, "I have plenty of reasons for feeling unwell!"
In spite of the doctor's objections, Alexander would ride on horseback part of the way, until he felt compelled to return to his carriage, and he was so exhausted by the time he set foot in the governor's house at Taganrog that he fainted away.
In spite of the doctor's objections, Alexander would ride on horseback part of the way until he felt he had to go back to his carriage, and he was so exhausted by the time he arrived at the governor's house in Taganrog that he fainted.
Although the empress was herself dying of heart disease, she forgot her own sufferings, and rallied when she saw her husband's condition. When he was a little better, Alexander wrote to reassure his imperial mother, telling her that although he was ill, she need not be anxious; that he was able to take food and there was nothing serious to fear. This was on 18 November. On the 24th, the fever set in with increased vigour, and the erysipelas in the leg disappeared.
Although the empress was dying from heart disease, she put her own pain aside and showed strength when she saw how her husband was doing. When he started to feel a bit better, Alexander wrote to comfort his mother, telling her that even though he was sick, she didn't need to worry; he could eat and there was nothing serious to fear. This was on November 18. By the 24th, the fever returned with more intensity, and the erysipelas in his leg faded away.
"See!" cried the emperor, when he saw what had occurred,—"this is the end ... I shall die as my sister died!"
"Look!" shouted the emperor when he saw what had happened, "this is the end... I will die just like my sister did!"
But he still refused to take any medicines. As Dr. Wylie stood by his side that night, he exclaimed suddenly, as he turned towards the doctor—
But he still refused to take any medicine. As Dr. Wylie stood by his side that night, he suddenly exclaimed, turning toward the doctor—
"What a deed! What a deplorable act!"
"What a thing to do! What a terrible act!"
What reminiscence was it that drew such a sorrowful exclamation from him? It can hardly be doubted that he was referring to the death of Paul, who was smothered in a room above his head and whose last groans he heard, without daring to go to his rescue.
What memory caused him to let out such a sad exclamation? It's clear he was thinking about the death of Paul, who was suffocated in a room above him, and whose final groans he heard without having the courage to go to his aid.
On the 27th, the emperor at last gave himself into his doctor's hands, who at once applied leeches; this application gave him a little relief, but the fever soon returned worse than ever. They tried sinapisms, but could not reduce the temperature, and the patient realised then that it was time he[Pg 120] prepared for his end. A confessor was brought to him at five in the morning.
On the 27th, the emperor finally entrusted himself to his doctor, who immediately used leeches; this provided him with some relief, but the fever quickly came back even stronger. They attempted mustard plasters, but couldn’t lower his temperature, and the patient then understood it was time for him[Pg 120] to prepare for his end. A priest was brought in at five in the morning.
"Father," Alexander said to him, as he held out his hand, "deal with me as an ordinary being and not as an emperor."
"Father," Alexander said to him, as he extended his hand, "treat me like a regular person and not as an emperor."
The priest drew close to his bedside, received the imperial confession and administered the sacraments to the noble invalid. Towards two o'clock the emperor's pains increased terribly.
The priest approached his bedside, heard the emperor's confession, and provided the sacraments to the noble patient. Around two o'clock, the emperor's pain intensified severely.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, overcome by his sufferings. "My God! must kings suffer more when they come to die than other men?..."
"Oh!" he exclaimed, overwhelmed by his pain. "My God! Do kings have to suffer more when they die than other people?..."
During the night he became unconscious, and remained in a state of complete lethargy the whole of the next day. On the 29th he recovered consciousness, and faint hopes were raised. The empress watched by his bed, and noticed that he slept a little before dawn. He did not wake until nine the next morning, just as the sun shone out from behind some clouds as brilliantly as on the finest summer day. As Alexander opened his eyes, he saw that he was flooded with sunlight.
During the night, he passed out and stayed completely lethargic the whole next day. On the 29th, he regained consciousness, sparking a glimmer of hope. The empress stayed by his bedside and noticed he slept a bit before dawn. He didn’t wake up until nine the next morning, just as the sun broke through some clouds, shining as brightly as on the best summer day. When Alexander opened his eyes, he saw that he was bathed in sunlight.
"What beautiful weather!" he exclaimed, with that fervid joy at sight of the sun so often noticed in the dying.
"What gorgeous weather!" he exclaimed, with that intense joy at seeing the sun that is often seen in those nearing death.
Then, turning to the empress and kissing her hand, he said—
Then, turning to the empress and kissing her hand, he said—
"Madam, you must be worn out with fatigue."
"Ma'am, you must be tired."
Then he relapsed into the same condition of torpor from which he had momentarily emerged. All hope of his recovery was given up on the 30th. Nevertheless, towards two o'clock in the morning, General Diébitch mentioned an old man, named Alexandrovitch, who had, he said, saved several Tartars from the same fever that had attacked the emperor. They sent for this old man at Dr. Wylie's instigation, and he came at eight. He looked at the emperor, shook his head and said—
Then he slipped back into the same state of lethargy from which he had briefly emerged. All hope for his recovery was abandoned on the 30th. However, around two o'clock in the morning, General Diébitch brought up an old man named Alexandrovitch, who, he claimed, had saved several Tartars from the same fever that had struck the emperor. They called for this old man at Dr. Wylie's suggestion, and he arrived at eight. He examined the emperor, shook his head, and said—
"It is too late; besides, those I have cured did not suffer from that complaint."
"It’s too late; besides, the ones I’ve helped didn’t have that issue."
And he left, taking with him the empress's last ray of hope.[Pg 121] However, the emperor reopened his eyes towards half-past ten that morning, and all waited anxiously for him to speak. But he did not utter a word; he only took the empress's hand, kissed it and laid it on his heart. The empress remained bent over him in the position her husband's hand caused her to take, and at ten minutes to eleven the emperor died. The empress's face was so close to his that she felt him draw his last breath.
And he left, taking the empress's last bit of hope with him.[Pg 121] However, the emperor opened his eyes again around 10:30 that morning, and everyone waited nervously for him to say something. But he didn’t say a word; he just took the empress's hand, kissed it, and placed it over his heart. The empress stayed hunched over him in the position his hand made her take, and at ten minutes to eleven, the emperor passed away. The empress's face was so close to his that she felt him take his last breath.
She uttered a terrible cry and fell on her knees in prayer; not even the doctor dared to approach the body, for she had made a sign to all around not to disturb her. Then, some minutes later, she rose in a calmer state of mind, closed the emperor's eyes, which had remained open, tied a handkerchief round his head to prevent his jaws from dropping, kissed his hands already as cold as ice, and, again falling on her knees, she remained in prayer by the bedside until the doctors were obliged to ask her to withdraw into another room, while they made a post-mortem examination.
She let out a horrible scream and fell to her knees in prayer; not even the doctor dared to approach the body since she had signaled for everyone around to stay away. Then, a few minutes later, she stood up feeling calmer, closed the emperor's eyes that had been left open, tied a handkerchief around his head to keep his jaw from dropping, kissed his hands that were already icy cold, and once more fell to her knees, remaining in prayer by the bedside until the doctors had to ask her to step into another room while they performed a post-mortem examination.
Whilst this sad operation proceeded, the widowed empress wrote to the dowager-empress:—
While this unfortunate situation was happening, the widowed empress wrote to the dowager-empress:—
"Our angel is in heaven, while I still linger on earth.... Alas! who would ever have thought that I, weak and ill as I am, should have survived him?... Mother, I entreat you not to desert me, for I am absolutely alone in this world of sorrow!
"Our angel is in heaven while I'm still here on earth... Oh no! Who would have thought that I, so weak and sick, would still be here without him?... Mom, I’m begging you not to leave me because I'm completely alone in this world of sorrow!”
"The face of our beloved dead has resumed its expression of gentle kindliness; the smile upon it assures me that he is happy, and that his eyes see better things than here below.... My only comfort in this irreparable loss is that I shall not long survive him!..."
"The face of our beloved who has passed has returned to its gentle expression; the smile on it shows me that he is happy, and that his eyes see better things than we have here... My only comfort in this unimaginable loss is that I won't be here much longer without him!..."
And, indeed, the empress died six months later.
And, in fact, the empress passed away six months later.
The letter was sent off by courier to St. Petersburg, where the emperor's illness was already known. He had himself written, on 17 November, to say that he had had to return to Taganrog on account of illness. On the 24th, the Empress Elisabeth had written to the Grand-Duchess Helena asking her to inform the Empress Marie that the emperor was going on[Pg 122] well. On the 27th, however, General Diebitch had sent news that the emperor was suffering from an attack of yellow fever; and on 29 November the Empress Elisabeth again wrote to the dowager-empress to tell her of a temporary improvement in the emperor's condition. Although this improvement was so slight, the dowager-empress and the Grand-Dukes Nicolas and Michel gave orders for a Te Deum to be sung on 9 December in the great metropolitan cathedral of Kasan. The people flocked there joyfully, for the good news had been exaggerated for their sake. Towards the close of the service the Grand-Duke Nicolas was advised that a messenger from Taganrog was waiting for him in the sacristy; he was the bearer of a despatch that had to be delivered only in person. The grand-duke rose and went into the sacristy, where he found the messenger, and received from his hands the letter we have already read. He did not even need to read the letter: its contents were revealed to him by the black seal.
The letter was sent by courier to St. Petersburg, where the emperor's illness was already known. He had written on November 17 to say that he had to return to Taganrog due to his sickness. On the 24th, Empress Elisabeth had written to Grand-Duchess Helena, asking her to let Empress Marie know that the emperor was doing[Pg 122] well. However, on the 27th, General Diebitch sent news that the emperor was suffering from yellow fever. Then, on November 29, Empress Elisabeth wrote to the dowager-empress again, informing her of a slight improvement in the emperor's condition. Although this improvement was minimal, the dowager-empress and Grand-Dukes Nicolas and Michel ordered a Te Deum to be sung on December 9 in the grand metropolitan cathedral of Kasan. The people gathered there joyfully, as the good news had been exaggerated for their benefit. Towards the end of the service, Grand-Duke Nicolas was informed that a messenger from Taganrog was waiting for him in the sacristy; he had a dispatch that needed to be delivered in person. The grand-duke rose and went into the sacristy, where he found the messenger and received the letter we have already read. He didn’t even need to read it: the black seal revealed its contents to him.
The Grand-Duke Nicolas sent for the metropolitan and announced to him the melancholy tidings, charging him to break the news as gently as possible to the dowager-empress, as he felt he had not the courage to fulfil the cruel mission himself. He then returned and took his place by her who, in ignorance of the sad truth, was praying for the life of her dead son. The grand-duke had scarcely resumed his position by her side before the metropolitan re-entered the choir. He was a fine-looking old man, with a long white beard and hair that fell almost to his waist. At a sign from him, all the voices that were chanting hymns of thankful praise to Heaven ceased, and a death-like silence followed. Then, with the eyes of all upon him, he walked slowly and solemnly towards the altar, took down the massive silver crucifix and draped it with a black veil; then he advanced to the dowager-empress and gave her the black draped crucifix to kiss.
The Grand Duke Nicolas called for the metropolitan and delivered the heartbreaking news, asking him to break it to the dowager-empress as gently as possible since he didn't have the strength to carry out such a cruel task himself. He then returned and sat beside her, who, unaware of the tragic truth, was praying for her deceased son. The grand duke had barely settled back in his seat when the metropolitan re-entered the choir. He was a striking older man, with a long white beard and hair that almost reached his waist. At his signal, all the voices chanting hymns of thanksgiving to Heaven stopped, and a deep silence fell. Then, with everyone's gaze upon him, he walked slowly and solemnly toward the altar, took down the large silver crucifix, and covered it with a black veil; he then approached the dowager-empress and offered her the black-draped crucifix to kiss.
"My son is dead!" cried the empress; and she fell on her knees, even as, eighteen centuries before, at the foot of her Son's Cross, another Mother, the Queen of Heaven, whose name she bore, had fallen.
"My son is dead!" cried the empress; and she fell to her knees, just as, eighteen centuries earlier, at the foot of her Son's Cross, another Mother, the Queen of Heaven, whose name she shared, had fallen.
And in that way Russia learnt she had lost her emperor.
And that's how Russia learned she had lost her emperor.
We promised we would relate the history of the strange self-sacrifice by which a man gave up an empire—a history all the more strange in that the empire was an absolute monarchy, and that he would then have succeeded to fifty-three millions of subjects, and to a territory which already covered a seventh part of the world, without reckoning future possibilities of expansion. This history is as follows:—
We promised to share the story of the unusual self-sacrifice in which a man gave up an empire—a story that’s even stranger considering the empire was an absolute monarchy, and by doing so, he would have inherited fifty-three million subjects and a territory that already covered a seventh of the world, not to mention future possibilities for expansion. Here’s how the story goes:—
The reader knows what an Ukranian bear Constantine was, for ever growling, grumbling or roaring, whose countenance was no more like a human being's than the face of Kalmouk is like that of a man; he was as rough as his brother Alexander was courteous, as ugly as his brother Nicolas was handsome; a true son of Paul when he was in a bad temper. We have learnt his reply as a lad to his own tutor, who tried to make him learn to read—
The reader knows what an Ukrainian bear Constantine was, always growling, grumbling, or roaring, his face was no more like a human being's than a Kalmouk's is to a man; he was as rough as his brother Alexander was polite, as ugly as his brother Nicolas was good-looking; a true son of Paul when he was in a bad mood. We’ve learned his response as a young boy to his own tutor, who tried to get him to learn to read—
"I do not want to learn to read; you are always reading, and you become more and more stupid every day."
"I don't want to learn to read; you're always reading, and you get more and more stupid every day."
It will be readily believed that a mind built in that fashion had no inclinations in the direction of learning. But in proportion as the young prince grew to detest his mental exercises, his love of military pursuits increased. Here he took after his father, Paul, who rose at five in the morning after his wedding-night, to control the manœuvres of a platoon of soldiers on guard near by. His military predilection led Constantine to spend all his time in soldierly exercises, on horseback, perfecting himself in the use of the lance, manœuvring his men, all of which accomplishments seemed to him far more useful than geometry, astronomy or botany. They only succeeded in making him learn French by means of telling him that the best books on military tactics were written in that language. Great was his delight when Paul had a rupture with France and when Souvarov was sent into Italy. The grand-duke was placed under command of an old marshal, a chief who exactly suited Constantine, since he was one of the old Russian stock, more savage, more brutal, more uncivilised, if that be possible, than his[Pg 124] young pupil. Constantine took part in his victories on the Mincio, and in his defeats among the Alps; he watched him dig the grave in which he wished to be buried alive. The consequence of association with such an uncouth companion was to foster the young prince's own peculiarities to such an extent, that people more than once queried whether Paul, in being forced to leave the empire to Alexander, had made a special point of bequeathing his mad temperament to Constantine.
It’s easy to believe that a mind shaped this way had little interest in learning. However, as the young prince grew to dislike academic pursuits, his passion for military activities grew stronger. He took after his father, Paul, who would wake up at five in the morning after his wedding night to oversee the maneuvers of a nearby platoon of soldiers. This military inclination led Constantine to spend all his time on soldierly exercises, practicing horseback riding and mastering the lance, and managing his troops, all of which he deemed far more useful than studying geometry, astronomy, or botany. The only academic achievement he had was learning French, because he was told that the best books on military tactics were written in that language. He was thrilled when Paul had a fallout with France and sent Souvarov to Italy. The grand duke was placed under the command of an old marshal, a leader who was a perfect fit for Constantine, being from old Russian stock—more brutal and savage, if that's possible, than his young pupil. Constantine participated in his victories on the Mincio and his defeats in the Alps; he even watched him dig the grave he wished to be buried alive in. The result of associating with such a rough companion was that it amplified the young prince's own quirks to such an extent that people often wondered if Paul, in leaving the empire to Alexander, had intentionally passed on his crazy temperament to Constantine.
After the French campaign and the Treaty of Vienna, Constantine was made Viceroy of Poland. It was just the post for him. Here, placed at the head of a warlike nation, whose whole history is one long struggle, his military tastes grew with redoubled energy; unfortunately, he substituted lawless encounters for the bloody struggles in which he had just taken part. Summer or winter—whether living in the palace of Bruhl or residing in the palace of Belvédère—he was up and equipped in his general's uniform by three in the morning, without the assistance in his toilet of any valet. He would then seat himself before a table covered with regimental lists and military orders, in a room wherein every single panel on the walls was painted with different regimental costumes; he read the reports that had been drawn up the day before, either by Colonel Axamilovisky or by Suboividsky, the Prefect of Police, signifying his approval or disapproval of them in a side note. With the exception of letter-writing to some members of his family, these were the only occasions he handled a pen. This work generally took him until nine in the morning, when he partook of the hasty breakfast of a soldier. He then went down to the parade ground to inspect a couple of regiments of infantry or a squadron of cavalry. The band saluted him as he approached, and the review immediately began. The platoons marched past the viceroy, a little way off, with mathematical precision—a sight that always filled him with childish joy, and moved him as much as though the men were marching to a real battle. He would stand on foot watching them pass by,[Pg 125] attired in the green uniform of the Light Infantry, his cap, which was decorated with cocks' feathers, posed on his head in such a manner that one of the corners touched his left epaulette, whilst the other pointed heavenwards at an alarming angle. Below shone, like two carbuncles, eyes that seemed more like a jackal's than those of a human being, set below a narrow forehead, which was furrowed with deep lines, indicating constant and anxious preoccupation; and his thick long eyebrows were crooked from habitual frowning. In his moments of extreme happiness, the strange vivaciousness of the czarovitch's expression, coupled with the snub nose that looked like a skeleton's, and his protruding lower lip, gave a very savage appearance to his head. His neck, which he could push out and withdraw at will, came in and out of his collar just like a tortoise's from below its shell. As he listened to the music and saw the men he had trained and heard the measured tramp of their feet, his whole being expanded with delight, until he looked feverish with excitement: the flush would come into his cheeks, his arms would stiffen against his body down to his elbows, his rigid, tightly clasped fists would nervously open and close, while his restless feet beat time, and his guttural voice every now and then, between his harshly uttered commands, would give vent to hoarse, raucous, inhuman cries, expressive, alternately, of satisfaction or anger, according as matters pleased him or he saw something that offended his sense of discipline. For, indeed, his anger was a terrible sight, and his good humour was that of a rough savage.
After the French campaign and the Treaty of Vienna, Constantine became the Viceroy of Poland. It was the perfect position for him. Here, at the head of a warrior nation with a long history of struggle, his military interests grew even stronger; unfortunately, he replaced lawful encounters with the violent conflicts he had just been part of. Whether it was summer or winter—living in the Bruhl palace or the Belvédère palace—he was up and dressed in his general's uniform by three in the morning, without any valet to help him. He would sit at a table covered with regimental lists and military orders, in a room where every wall panel was painted with different regimental uniforms; he read the reports prepared the previous day by either Colonel Axamilovisky or Suboividsky, the Prefect of Police, marking them with his approval or disapproval in the margins. Apart from writing letters to family members, these were the only times he used a pen. This work usually took him until nine in the morning, when he grabbed a quick breakfast like a soldier. He would then head down to the parade ground to inspect some infantry regiments or a cavalry squadron. The band saluted him as he approached, and the review began right away. The platoons marched past the viceroy, a little distance away, with mathematical precision—a sight that always filled him with childish joy and moved him as if the men were marching into real battle. He would stand watching them pass by, dressed in the green uniform of the Light Infantry, his cap adorned with cock feathers, tilted so one corner touched his left epaulette while the other pointed skyward at a sharp angle. Below, his eyes glimmered like two bright gems, resembling a jackal's more than a human's, set beneath a narrow forehead furrowed with deep lines, indicating constant worry; his thick, long eyebrows were always bent in a frown. In moments of extreme happiness, the czarovitch's lively expression, along with his snub nose resembling a skeleton's and his protruding lower lip, gave him a fierce look. His neck, which he could extend or retract at will, moved in and out of his collar like a turtle's head from its shell. As he listened to the music, watched the soldiers he had trained, and heard the rhythmic thud of their feet, he felt immense joy, becoming almost feverish with excitement: his cheeks would flush, his arms would stiffen against his body down to his elbows, his tightly clenched fists would nervously open and close, his restless feet would tap along, and between his harsh commands, his guttural voice would occasionally burst into hoarse, raucous cries, expressing either satisfaction or anger depending on whether he was pleased or saw something that upset his sense of discipline. Indeed, his anger was a terrible sight, while his good humor was that of a rough savage.
If he were pleased, he would double up in fits of laughter, rubbing his hands together noisily and hilariously, stamping on the ground first with one foot and then with the other: if he caught sight of a child at the moment, he would catch hold of it, turn it over and over like a monkey with a doll, make the child kiss him, pinch its cheeks, pull its nose, and then putting it down, he would send it away with the first piece of gold or silver in its hands that he could find in his pocket.
If he was happy, he would burst into fits of laughter, loudly rubbing his hands together in a silly way, stomping on the ground with one foot and then the other. If he happened to see a child at that moment, he would grab it, flip it around like a monkey with a toy, make the child kiss him, pinch its cheeks, pull its nose, and then after setting it down, he would send it off with the first coin he could find in his pocket, whether gold or silver.
When he was angry, he roared aloud, striking the soldier[Pg 126] who had failed in his work, himself pushing the man towards the prison, shouting or rather yelling imprecations after him till the man was out of sight. His severity indeed extended to all—to animals as well as to men. One day he had a monkey hung because it was too noisy: he lashed a horse again and again and again with his riding-stick because it stumbled while he had trustingly let the reins fall on its neck for a little while; and he had a dog shot one morning because it had kept him awake during the night with its howling. Between these fits of anger and moments of exultation he was subject to hours of depression. He fell into moods of deep melancholy which ended in complete prostration. Weak as a woman, he would lie on his couch or roll about on the floor, a prey to nervous attacks.
When he got angry, he would roar loudly, hitting the soldier[Pg 126] who messed up his task, and he pushed the guy towards the prison while yelling curses at him until he was out of sight. His harshness really applied to everyone—to both animals and humans. One day, he had a monkey hanged for being too loud; he whipped a horse over and over with his riding stick because it stumbled after he had let the reins drop onto its neck for a bit; and he had a dog shot one morning because it had kept him up all night with its barking. Between these bursts of anger and moments of joy, he experienced hours of depression. He would fall into deep melancholy, which would leave him completely exhausted. Weak as a woman, he would lie on his couch or roll around on the floor, suffering from nervous attacks.
At these times, not even the most favoured person dared go near him. The last valet to leave the room would open wide the window and the door, and upon the threshold would appear a fair pale woman, clothed almost always in a white dress clasped with a blue girdle, her expression as sad as a ghost's, and, like a ghost, smiling through her melancholy. The vision had a magical influence upon Constantine; his spirits grew brighter, he first sighed and then sobbed, cried out, and, after bitter and abundant tears, he rested his head on the woman's lap and would fall asleep to wake up cured.
At those moments, not even the closest person dared to approach him. The last valet to leave the room would throw open the window and the door, and on the threshold would appear a beautiful pale woman, usually dressed in a white gown secured with a blue belt, her expression as sorrowful as a ghost’s, yet, like a ghost, managing to smile through her sadness. The sight had a magical effect on Constantine; his mood lifted as he first sighed and then sobbed, cried out, and after shedding many bitter tears, he would rest his head on the woman’s lap and eventually fall asleep, only to wake up feeling better.
This woman was Poland's guardian angel, Jeannette Groudzenska. Once, when quite a child, she was praying in the Metropolitan Church of Warsaw, before an image of the Virgin, when a crown of immortelles that had been placed at the foot of the picture fell on her head, resting upon it, until she removed it and replaced it on its nail. On her return home, Jeannette related this incident to her father, who told it to an old Ukranian Cossack thought to be a seen The old Cossack replied that the falling of the holy crown on the maiden's head meant that God had intended an earthly crown for her, had she not herself renounced it by returning it to the Virgin, who would keep her a heavenly crown instead. Both father and daughter had forgotten all about this prediction,[Pg 127] or, if not forgotten entirely, they only thought of it as a dream, when chance, or rather, shall we say, Providence, who was watching over the interests of fifty-three millions of men, brought Constantine and Jeannette face to face.
This woman was Poland's guardian angel, Jeannette Groudzenska. Once, when she was just a child, she was praying in the Metropolitan Church of Warsaw, in front of an image of the Virgin, when a crown of everlasting flowers that had been placed at the foot of the picture fell onto her head and stayed there until she took it off and put it back on its nail. When she got home, Jeannette told her father about this incident, and he shared it with an old Ukrainian Cossack who was thought to have prophetic abilities. The old Cossack said that the crown falling on the girl's head meant that God had planned an earthly crown for her, had she not chosen to return it to the Virgin, who would instead grant her a heavenly crown. Both father and daughter had completely forgotten about this prediction,[Pg 127] or, if not entirely forgotten, they considered it a dream, when fate, or should we say Providence, who was looking out for the interests of fifty-three million people, brought Constantine and Jeannette together.
Then it came about that that hot-blooded savage, that roaring bear, became as timid as a young girl; he who broke down all opposition, who disposed of the lives of fathers and the honour of their children, came bashfully to the old father to ask for the hand of Jeannette, imploring him not to refuse him the being without whose presence he could never be happy again. The old man recollected the Cossack's prediction, and, seeing in the viceroy's request the fulfilment of Almighty designs, the viceroy obtained his consent and that of the daughter. Then the emperor's sanction had to be obtained. Alexander had a constant dread of what would become of the empire in Constantine's hands. More than anyone else did he feel the responsibility of having had the charge of souls committed to him from Heaven. He therefore tried to utilise this love affair for the benefit of the community at large, though without much hope that he would succeed. He granted his consent on condition that Constantine would abdicate his succession, and awaited the brother's answer as anxiously as his brother waited for his. Constantine received the imperial despatch, opened it, read it, gave a shout of delight and renounced his rights. Yes, that strange, inexplicable man renounced his right to the throne, he, an Olympian Jove, before whose frown a whole people trembled. He gave up his twofold right to both an Eastern and a Western sovereignty in exchange for the heart of a young girl—an empire containing two great capitals and territory that began at the shores of the Baltic and ended at the Rocky Mountains, an empire washed by seven seas.
Then it happened that that hot-headed savage, that roaring bear, became as shy as a young girl; he who crushed all opposition, who took the lives of fathers and the honor of their children, approached the old man to ask for Jeannette’s hand, begging him not to deny him the person without whom he could never be happy again. The old man remembered the Cossack's prediction, and, seeing the viceroy's request as part of a higher plan, he gave his consent along with that of his daughter. Next, the emperor’s approval needed to be secured. Alexander was constantly worried about what would happen to the empire in Constantine's hands. More than anyone, he felt the weight of having the care of souls entrusted to him from Heaven. So, he tried to use this love story for the good of the community, even though he didn’t expect to succeed. He agreed, on the condition that Constantine would give up his claim to the throne, and he waited anxiously for his brother’s response, just as his brother waited for his. Constantine received the imperial message, opened it, read it, let out a shout of joy, and renounced his rights. Yes, that strange, unfathomable man gave up his claim to the throne, he, an Olympian Jove, before whose glare an entire nation trembled. He forfeited his dual right to both Eastern and Western power in exchange for the heart of a young girl—an empire with two great capitals and land stretching from the Baltic Sea to the Rocky Mountains, an empire surrounded by seven seas.
Jeannette Groudzenska received from the Emperor Alexander in exchange, the title of Princess of Lovics.
Jeannette Groudzenska was granted the title of Princess of Lovics by Emperor Alexander in return.
Nevertheless, when the news of the death of the Emperor Alexander reached St. Petersburg, the Grand-Duke Nicolas ignored the fact of the renunciation, took oath of allegiance[Pg 128] to the Grand-Duke Constantine and despatched a messenger to him to invite him to come and take possession of the throne. But at the same time that this letter was being carried from St. Petersburg to Warsaw, the Grand-Duke Michel was on his way from Warsaw to St. Petersburg with the following letter from Constantine to his brother:—
Nevertheless, when the news of Emperor Alexander's death reached St. Petersburg, Grand Duke Nicolas ignored the abdication, swore allegiance[Pg 128] to Grand Duke Constantine, and sent a messenger to invite him to come and claim the throne. But at the same time that this letter was being delivered from St. Petersburg to Warsaw, Grand Duke Michael was traveling from Warsaw to St. Petersburg with a letter from Constantine to his brother:—
"MY VERY DEAR BROTHER,—It was with the most profound
grief that I learnt yesterday evening the news of the
death of our adored sovereign and my benefactor, the Emperor
Alexander. I hasten to express to you my feelings of sorrow
at this cruel misfortune, and at the same time I beg to
inform you that I am sending a letter by the same hands
to Her Imperial Majesty, our royal mother, in which I declare
that, in accordance with the edict I obtained dated February
1822, sanctioning my renunciation of the throne, it is still
my unalterable resolution to cede to you all my rights of
succession to the throne of the Emperor of All the Russias.
I therefore beg our beloved mother and those who are
concerned in this matter, to announce that my wishes in this
respect are still unchanged, in order that matters may be
settled as arranged.
"Having made this declaration, I look upon it as my sacred
duty very humbly to beseech your Imperial Majesty to let me
be the first to swear faithful allegiance and submission to you,
and to allow me to assert that I do not wish for any fresh
dignity or any new title; I wish simply and solely to maintain
my title of Czarovitch, which my revered father condescended
to confer upon me in recognition of my services. Henceforth
my only happiness will be to tender your Imperial Majesty
tokens of my profoundest respect and of my unbounded
devotion; I can offer in pledge thereof more than thirty years
of faithful service, and the unswerving zeal that I have displayed
towards my imperial father and brother. Animated by these
sentiments, I will not cease to serve your Imperial Majesty
and your successors as long as life shall be granted me, in my
present office and functions.—I am, with the most profound
respect,MY DEAR BROTHER,—I was very saddened to hear last night about the passing of our beloved emperor, Alexander, who was also my supporter. I want to express my sorrow over this tragic loss and let you know that I am sending a letter by the same means to Her Imperial Majesty, our royal mother. In that letter, I mention that according to the decree I received in February 1822, which allowed me to step down from the throne, I remain committed to giving up all my rights to succeed to the throne of the Emperor of All the Russias. I ask our dear mother and everyone involved to communicate that my wishes regarding this matter are unchanged, so that everything can proceed as planned. "Having made this declaration, I feel it is my duty to respectfully request that your Imperial Majesty allow me to be the first to pledge my loyalty and obedience to you. I want to make it clear that I do not seek any new honor or title; I simply wish to keep my title of Czarovitch, which my esteemed father granted me in recognition of my services. From now on, my greatest joy will be to show your Imperial Majesty my deepest respect and unwavering loyalty. I can prove this with over thirty years of dedicated service and my steadfast commitment to my imperial father and brother. Driven by these feelings, I will continue to serve your Imperial Majesty and your successors for as long as I live, in my current role and functions.—I am, with the utmost respect,
CONSTANTINE"
CONSTANTINE"
The day after the Grand-Duke Nicolas had despatched his courier to the czarovitch, the Council of State had informed[Pg 129] him that they had been commissioned to keep a document for him, that had been handed to their care on 15 October 1823, sealed with the seal of the Emperor Alexander and accompanied by an autograph letter from His Majesty, who had charged them to keep the document until further orders, and in case of death to open it at an extraordinary session.
The day after Grand-Duke Nicolas sent his messenger to the czarovitch, the Council of State informed[Pg 129] him that they had been tasked with holding onto a document that was given to them on October 15, 1823, sealed with the seal of Emperor Alexander and accompanied by a handwritten letter from His Majesty. He had instructed them to keep the document safe until further notice, and in the event of his death, to open it in an extraordinary session.
Now, as the emperor had died, the Council of State had opened the package, and within a double wrapping they found the Grand-Duke Constantine's renunciation of the Empire of All the Russias. This renunciation was couched in the following terms:—
Now that the emperor had passed away, the Council of State opened the package, and inside a double wrapping, they discovered the Grand-Duke Constantine's resignation from the Empire of All the Russias. This resignation was stated in the following terms:—
"SIRE,—I am emboldened by the many proofs of your Imperial Majesty's kindness towards me to venture to crave your further indulgence and to lay my humble petitions at your feet. As I do not think myself fitted by my mental endowments and qualifications, nor gifted with sufficient capability, should I ever be called upon to fulfil the high position my birth would entitle me to assume, I earnestly implore your Imperial Majesty to transfer my rights to my immediate successor, and thus to place the empire for ever upon a stable foundation. So far as I am concerned, my renunciation will give an additional guarantee and added strength to the solemn oath I took, at the time of my divorce from my first wife. The existing condition of things establishes me more firmly in the opinion, day by day, that I am right in taking this step, and it will prove the sincerity of my sentiments to the empire and to the whole world.
SIRE,—I feel encouraged by your kindness towards me to ask for your further understanding and to present my humble requests. I don’t think I have the intellect or abilities, nor do I believe I possess the capacity needed if I'm ever called to assume the high position my birth would allow me to hold. I sincerely ask your Imperial Majesty to pass my rights to my immediate successor, ensuring that the empire is built on a strong foundation for the future. For me, giving up my rights will provide an additional guarantee and reinforce the solemn promise I made at the time of my divorce from my first wife. The current situation only strengthens my belief that I'm making the right decision, and it will demonstrate the sincerity of my commitment to the empire and to the world.
"May your Imperial Majesty be moved to listen favourably to my entreaties, to influence our noble mother to look upon matters in the same light and to sanction my wishes with your imperial consent!
"May Your Imperial Majesty kindly consider my requests, persuade our honorable mother to see things the same way, and grant your imperial approval to my wishes!"
"In the sphere of a private life I will ever strive to set a good example to your faithful subjects and to all who are animated by a feeling of affection towards our beloved country.—I remain, with the most profound respect,
"In my private life, I will always strive to set a good example for your loyal subjects and for everyone inspired by love for our beloved country.—I remain, with the deepest respect,"
CONSTANTINE"
CONSTANTINE"
To this letter the emperor had made the following reply:—
To this letter, the emperor replied:—
"MY VERY DEAR BROTHER,—I have just read your letter with all the attention it deserves. I am not surprised at its[Pg 130] contents, since I have always understood and appreciated the lofty sentiments of your heart; it has afforded me one proof more of your sincere attachment to the State, and of your far-seeing care for the preservation of its best interests. I have communicated the contents of your letter to our beloved mother, as you desired me; she has read it with the same feelings as those I have expressed and gratefully recognises the noble motives that have prompted you. After consideration of the reasons you have laid before us, the only course we feel free to take is to leave you full liberty to follow your fixed determination and to ask Almighty God to bless your single-hearted zeal, and to cause it to produce a happy issue.—I am ever your very affectionate brother,
"MY DEAR BROTHER,—I just read your letter with the attention it deserves. I’m not surprised by what it says, as I have always recognized and valued the noble feelings in your heart; it’s another testament to your genuine commitment to the State and your thoughtful concern for its best interests. As you requested, I’ve shared the letter with our beloved mother; she has read it with the same feelings I’ve expressed and is thankful for the noble intentions behind your words. After considering the reasons you mentioned, we believe the best course is to let you follow your firm decision and to pray that Almighty God blesses your sincere dedication and leads it to a successful outcome.—I am always your very affectionate brother,"
ALEXANDER"
ALEXANDER"
Nicolas, however, waited for the czarovitch's reply, and not until 25 December did he issue a manifesto accepting the throne that had devolved upon him by his elder brother's renunciation. He then fixed the following day, the 26th, for the taking of the oath of allegiance to himself and to his eldest son, the Grand-Duke Alexander.
Nicolas, however, waited for the czarovitch's response, and not until December 25 did he release a statement accepting the throne that had come to him after his older brother renounced it. He then scheduled the next day, December 26, for the oath of allegiance to be taken for himself and his eldest son, Grand Duke Alexander.
And that is the strange story of these two brothers and the refusal of one of the most splendid crowns the world has to offer, and how Constantine remained simply the Czarovitch and Nicolas became the Emperor of All the Russias.
And that is the strange story of these two brothers and the refusal of one of the most magnificent crowns the world has to offer, and how Constantine stayed simply the Czarovitch while Nicolas became the Emperor of All the Russias.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
Rousseau and Romieu—Conversation with the porter—The eight hours' candle—The Deux Magots—At what hour one should wind up one's watch—M. le sous-préfet enjoys a joke—Henry Monnier—A paragraph of information—On suppers—On cigars
Rousseau and Romieu—Talk with the doorman—The eight-hour candle—The Deux Magots—When to set your watch—Mr. Deputy Prefect enjoys a good joke—Henry Monnier—A quick info update—About dinners—About cigars
While these great events were happening in high political spheres, our humble fortunes were on the wane. The hundred louis that my mother had brought with her had come to an end; we were aghast to find we had spent nearly 4000 francs within a year and a half—nearly 11 1800 francs, that is to say, more than we ought to have done, t; It was therefore imperative that I should fulfil my promises and add to my salary by working out of my office hours.
While all these major events were unfolding in the upper echelons of politics, our modest finances were declining. The hundred louis my mother brought with her had run out; we were shocked to discover we had spent nearly 4,000 francs in a year and a half—about 11,800 francs, which is more than we should have. Thus, it was essential for me to keep my promises and boost my salary by working outside my office hours.
De Leuven and I had stuck valiantly and persistently at collaborating together, but nothing had come of it—a result that made us bitterly inveigh aloud against the injustice of managers, and the want of taste of directorates, although, under my breath, I was more just in my criticism of our efforts, and frankly admitted to myself that were I a manager I would not have accepted my own work. So we made up our minds to make certain sacrifices, and ask Rousseau to join us, in order that he might add those indescribable finishing touches to our works which would make all the difference in the world. These sacrifices consisted in our procuring several bottles of good old Bordeaux, some flasks of rum and some loaf-sugar. Rousseau belonged to the famous school of Favart, Radet, Collé, Désaugiers, Armand Gouffé and Company, who never[Pg 132] worked save to the sound of the popping of corks, with the vision of seething fumes of punch-bowls before their eyes. Rousseau had a reputation which, later, he was most unwillingly obliged to share with his illustrious collaborator Romieu. At a certain period I should not have dared to speak thus of the famous prefect of the Dordogne, for fear of injuring his political career. It will be remembered what distress was caused by the news (which happily proved to be false) of his having been devoured by bugs, and how his partisans hastened to fling back the ill-natured jest into the face of the wretched papers that had spread the report. It is, alas! so difficult for an intellectual man to be forgiven his wit, and for a funny man to pass for a serious one, that Romieu had scarcely begun to recover from this duplex reputation, unluckily but too well deserved, when, after ten years at the sous-préfecture and préfecture, a similar fate overtook him to that of the poor Roman cobbler who taught a raven to exclaim, "Vive César Auguste!" the Cæsar Augustus of France fell, and all Romieu's pains and labours were lost, opera et impensa periit. Romieu retired into private life, and the fall above referred to, which, contrary to the laws of gravity, operated from the base upwards, gave us full liberty with respect to the author of the Enfant trouvé and the Ère des Césars.
De Leuven and I had tried hard to work together, but nothing came of it—a result that made us angrily complain about the unfairness of managers and the lack of taste among directors, even though I quietly acknowledged that if I were a manager, I wouldn't accept my own work. So we decided to make some sacrifices and invite Rousseau to join us, hoping he could add those indescribable finishing touches to our works that would really make a difference. These sacrifices included getting several bottles of good old Bordeaux, some flasks of rum, and some loaf sugar. Rousseau came from the famous school of Favart, Radet, Collé, Désaugiers, Armand Gouffé, and Company, who only worked to the sound of popping corks, imagining steaming punch bowls in front of them. Rousseau had a reputation which, later on, he was reluctantly forced to share with his prominent collaborator Romieu. There was a time when I wouldn’t have dared to speak like this about the famous prefect of the Dordogne for fear of hurting his political career. It’ll be remembered how much distress was caused by the news (which thankfully turned out to be false) of him being eaten alive by bugs, and how his supporters rushed to throw the nasty joke back at the unfortunate newspapers that spread the rumor. It’s so hard for an intellectual to be forgiven for their wit, and for a funny person to be taken seriously, that Romieu had barely begun to shake off this dual reputation—unfortunately well deserved—when, after ten years at the sous-préfecture and préfecture, he faced a fate similar to that of the poor Roman cobbler who taught a raven to shout, "Vive César Auguste!" The Cæsar Augustus of France fell, and all of Romieu’s work and efforts were lost, opera et impensa periit. Romieu withdrew from public life, and the downfall mentioned above, which oddly operated from the ground up, gave us full freedom regarding the author of the Enfant trouvé and the Ère des Césars.
In 1825, then, Romieu was collaborating with Rousseau; but, as in the case of Adolphe and myself, they got absolutely nothing out of it beyond a crowd of adventures each more delightfully amusing than its predecessor, which defrayed their expenses at the café du Roi and the café des Variétés.
In 1825, Romieu was working with Rousseau; but, like Adolphe and me, they gained nothing from it except for a series of adventures, each one more entertaining than the last, which covered their costs at the café du Roi and the café des Variétés.
Let us make it clear, for there might be some ambiguity in the matter, and it might be thought that something also came out of our collaboration.
Let’s make it clear, since there might be some confusion about this, and it could be assumed that something also resulted from our collaboration.
No, nothing at all came of ours: Adolphe had always been as jolly as a Trappist monk, while I, although by nature extremely light-hearted, was only able to laugh at the farces of others, without ever being able, in all the farces that were made, to be more than a simple spectator. I profoundly admired Rousseau's and Romieu's cleverness in these lines. So there were few[Pg 133] nights when Rousseau especially (who could not carry his wine as well as Romieu, but who, it should be acknowledged, went in for excellent wines), abandoned to himself by his treacherous Pylades, had to be led home by some patrol or other, and taken to the police-station for making a nocturnal uproar. But Rousseau was like those children who, as a precaution against their being lost, are taught their name and address. Rousseau had deeply engraved upon his memory the name of a certain police-officer of his acquaintance, and it was so firmly embedded there that neither wine, nor brandy, nor rum nor punch was powerful enough to wash it out. Rousseau staggering, Rousseau stuttering, Rousseau tight, Rousseau drunk, Rousseau dead drunk, Rousseau forgetful of the name and address of his mother, the name and address of Romieu, his own name and his own address, could always distinctly articulate the name and address of that particular police-officer!
No, nothing came of our friendship: Adolphe was always as cheerful as a Trappist monk, while I, although naturally quite light-hearted, could only laugh at the antics of others, never being able to participate in all the antics that unfolded, always just a mere spectator. I greatly admired Rousseau's and Romieu's cleverness in those moments. So there were few[Pg 133] nights when Rousseau, especially (who couldn’t handle his wine as well as Romieu, but who, it must be said, preferred excellent wines), left to his own devices by his unreliable friend, had to be escorted home by some patrol and taken to the police station for causing a late-night ruckus. But Rousseau was like those kids who, for safety, are taught their name and address. Rousseau had firmly memorized the name of a certain police officer he knew, and it was so well engraved in his mind that neither wine, nor brandy, nor rum nor punch was strong enough to forget it. Rousseau staggering, Rousseau slurring, Rousseau tipsy, Rousseau drunk, Rousseau completely wasted, even forgetting his mother’s name and address, the name and address of Romieu, his own name and his own address, could always clearly say the name and address of that specific police officer!
And as no one could refuse a man as drunk as he was the reasonable request to be taken to a police-officer, Rousseau was taken to his friend, who delivered him a formal lecture, but always wound up by setting him free.
And since no one could deny a guy as drunk as he was the sensible request to be taken to a police officer, Rousseau was brought to his friend, who gave him a serious talk but always ended up letting him go.
Once, however, the lecture was more keen than usual, and Rousseau listened to it looking very penitent. Then, as the police-officer upbraided him for disturbing his slumbers, thus waking him night after night, Rousseau responded—
Once, however, the lecture was sharper than usual, and Rousseau listened with a very remorseful expression. Then, as the police officer scolded him for interrupting his sleep, waking him night after night, Rousseau replied—
"You are quite right, and I promise you I will henceforth have myself taken before someone else once every three times."
"You’re absolutely right, and I promise I will make sure to get myself seen by someone else once every three times from now on."
He kept his word. But all police-officers were not so long-suffering as good M.—. The first one before whom Rousseau appeared sent him to the Saint-Martin guard-room and kept him there for a couple of days. After this experience he decided to go back to his old habit.
He kept his promise. But not all police officers were as patient as good M.—. The first one Rousseau encountered sent him to the Saint-Martin guardroom and kept him there for a few days. After this experience, he decided to return to his old ways.
Rousseau and Romieu were very fond of playing pranks on porters and grocers. Rousseau would put his head in at a porter's grille and call out—
Rousseau and Romieu loved pulling pranks on porters and grocers. Rousseau would stick his head through a porter's grille and shout—
"Good-day, my friend."
"Good day, my friend."
"Good-day, monsieur."
"Hello, sir."
"May I ask what bird that is you have in your window?"
"Can I ask what kind of bird you have in your window?"
"It is a blackcap, monsieur."
"It's a blackcap, sir."
"Ah! indeed!... Why do you keep a blackcap?"
"Ah! Seriously!... Why do you have a blackcap?"
"Because it sings so nicely, monsieur."
"Because it sounds so beautiful, sir."
"Really?"
"Seriously?"
"Stop and listen...."
"Stop and listen..."
And the porter would put his hands on his hips and wag his head up and down with a smile on his face as he listened to the singing of his blackcap.
And the porter would place his hands on his hips and nod his head up and down with a smile on his face as he listened to the song of his blackcap.
"Ah! you are right!... You are married?"
"Wow! You're right!... You're married?"
"Yes, monsieur,—been married three times."
"Yes, sir—I’ve been married three times."
"And where is your woman?"
"And where's your girl?"
"My wife, Monsieur means?"
"My wife, what does Monsieur mean?"
"Yes, of course, your wife."
"Sure, your wife."
"She is at the lodger's, on the fifth floor."
"She’s at the renter’s place, on the fifth floor."
"Indeed! indeed! And what is she doing at the lodger's on the fifth floor?"
"Really! Really! And what is she doing with the tenant on the fifth floor?"
"Charing."
"Charging."
"Is the lodger on the fifth floor young or old?"
"Is the tenant on the fifth floor young or old?"
"Between the two."
"Between both."
"Good.... And your children?"
"Good... How are your kids?"
"I haven't any."
"I don't have any."
"You haven't any?"
"Don't you have any?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Then what have you been about during your three marriages?"
"Then what have you been doing during your three marriages?"
"Excuse me ... does Monsieur want someone?"
"Excuse me… does the gentleman need something?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Monsieur wants something?"
"Do you want something?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Well, for the past quarter of an hour Monsieur has been asking me question after question."
"Well, for the past fifteen minutes, the gentleman has been asking me one question after another."
"Yes."
Yes.
"What did you mean by these questions?"
"What did you mean by these questions?"
"Nothing at all."
"Not a thing."
"What! nothing at all?... But surely Monsieur had some reason?"
"What! Nothing at all? ... But surely you must have had some reason?"
"None."
"None."
"Monsieur had no reason?"
"Did Monsieur have a reason?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Well, then, I should much like to know why Monsieur did me the honour ...?"
"Well, I'd really like to know why you honored me with your presence...?"
"Why, I was passing by ... I saw the words over your lodge 'Speak to the porter,' so I spoke to you."
"Well, I was walking by ... I saw the sign above your place 'Speak to the porter,' so I talked to you."
Romieu would enter a grocer's shop.
Romieu walked into a grocery store.
"Good-morning, monsieur."
"Good morning, sir."
"Monsieur, your very humble servant."
"Sir, your humble servant."
"Have you candles eight to the pound?"
"Do you have candles that weigh eight to the pound?"
"Certainly, monsieur, plenty of them; it is an article much in demand, for there are more small purses than large ones."
"Of course, sir, there are plenty of them; it's a highly sought-after item since there are more small wallets than large ones."
"Your observation, monsieur, savours of higher matters than groceries."
"Your observation, sir, touches on more important issues than groceries."
Romieu and the grocer bowed to each other.
Romieu and the grocer nodded to each other.
"You flatter me, monsieur."
"You compliment me, sir."
"Monsieur said that he wanted ...?"
"Monsieur said that he wanted ...?"
"One candle of eight to the pound."
"One candle weighs 8 ounces."
"Only one?"
"Just one?"
"Yes, at first; later, I will see."
"Yeah, for now; I'll figure it out later."
The grocer took a candle out of a packet.
The grocer took a candle out of a package.
"Here it is, monsieur."
"Here it is, sir."
"Will you cut it in half? I detest fingering candles!"
"Can you cut it in half? I really hate handling candles!"
"Quite so, monsieur; they have such a strong smell.... Here is your candle in two pieces."
"Absolutely, sir; they have such a strong smell.... Here is your candle, in two pieces."
"Ah! now will you be good enough to cut each of those halves into four pieces?"
"Ah! Now could you please cut each of those halves into four pieces?"
"Into four?"
"Divide into four?"
"Yes; I need eight pieces of candle for my purpose."
"Yes, I need eight candles for my purpose."
"Here are your eight pieces, monsieur."
"Here are your eight pieces, sir."
"Pardon me, will you oblige me by preparing the wicks for me?"
"Excuse me, could you please help me by getting the wicks ready?"
"The whole eight?"
"The whole eight?"
"Seven rather, since one naturally has its wick ready."
"Seven, actually, since one naturally has its wick ready."
"Quite so."
"Absolutely."
"That is all right ... there, there, very good ... there,[Pg 136] thank you. Now then ... place them on the counter at three inches' distance from one another.... Ah!..."
"That's fine ... there, there, very good ... there,[Pg 136] thank you. Now then ... put them on the counter three inches apart from each other.... Ah!..."
"But what on earth is that for?"
"But what the heck is that for?"
"You will see.... Now, would you have the goodness to lend me a lucifer match?"
"You'll see.... Now, would you be kind enough to lend me a match?"
"Certainly ... take one."
"Sure ... grab one."
"Thanks."
"Thank you."
And Romieu would solemnly light the eight candle-ends.
And Romieu would seriously light the eight candle stubs.
"But what is that for, monsieur?"
"But what is that for, sir?"
"I am creating a farce."
"I'm making a comedy."
"A farce?"
"Is this a joke?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"And now ...?"
"And now what?"
"And now the farce is done, I am going"; and Romieu would nod to the grocer and make off.
"And now the show is over, I’m leaving," and Romieu would nod to the grocer and head out.
"What! are you going without paying for the candle?" shrieked the grocer. "At least pay for the candle."
"What! You're leaving without paying for the candle?" yelled the grocer. "At least pay for the candle."
Romieu would turn round—
Romieu would turn around—
"If I paid for the candle, where would be the farce?"
"If I paid for the candle, where would the joke be?"
And he would go on his way quite heedless of the grocer's objurgations.
And he would keep going, completely ignoring the grocer's complaints.
Occasionally, Romieu's ambitions would soar higher than teasing grocers, and he would play irreverent pranks in higher circles of commerce.
Occasionally, Romieu's ambitions would reach beyond just teasing grocers, and he would pull cheeky pranks in more elite business circles.
One evening, he was passing along the rue de Seine, at the corner of the rue de Bussy, at half-past twelve midnight, when an assistant was preparing to close the shop of les Deux Magots. Generally, the establishment closed at eleven, so it was unusually late.
One evening, he was walking down the rue de Seine, at the corner of the rue de Bussy, at twelve-thirty midnight, when a staff member was getting ready to close the shop of les Deux Magots. Normally, the place closed at eleven, so it was pretty late.
Romieu rushed inside the shop.
Romieu hurried into the shop.
"Where is the proprietor of the establishment?"
"Where is the owner of the place?"
"M. P——?"
"M. P—?"
"Yes."
"Yeah."
"He has gone to bed."
"He's gone to bed."
"Has he been gone long?"
"Has he been gone for awhile?"
"About an hour."
"Approximately an hour."
"But he sleeps in the house?"
"But he sleeps at home?"
"Certainly."
"Sure."
"Take me to him."
"Take me to him."
"But, monsieur...."
"But, sir...."
"Without delay."
"Right away."
"But...."
"But..."
"Instantly."
"Immediately."
"Is your communication then of so pressing a nature?"
"Is your communication really that urgent?"
"It is so important that I shudder lest I be too late."
"It’s so important that I shudder at the thought of being too late."
"Since Monsieur assures me...."
"Since Mr. assures me...."
"Come, take me to him, take me to him quickly!"
"Come on, take me to him, take me to him fast!"
The assistant did not wait to close the shop, but took Romieu through into an anteroom, where M. P—— was snoring like a bass-viol.
The assistant didn't wait to close the shop; instead, he took Romieu into an anteroom, where M. P—— was snoring loudly like a bass viol.
"M. P——! M. P——!..." shouted the shopboy.
"M. P——! M. P——!..." shouted the shop boy.
"Well, what is it? Go to the devil with you! What do you want?"
"Well, what is it? Screw you! What do you want?"
"It is not I...."
"It's not me...."
"What do you mean by saying it is not you?"
"What do you mean when you say it's not you?"
"No, it is a gentleman who wishes a few words with you."
"No, it's a gentleman who would like to speak with you."
"At this time of night?"
"At this hour?"
"He says it is very urgent."
"He says it's super urgent."
"Where is the gentleman?"
"Where is the guy?"
"He is at the door. Come in, monsieur, come in."
"He’s at the door. Come in, sir, come in."
Romieu entered on tiptoe, hat in hand, with a smiling countenance.
Romieu came in quietly on his toes, holding his hat, with a smile on his face.
"Pardon, monsieur, a thousand pardons for disturbing you."
"Excuse me, sir, I'm really sorry for disturbing you."
"Oh, do not mention it, monsieur; it is nothing. What is your business?"
"Oh, don’t mention it, sir; it’s nothing. What brings you here?"
"I wish to speak with your partner."
"I want to talk to your partner."
"With my partner?"
"With my significant other?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"But I have no partner."
"But I don't have a partner."
"You haven't?"
"Have you not?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Then why put on your sign, 'Aux Deux Magots'? It deceives the public!"
"Then why put up your sign, 'Aux Deux Magots'? It misleads the public!"
But sometimes it happened that the hoaxer was recognised, and then he was caught in his own trap.
But sometimes the trickster was recognized, and then they got caught in their own trap.
One day Rousseau went into a watchmaker's.
One day, Rousseau walked into a watch shop.
"Monsieur, I wish to see some good watches."
"Mister, I’d like to take a look at some nice watches."
"Monsieur, here is the very article you desire."
"Mister, here is exactly what you want."
"Whose make is it?"
"Who made it?"
"Leroy's."
"Leroy's."
"Who is Leroy?"
"Who's Leroy?"
"One of the most famous of my craft."
"One of the most famous in my field."
"Then you can guarantee it?"
"Can you guarantee it then?"
"I can."
"I can do it."
"How many times a week does it need winding?"
"How many times a week does it need to be wound?"
"Once."
"One time."
"Morning or evening?"
"Morning or evening?"
"Whichever you prefer; though it is really better to wind it in the morning."
"Whichever you prefer; however, it's actually better to do it in the morning."
"Why so?"
"Why is that?"
"Because one may be drunk in the evening, Monsieur Rousseau, and break the mainspring."
"Because someone might be drunk in the evening, Monsieur Rousseau, and break the mainspring."
Rousseau was caught this time; he left, promising the watchmaker his custom—a promise he never fulfilled, bearing in mind the watchmaker's retort.
Rousseau got caught this time; he left, promising the watchmaker his business—a promise he never kept, considering the watchmaker's reply.
It will be seen that when Romieu became first a sub-prefect and then a prefect he could not continue this kind of pleasantry; nevertheless, I understand that the old Adam in him would crop out from time to time, for it is very difficult to efface natural propensities, which, according to the poet of Auteuil, will persist in returning full tilt.
It will be seen that when Romieu first became a sub-prefect and then a prefect, he could no longer keep up this kind of joking; however, I understand that his old instincts would show themselves from time to time, because it's really hard to get rid of natural tendencies, which, as the poet from Auteuil said, will keep coming back with full force.
So it is related that one night the sub-prefect was returning home at eleven o'clock, after supper;—when Romieu was in Paris and took supper out he never returned home until the following morning; but every creature knows, alas! that Paris is not the provinces!—and he caught sight of three or four street lads belonging to the district, busy throwing stones at the complimentary street lamp that was always lit in front of the sous-préfecture; however, as it was not Paris, but only a provincial town, the young guttersnipes were country lubbers,[Pg 139] and had already thrown four or five stones without being able to touch the spot. The sub-prefect saw them without being seen and shrugged his shoulders. Finally, being totally unable to contain himself at the sight of such clumsiness, he came up to them, took his place in the midst of the astonished urchins, picked up the first stone he saw, threw it—and behold, lo!—the lamp ceased to be a lamp. "That is how it should be done, messieurs," he said, and he entered his house, muttering—
So it happened that one night the sub-prefect was coming home at eleven o'clock after dinner; when Romieu was in Paris and ate out, he never got back until the next morning; but everyone knows, unfortunately, that Paris isn't like the provinces! He spotted three or four local boys from the neighborhood, busy throwing stones at the street lamp that was always on in front of the sous-préfecture; however, since it wasn't Paris but just a provincial town, the young troublemakers were inexperienced, and they had already thrown four or five stones without hitting the target. The sub-prefect watched them without being noticed and shrugged his shoulders. Finally, unable to hold back at the sight of such ineptitude, he approached them, joined the surprised kids, picked up the first stone he saw, threw it—and lo and behold!—the lamp stopped being a lamp. "That’s how it’s done, gentlemen," he said, and then he went into his house, mumbling—
"Oh! the young folk of to-day are a degenerate lot!"
"Oh! the young people of today are a messed-up bunch!"
Sometimes, too, M. le préfet, in his brave braided coat of office, would condescend to be gluttonous,—for who does not have his bad moments? even the wisest sin seven times a day, so surely the intellectual man may make a beast of himself once a year.
Sometimes, too, the prefect, in his impressive braided coat of office, would allow himself to indulge—because who doesn't have their weak moments? Even the wisest person makes mistakes seven times a day, so surely an intellectual can act like a beast once a year.
Henri Monnier, the witty caricaturist, charming creator of proverbes and friend of all, when passing through Périgueux, went to call on his old comrade Romieu and invited himself to dinner that day. M. le préfet gave a formal dinner party, the guests being mostly departmental officials, the stiffest and most punctilious he could find. It took a great deal to overawe Henri Monnier; he chattered away, told all sorts of tales just as freely as if he had been in his own house, or in yours or in mine; in other words, he was delightful. But he noticed that, although he persistently addressed Romieu in familiar language, Romieu was equally persistent in being formal with him.
Henri Monnier, the witty caricaturist and charming creator of proverbes, was friends with everyone. While passing through Périgueux, he visited his old friend Romieu and invited himself to dinner that day. M. le préfet hosted a formal dinner party, with most guests being departmental officials—the most serious and meticulous he could find. It took a lot to intimidate Henri Monnier; he chatted away and told all sorts of stories as easily as if he were in his own home or yours or mine. In other words, he was delightful. However, he noticed that even though he kept speaking to Romieu in a casual way, Romieu was just as determined to remain formal with him.
This was entirely contrary to their habits and customs. Henri Monnier made quite certain that he was not labouring under any misapprehension; then, when he was sure he was right, he shouted from one end of the table to the other, "Look here, my dear Romieu, why ever do you address me as you while I use the familiar thou? The company here will take you for my valet."
This was completely against their habits and customs. Henri Monnier made sure he wasn't misunderstanding anything; then, when he was confident he was right, he yelled from one end of the table to the other, "Hey, my dear Romieu, why do you call me you while I use the familiar thou? Everyone here will think you’re my servant."
Paris really missed Romieu when he left it, although it still possessed Rousseau; as the authorities were bent on making Romieu a prefect, Paris would have liked him to be prefect[Pg 140] of Paris, but apparently that was not possible. How could Romieu have left Rousseau behind him in Paris? Ah! Rousseau never forgave him for doing that! He wrote a very pretty song about it, which I will give my readers, if I can find it.
Paris really missed Romieu when he left, even though it still had Rousseau; the authorities were determined to make Romieu a prefect, and Paris would have loved for him to be the prefect[Pg 140] of Paris, but that obviously wasn't possible. How could Romieu have left Rousseau in Paris? Ah! Rousseau never forgave him for that! He wrote a beautiful song about it, which I'll share with my readers if I can find it.
When Romieu was appointed sub-prefect, Rousseau jumped for joy; it would, he argued, be a grave omission on the part of the Government to make Romieu a sub-prefect without giving Rousseau some title or other; and as Rousseau had not asked for even a sub-prefecture after the Revolution, it was but reasonable to refrain from blaming the Government, and, less proud than Cæsar, he was quite willing to play second fiddle. He went in search of Romieu.
When Romieu was appointed sub-prefect, Rousseau was thrilled; he argued that it would be a serious oversight by the Government to make Romieu a sub-prefect without giving Rousseau some title as well. Since Rousseau hadn’t even asked for a sub-prefecture after the Revolution, it seemed fair to not criticize the Government, and, being less proud than Cæsar, he was more than willing to take a secondary role. He went to find Romieu.
"Well done, my dear friend, I congratulate you."
"Great job, my friend, I’m so proud of you."
"Oh! you have heard?"
"Oh! You’ve heard?"
"The deuce I have!"
"The heck I have!"
"Yes, they have made me a sub-prefect."
"Yes, they’ve made me a sub-prefect."
"Well?"
"What's up?"
"Well, what?"
"What's up?"
"I hope you are thinking of me."
"I hope you're thinking of me."
"Thinking of you? In what way?"
"Thinking of you? How?"
"You will require a secretary, I should think."
"You'll need a secretary, I think."
"Yes, so I shall."
"Yes, I will."
"You have not got one yet?"
"Don't you have one yet?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Very well, that is my berth, then. Twelve hundred francs, board, lodging and your society. I could ask for nothing better."
"Alright, that’s my spot then. Twelve hundred francs, including meals, accommodation, and your company. I couldn't ask for anything more."
"Indeed?" said Romieu.
"Really?" said Romieu.
"Come, now!"
"Come on!"
"Return the day after to-morrow, and I will tell you if the thing be possible."
"Come back the day after tomorrow, and I’ll let you know if it’s possible."
"Possible! What the devil should prevent it ...?"
"Possible! What could possibly stop it...?"
Rousseau took his departure, and returned two days later. He found Romieu looking very serious, even anxious.
Rousseau left and came back two days later. He found Romieu looking very serious, even worried.
"Well?" he asked.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Well, my dear friend, I am in despair."
"Well, my dear friend, I'm feeling hopeless."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Impossible!"
"No way!"
"Impossible to take me with you?"
"Is it impossible to take me with you?"
"Yes ... you see...."
"Yeah ... you see...."
"No, I don't see."
"No, I don't get it."
"Before I could take you with me I had to make some inquiries."
"Before I could take you with me, I needed to ask a few questions."
"About me?"
"About me?"
"Yes, about you, and I learnt...."
"Yes, it's about you, and I found out...."
"You learnt ...?"
"You learned ...?"
"I learnt that you drank."
"I found out you drank."
Rousseau left; but this time he did not return again. Poor Rousseau! Three months before his death, he related this story to my son and me, with tears in his eyes.
Rousseau left; but this time he did not come back. Poor Rousseau! Three months before he died, he shared this story with my son and me, his eyes filled with tears.
"Romieu will come to a bad end," he said in tones as tragic as those of Calchas; "he is an ungrateful being."
"Romieu is going to meet a terrible fate," he said in a voice as dramatic as Calchas; "he's an ungrateful person."
May Heaven preserve Romieu from Rousseau's prediction!
May heaven protect Romieu from Rousseau's prediction!
Romieu stayed in the provinces for three years without coming back to Paris, and during those three years his absence led to great changes in the capital, as the following distich by an unknown author appears to state:—
Romieu was away in the provinces for three years without returning to Paris, and during that time, his absence caused significant changes in the capital, as this couplet by an unknown author suggests:—
"Lorsque Romieu revint du Monomotapa
Paris ne soupait plus, et Paris ressoupa."
"Quando Romieu voltou do Monomotapa
Paris já não jantava mais, e Paris refez o jantar."
I said great changes had taken place in Paris, I should have said fatal changes. The cessation of supper parties has brought about more troublesome consequences in a civilised world than might be supposed. I attribute our present state of intellectual degeneration to the cessation of supper parties and the innovation of the cigar. God forbid I should state that our sons' mental abilities are not equal to our own; I, at least, have a son who would not forgive me if I made such a statement. But they are of a different type of mind. Time alone can settle which is the better of the two.
I said that big changes have happened in Paris; I should have said disastrous changes. The end of dinner parties has caused more troublesome consequences in a civilized world than one might think. I blame our current state of intellectual decline on the end of dinner parties and the rise of cigars. Heaven forbid I claim that our sons' mental capabilities aren't on par with ours; I have a son who definitely wouldn't forgive me for saying that. But they think in a different way. Only time will tell which type of mind is better.
We men of forty years and upwards still preserve something of the aristocratic spirit of the eighteenth century, tempered with the chivalrous spirit of the Empire.
We men in our forties and older still hold onto some of the aristocratic spirit of the eighteenth century, mixed with the noble spirit of the Empire.
Women had great influence over minds of that period, and supper parties were a real social factor.
Women had a significant impact on people's thoughts during that time, and dinner parties were an important social event.
By eleven o'clock at night all the cares of the day are cast aside, and one knows there are still from six to eight hours to spend at one's ease between the night ends and day comes. When one sits at a well-filled table, face to face with a pretty girl, amid the pleasurable excitement of lights and flowers, the mind lets itself be carried away into the realm of dreams, though wide awake, and at such a time it attains its highest flights of brilliancy and exaltation. It is not only that one is more brilliant at supper-time than at any other meal, and that one has more wit than at any other repast, but one's very nature seems to be different.
By eleven o'clock at night, all the worries of the day are put aside, and you realize there are still six to eight hours to relax before night ends and day begins. When you sit at a well-stocked table, face to face with a beautiful girl, surrounded by the pleasing ambiance of lights and flowers, your mind allows itself to drift into a dreamlike state, even while you're fully awake, and at that moment, it reaches its highest levels of brilliance and excitement. It's not just that you're wittier at dinner than at any other meal, but your entire nature feels transformed.
I am sure that the greater number of the witty sayings of the eighteenth century were said at supper-time. Let us, therefore, have more of these supper parties, and we shall not lack what made them so brilliant.
I’m pretty sure that most of the clever remarks from the eighteenth century were made at dinner. So, let’s have more of these dinner parties, and we won’t be short on what made them so fantastic.
Now let us turn to the cigar. Formerly, after déjeuner, men and women would proceed to the billiard-room or to the garden; after dinner, they would adjourn to the drawing-room; and there the conversation would continue on the same lines, whether desultory or more general. Nowadays, men have scarcely risen from table before they say to one another, "Come, let us have a cigar."
Now let’s talk about the cigar. In the past, after lunch, men and women would head to the billiard room or the garden; after dinner, they would move to the living room, and there the conversation would keep going, whether it was random or more general. These days, men barely get up from the table before they say to each other, “Come on, let’s have a cigar.”
Then they go out, and walk up and down the pavements smoking. There they meet women also, but not at all capable of the same type of wit as those whom they have just left in the drawing-room. Men's minds are raised to the level of the women with whom they associate; one cannot demean oneself before the most lovely half of creation. And this generalisation is proved true every day.
Then they go out and stroll up and down the sidewalks smoking. There, they encounter women too, but these women aren't nearly as witty as those they just left in the living room. Men's minds are elevated to the level of the women they hang out with; you can't lower yourself in front of the most beautiful half of creation. And this generalization proves true every day.
One does not meet the same people in the public promenades two days running, but, though the people change, the type of conversation is pretty much the same always. Imperceptibly the tone of mind becomes lower. If you add to this the influence of the narcotic contained in tobacco, you can judge what the state of society will be in half a century if the[Pg 143] taste for the cigar goes on increasing incessantly. We shall have about as much intellectual activity in France in 1950 as there is in Holland at the present time.
You don’t see the same people in the public promenades two days in a row, but even though the faces change, the type of conversation is always pretty much the same. Gradually, the overall mood becomes more subdued. If you factor in the effects of the substances in tobacco, you can imagine what society will be like in half a century if the[Pg 143] popularity of cigars keeps growing. By 1950, we’ll have about as much intellectual activity in France as there is in Holland right now.
The reader will see that we have travelled far from Rousseau and Romieu. We have only Rousseau now to deal with, and let us, therefore, return to him.
The reader will see that we have come a long way from Rousseau and Romieu. Now we only have Rousseau to focus on, so let's return to him.
CHAPTER II
The lantern—La Chasse et l'Amour—Rousseau's part in it—The couplet about the hare—The couplet de facture—How there may be hares and hares—Reception at l'Ambigu—My first receipts as an author—Who Porcher was—Why no one might say anything against Mélesville
The lantern —La Chasse et l'Amour —Rousseau's involvement in it —The couplet about the hare —The couplet de facture —How there can be hares and hares —Reception at l'Ambigu —My first earnings as an author —Who Porcher was —Why nobody would say anything bad about Mélesville
De Leuven and I went to hunt up Rousseau, who was then living in the rue du Petit-Carreau with a woman. We found him in a mad state of mind. The night before, he had been supping, and supping very well, too, at Philippe's—I may as well mention here that I can recommend Philippe as the only man left at whose place one can still have a good supper. Rousseau had left with Romieu at about one o'clock in the morning, just tipsy. He had not taken two steps before the fresh air had its usual effect, and he became drunk; after walking about a hundred paces he was dead drunk. Romieu made heroic efforts to lead him as far as he could; but, when he had been dragged down to the pavement twice, he decided to place him in the safest position possible and then to leave him. Consequently, at thirty paces from his door, recognising the impossibility of dragging him farther, Romieu laid him comfortably down outside a fruiterer's shop-door, on a heap of cabbage leaves and dead carrot tops which he found there, propping his head up against a wall. Then, by the aid of his knuckles and boots, he knocked up a grocer hard by, where he bought a lantern, which he lighted and placed by Rousseau's side. Then he bid adieu to his unlucky friend, addressing him in the following terms, half in satisfaction of a duty fulfilled and half in supplication to the Powers above:—
De Leuven and I went to find Rousseau, who was living on rue du Petit-Carreau with a woman at the time. We found him in a really crazy state of mind. The night before, he had been having a great dinner at Philippe's—I should mention that I can recommend Philippe as the only person left where you can still enjoy a good meal. Rousseau had left with Romieu around one in the morning, just a bit tipsy. He hadn't walked more than two steps when the fresh air did its usual thing, and he ended up completely drunk; after walking about a hundred paces, he was out cold. Romieu made a heroic effort to guide him as far as he could, but after he had dragged him down to the pavement twice, he decided it was best to leave him in a safe spot. So, about thirty paces from Rousseau's door, realizing he couldn't drag him any further, Romieu laid him down comfortably outside a fruit shop, on a pile of cabbage leaves and dead carrot tops he found there, propping his head against a wall. Then, using his knuckles and boots, he knocked on the nearby grocer's door, bought a lantern, lit it, and placed it by Rousseau's side. After that, he said goodbye to his unfortunate friend, speaking to him in a way that was part satisfaction for a duty done and part a plea to the powers above:—
"And now, sleep peacefully, son of Epicurus. No one will trample upon you!"
"And now, sleep well, son of Epicurus. No one will bother you!"
Rousseau spent the night quite quietly, thanks to the lamp which kept watch over him, and he woke up finding two or three sous in his hand. Some kind souls had given him alms, taking him for a poor wretched outcast. But, as he was in his own neighbourhood, when daylight broke, he was recognised by both grocer and fruiterer, and was exceedingly humiliated by the fact. We comforted him by the offer of a good breakfast at the café des Variétés, and, being Sunday, and therefore a holiday, we afterwards took him off to Adolphe's rooms.
Rousseau spent the night pretty peacefully, thanks to the lamp that kept watch over him, and he woke up with a couple of coins in his hand. Some kind strangers had given him change, mistaking him for a poor, unfortunate outcast. But since he was in his own neighborhood, when morning came, both the grocer and the fruit vendor recognized him, and he felt extremely embarrassed by it. We cheered him up by inviting him to a nice breakfast at the café des Variétés, and since it was Sunday and a holiday, we later took him to Adolphe's place.
Adolphe had a very charming apartment at that time, almost as pretty as Soulié's. The house that M. Arnault had built in the rue de la Bruyère was a very nice one, and the de Leuven family had followed the Arnaults from the rue Pigalle to the rue de la Bruyère. We sat down and had some tea, Rousseau declaring he was dying of thirst, and then we each read in turn to our guest the whole of our literary attempts, in order that he might judge for himself which he thought worthiest of his exalted protection. By the time we had come to the second scene, Rousseau pretended that he could listen better if he lay down on Adolphe's bed, and consequently he mounted it; at the fourth scene he was snoring—which testified that, no matter how soft the bed of herbs lent him by the fruiterer in the rue du Petit-Carreau, one never sleeps properly when one stays out all night. We respected Rousseau's sleep, and waited patiently till he awoke again. When he awoke, his head felt heavy and he could not put two ideas together, so he asked to be allowed to take our MSS. away with him, and promised to read them carefully at home and let us know the result. We confided our treasures to him,—two melodramas and three comic operas,—and we arranged to dine with him at Adolphe's rooms on the following Thursday. Madame de Leuven herself undertook to see that the dinner should be good and well served, for she was conscious of the importance of the[Pg 146] occasion, and Rousseau was invited by letter as well as verbally. At the bottom of the letter, where' one puts on ball invitations "Dancing," we put, "There will be two bottles of champagne"; and Rousseau, of course, turned up.
Adolphe had a really charming apartment back then, almost as pretty as Soulié's. The house that M. Arnault built on rue de la Bruyère was lovely, and the de Leuven family had followed the Arnaults from rue Pigalle to rue de la Bruyère. We sat down and had some tea, with Rousseau saying he was dying of thirst, and then we each took turns reading our literary works to our guest so he could decide which ones he thought deserved his esteemed support. By the time we reached the second scene, Rousseau claimed he could listen better if he lay down on Adolphe's bed, and so he hopped onto it; by the fourth scene, he was snoring—which showed that, no matter how comfy the bed of herbs lent to him by the fruit seller on rue du Petit-Carreau, no one really sleeps well after staying out all night. We respected Rousseau's sleep and waited patiently for him to wake up. When he finally did, his head felt heavy, and he struggled to think straight, so he asked if he could take our manuscripts home with him, promising to read them carefully and let us know what he thought. We entrusted our treasures to him—two melodramas and three comic operas—and we agreed to have dinner with him at Adolphe's place the following Thursday. Madame de Leuven herself promised to ensure the dinner would be good and well-served because she understood the importance of the[Pg 146] occasion, and Rousseau was invited both by letter and in person. At the bottom of the letter, where you usually put "Dancing" for ball invitations, we wrote, "There will be two bottles of champagne"; and of course, Rousseau showed up.
Neither melodramas nor vaudevilles had pleased him. The melodramas were borrowed from novels too well known, from which plenty of melodramas had already been taken. The vaudevilles were founded on ideas which were dull from beginning to end. Stronger men than we might well have been cast down at such a verdict. But Adolphe had an idea which supported our courage and soothed our self-respect.
Neither melodramas nor vaudevilles had satisfied him. The melodramas were based on novels that were too familiar, from which many melodramas had already been adapted. The vaudevilles were based on ideas that were boring from start to finish. Stronger individuals than us could easily have been discouraged by such a judgment. But Adolphe had an idea that lifted our spirits and helped maintain our self-esteem.
"He has not read them," he whispered to me.
"He hasn't read them," he whispered to me.
"Quite likely," I replied.
"Very likely," I replied.
This semi-conviction somewhat restored our spirits. At dessert, I told several stories, and among them a hunting tale.
This partial sense of belief lifted our spirits a bit. During dessert, I shared several stories, including a hunting anecdote.
"What do you mean," exclaimed Rousseau, "by telling such capital stories as that and yet amusing yourself by cribbing melodramas from Florian and tales from M. Bouilly? Why, in the story you have just related, there is a comedietta complete in itself, la Chasse et l'Amour."
"What do you mean," exclaimed Rousseau, "by telling such great stories like that and then entertaining yourself by copying melodramas from Florian and tales from M. Bouilly? In the story you just told, there's a complete little comedy in itself, la Chasse et l'Amour."
"Do you think so?" we both exclaimed.
"Do you really think that?" we both asked.
(At that period of our friendship we addressed Rousseau in formal parlance.)
(At that time in our friendship, we spoke to Rousseau in formal language.)
"The deuce I do."
"Of course I do."
"But suppose we were to write this comedietta ...?"
"But what if we were to write this little comedy ...?"
"Let us do it!" we repeated in chorus.
"Let's do it!" we echoed together.
"Wait a moment; not so fast," said Rousseau. "There is still another bottle of champagne; let us drink it."
"Hold on a second; not so fast," said Rousseau. "There’s still another bottle of champagne; let’s drink it."
"Yes," said Adolphe, "and we must have a third to toast our new venture. We will begin work upon it immediately."
"Yeah," Adolphe said, "and we need a third person to toast to our new project. We'll start working on it right away."
"Amen!" cried Rousseau; and he raised his glass. "To the success of la Chasse et l'Amour!" he cried.
"Amen!" shouted Rousseau, and he lifted his glass. "To the success of la Chasse et l'Amour!" he exclaimed.
We took good care to do full justice to the toast, which was renewed until not one drop of the golden liquor was left in the bottle.
We made sure to fully enjoy the toast, which was repeated until there wasn't a single drop of the golden drink left in the bottle.
"The third bottle!" said Rousseau, as he drained the last drops of the second into his glass.
"The third bottle!" said Rousseau, as he finished the last drops of the second one into his glass.
"Let us set to work on the draft.... The third bottle shall be brought up."
"Let’s get started on the draft... The third bottle will be brought up."
"All right, let us start!" cried Rousseau.
"Okay, let's get started!" shouted Rousseau.
We rang for the servant, who removed the plates, dishes and cloth, leaving only the three glasses; then pens, ink and paper were put on the table, a pen was stuck into my hand, and the third bottle was brought up. It was emptied in a quarter of an hour's time, and by the end of an hour the plan was drawn up. Do not ask me to describe the play, I have no wish to remember it. We divided the twenty-one scenes which, I believe, composed the work, into three divisions of seven each. My seven were those of the beginning, Rousseau took the seven dealing with the denouement and de Leuven the middle seven. Then we arranged to meet again at dinner in a week's time to read the play, each undertaking to complete his part in a week. This was how plays of the old school were composed. Scribe has changed all that, after the fashion of Molière's doctor, who had located the liver on the left and the heart on the right. That which had been undertaken before Scribe's time in a spirit of caprice and flippancy was turned by him into a serious business. My seven scenes were written by the following night. At the appointed day we all met; both Adolphe and I had done our parts, but Rousseau had not written a word of his. He declared that he was so accustomed to writing in company that his ideas would not flow when he was alone, and he could not do a thing. We told Rousseau that that need certainly not stop him, for we would keep him company.
We called for the servant, who took away the plates, dishes, and tablecloth, leaving just the three glasses; then they brought pens, ink, and paper to the table, handed me a pen, and brought up the third bottle. It was finished in about fifteen minutes, and by the end of the hour, we had completed the outline. Don't ask me to describe the play; I don't want to remember it. We split the twenty-one scenes that made up the work into three groups of seven. I took the first seven, Rousseau took the last seven, and de Leuven handled the middle seven. We arranged to meet again for dinner in a week to read the play, with each of us promising to finish our sections in that time. This was how plays were written in the old days. Scribe changed all that, much like Molière's doctor who mislocated the liver on the left and the heart on the right. What used to be done with spontaneity and lightheartedness became a serious endeavor under Scribe's influence. I had my seven scenes written by the next night. On the scheduled day, we all gathered; both Adolphe and I had completed our parts, but Rousseau had written nothing. He claimed he was so used to writing with others that he couldn’t think clearly when he was by himself. We told Rousseau that wouldn't be a problem because we would keep him company.
It was arranged that the evening of that day should be given up to revising Adolphe's and my portions, and that the following day the sittings should begin, during which Rousseau should compose his part. My part was read, and was received with great applause—one couplet especially astonishing Rousseau. The comic rôle was filled by a Parisian sportsman, bespectacled, a sportsman of the plain of Saint-Denis, in fact;[Pg 148] and he sings the following lines in explanation of his prowess:—
It was decided that we'd spend that evening going over the parts for Adolphe and me, and that the next day we would start rehearsals, during which Rousseau would work on his section. My part was read, and it received a lot of praise—especially one couplet that really surprised Rousseau. The comic role was played by a bespectacled Parisian athlete from the plain of Saint-Denis; [Pg 148] and he sings these lines to explain his skills:—
"La terreur de la perdrix
Et l'effroi de la bécasse,
Pour mon adresse à la chasse,
On me cite dans Paris.
Dangereux comme la bombe,
Sous mes coups rien qui ne tombe,
Le cerf comme la colombe,
A ma seule vue, enfin,
Tout le gibier a la fièvre;
Car, pour mettre à has un lièvre,
Je sais un fameux lapin!"
"La terreur de la perdrix
Et l'effroi de la bécasse,
Pour mon adresse à la chasse,
On me cite dans Paris.
Dangereux comme la bombe,
Sous mes coups rien qui ne tombe,
Le cerf comme la colombe,
A ma seule vue, enfin,
Tout le gibier a la fièvre;
Car, pour mettre à has un lièvre,
Je sais un fameux lapin!"
Adolphe read his part, and received honourable mention for his workmanship in the couplet de facture.[1] No one nowadays has any knowledge of the couplet de facture, save the Nestors of art, who have pleasant memories of the his and ter [repeated encores] which almost always welcomed the couplet de facture. Here are Adolphe's couplets—to every man his due:—
Adolphe read his part and received honorable mention for his craftsmanship in the couplet de facture.[1] Nowadays, no one really knows what the couplet de facture is, except for the veterans of art, who have fond memories of the his and ter [repeated encores] that almost always greeted the couplet de facture. Here are Adolphe's couplets—everyone should get their due:—
AIR DU VAUDEVILLE DES BLOUSES
"Un seul instant examinez le monde,
Vous ne venez que chasseurs ici-bas.
Autour de moi quand on chasse à la ronde,
Pourquoi donc seul ne chasserais-je pas?
Dans nos salons, un fat parfumé d'ambre
De vingt beautés chasse à la fois les cœurs,
Un intrigant rampant dans l'antichambre
Chasse un cordon, un regard, des faveurs.
Sans consulter son miroir ni son âge,
Une coquette, à soixante-dix ans,
En minaudant, chasse encore l'hommage
Que l'on adresse à ses petits-enfants.
Un lourd journal que la haine dévore,
Toujours en vain chasse des souscripteurs;
Et l'Opéra, sans en trouver encore,
Depuis longtemps chasse des spectateurs.
Un jeune auteur, amant de Melpomène,
[Pg 149]Chasse la gloire et parvient à son but:
Un autre croit, sans prendre autant de peine,
Qu'il lui suffit de chasser l'Institut.
Pendant vingt ans, les drapeaux de la France
Sur l'univers flottèrent en vainqueurs,
Et l'étranger sait par expérience,
Si nos soldats sont tous de bons chasseurs:
Un seul instant examinez le monde,
Vous ne verrez que chasseurs ici-bas.
Autour de moi quand on chasse à la ronde,
Pourquoi donc seul ne chasserais-je pas?"
Vaudeville Air of Blouses
"Take a moment to look at the world,
You’re all just hunters down here.
While everyone else is hunting around me,
Why shouldn’t I hunt alone too?
In our salons, a self-important guy, sweetened with amber,
Is simultaneously hunting the hearts of twenty beauties,
A scheming creep lurking in the waiting room
Is after a ribbon, a glance, some favors.
Without checking their mirror or their age,
A flirt, at seventy years old,
Still pursues the admiration
That people send to her grandchildren.
A heavy newspaper ravaged by hate,
Always in vain, hunts for subscribers;
And the Opera, still not finding any,
Has long been hunting for audiences.
A young writer, in love with Melpomène,
[Pg 149]Is chasing glory and reaches his goal:
Another thinks, without much effort,
That it's enough to chase the Institute.
For twenty years, the flags of France
Floated victoriously across the world,
And foreigners know from experience,
That not all our soldiers are good hunters:
Take a moment to look at the world,
You’ll see only hunters down here.
While everyone else is hunting around me,
Why shouldn’t I hunt alone too?"
As we have said, only Rousseau's part now remained to be done. We set to work the following evening, but, because of the making up of the mail-bag, we could not begin until nine o'clock, and we did not finish before one in the morning. As I lived in the faubourg Saint-Denis, it fell to me to conduct Rousseau to the rue Poissonnière. But when Rousseau left our hands he was nearly always in a sound state of mind and body, so I had no occasion to go to the expense of purchasing lanterns to keep watch over him.
As we mentioned, only Rousseau's part was left to do. We got to work the next evening, but because we were busy with the mail-bag, we couldn't start until nine o'clock, and we didn't wrap things up until one in the morning. Since I lived in the faubourg Saint-Denis, it was my job to take Rousseau to rue Poissonnière. However, whenever Rousseau was in my care, he was usually in a pretty good state of mind and body, so I didn't need to spend money on lanterns to keep an eye on him.
When the play was finished, we had to consider to what theatre we would present our chef-d'œuvre. I had no preference in the matter; so long as the play was acted at all, and taken up promptly, I cared little at what house I was presented. Adolphe and Rousseau were in favour of the Gymnase, and, as I had nothing to say against that house, it was agreed. Rousseau asked for a reading, and, as he had had his pieces played there before, they could not refuse him a hearing. He therefore obtained a reading, though Poirson, who was the mainspring of the Gymnase, kept him waiting three weeks. There was nothing to be done but to wait—we had been waiting for the past two years!
When the play was finished, we needed to decide which theater to present our chef-d'œuvre. I didn’t have a strong opinion; as long as the play was performed and picked up quickly, I didn’t care much about where it was shown. Adolphe and Rousseau preferred the Gymnase, and since I had no objections, we all agreed on that. Rousseau requested a reading, and since he had previously had his works performed there, they couldn’t deny him a chance. He managed to get a reading, even though Poirson, who was the driving force behind the Gymnase, made him wait three weeks. There was nothing to do but wait—we had already been waiting for two years!
The great day arrived at last. We had arranged that the names of only two of the authors should appear in the matter. I generously yielded the post of honour to de Leuven, for I did not wish my name to be known until I had done some really important work. All depends in this world on a good beginning, and to make myself known by la Chasse et l'Amour, remarkable though that work was, did not seem to my[Pg 150] ambitious pride a sufficiently worthy début. For, although my hopes had been dwindling during the past two years, my pride was still to the fore. It was therefore decided that I should not appear either in the matter of the reading or on the play-bills, but that my name, Dumas, should be published when the play was printed.
The big day finally arrived. We had decided that only two authors' names would be listed in the material. I willingly gave the prestigious spot to de Leuven because I didn’t want my name to be known until I had produced something really significant. Everything in this world relies on a strong start, and having my name associated with la Chasse et l'Amour, impressive as it was, didn’t seem like a worthy introduction to my ambitious pride. Even though my hopes had been fading over the past two years, my pride was still intact. So, it was agreed that I wouldn't be listed in either the reading materials or the posters, but my name, Dumas, would be published when the play was printed.
The great day arrived at last. We breakfasted together at the café du Roi; then, at half-past ten, we separated: Rousseau and Adolphe went to the Gymnase, and I went to my office.
The big day finally arrived. We had breakfast together at the café du Roi; then, at 10:30, we parted ways: Rousseau and Adolphe went to the Gymnase, and I headed to my office.
Oh! I must confess I passed through a terrible strain from eleven till three o'clock. At three, the door opened, and through the crack I caught a glimpse of two sorrowful faces. Rousseau came in first, followed by de Leuven. La Chasse et l'Amour had been declined unanimously. There hadn't been a single dissentient voice. Poirson seemed astounded that anyone should have dreamed of reading such a piece of work at a theatre that bore the lofty title Théâtre de Madame. He was dreadfully scandalised by the passage which ended with these four lines:—
Oh! I have to admit I went through a rough time from eleven until three o'clock. At three, the door opened, and through the crack, I caught a glimpse of two sad faces. Rousseau came in first, followed by de Leuven. La Chasse et l'Amour had been rejected unanimously. There wasn't a single dissenting voice. Poirson seemed shocked that anyone could have thought about reading such a work at a theater with the grand title Théâtre de Madame. He was really upset by the passage that ended with these four lines:—
"A ma seule vue, enfin,
Tout le gibier a la fièvre;
Car, pour mettre à has un lièvre,
Je suis un fameux lapin!"
"A la seule vue de moi, enfin,
Tout le gibier devient fou;
Car, pour abattre un lièvre,
Je suis un sacré lapin!"
Rousseau pointed out to him that there had not always been, even in prohibited seasons, such a horror of game, since, in the Héritière, Scribe had made his colonel say, whilst holding up an old hare that he drew from out his game-bag:—
Rousseau pointed out to him that there hadn’t always been, even in forbidden times, such a fear of hunting, since, in the Héritière, Scribe had made his colonel say, while holding up an old hare that he pulled from his game bag:—
"Voyez ces favoris épais
Sous lesquels se cachent ses lèvres;
C'est le Nestor de ces forêts,
C'est le patriarche des lièvres!
D'avoir pu le tuer vivant,
Je me glorifîrai sans cesse,
Car, si je tardais d'un instant,
Il allait mourir de vieillesse!"
"Look at those thick sideburns
Under which his lips are hidden;
He's the Nestor of these woods,
He's the patriarch of the hares!
Having been able to kill him while alive,
I will brag about it endlessly,
Because if I had waited just a moment,
He would have died of old age!"
But Poirson retorted that there were hares and hares; that the comparison which M. Scribe made of his, to a patriarch[Pg 151] and to Nestor, elevated it in the eyes of all cultured people, whilst the horrible play of words we had allowed ourselves by opposing the word lièvre to lapin was in the worst possible taste, and would not even be tolerated by a théâtre de boulevard. I innocently asked if the Gymnase was not a boulevard theatre; and now it was Rousseau's turn to pay me out: he was very angry with me, as he looked upon my passage as the cause of our rejection.
But Poirson shot back that there were different kinds of hares; that the comparison M. Scribe made of his to a patriarch and to Nestor elevated it in the eyes of all cultured people, while the terrible pun we allowed ourselves by contrasting the word lièvre with lapin was in the worst possible taste and wouldn’t even be accepted by a théâtre de boulevard. I innocently asked if the Gymnase wasn’t a boulevard theater; and now it was Rousseau’s turn to get back at me: he was really mad at me since he considered my comment to be the reason for our rejection.
"You must learn, my dear friend, that there are boulevards and boulevards, just as there are hares and hares."
"You need to understand, my dear friend, that there are boulevards and boulevards, just like there are hares and hares."
I was immensely surprised; I had never made any distinction between hares, other than in dividing them into hares tender and hares tough; or, in the matter of boulevards, beyond in summer preferring those that were shadiest to those that were sunniest, and in winter those that were sunny to those in the shade. I was mistaken: hares and boulevards had degrees of rank.
I was really surprised; I had never thought of hares in any way except to classify them as tender or tough; and when it came to boulevards, in the summer I preferred the shadiest ones over the sunniest, and in the winter, the sunniest over the shady ones. I was wrong: hares and boulevards had different levels of quality.
We parted, after arranging a meeting for that night. Lassagne noticed that I was cast down, and was most sympathetic towards me. When Ernest's back was turned, he said—
We split up after setting a meeting for that night. Lassagne saw that I was feeling low and was very sympathetic toward me. When Ernest wasn’t looking, he said—
"Never mind, my dear friend, we will write a play together."
"Don't worry, my dear friend, we'll write a play together."
"Do you really mean it?" I cried, leaping for joy.
"Are you serious?" I exclaimed, jumping for joy.
"Hush!" he said; "don't go dancing like that in the passages and bellowing in the office."
"Hush!" he said. "Don't go dancing around like that in the halls and shouting in the office."
"Oh, don't be anxious!"
"Oh, don't worry!"
"I read your ode to General Foy; it is crude, but it contains several excellent lines, and two or three good metaphors. I will help you to succeed."
"I read your poem about General Foy; it's rough, but it has some great lines and a couple of solid metaphors. I'll help you succeed."
"Oh, thank you, thank you!"
"Thanks so much!"
"But we may perhaps be obliged to call in a third person, for neither you nor I could attend the rehearsals; besides, it must not be known that I have had anything to do with it."
"But we might need to bring in a third person, since neither you nor I can attend the rehearsals; also, it needs to remain a secret that I was involved at all."
"Add whoever you like. But when can we begin?"
"Add anyone you want. But when can we start?"
"Well, try to think of a subject, and I will do the same; we will then select whichever seems the likeliest."
"Okay, let’s think of a topic, and I’ll do the same; then we’ll choose the one that seems the most likely."
Then Ernest came back, and Lassagne put his finger on his lips. I nodded, and the matter was settled. That night, as arranged, Adolphe, Rousseau and I met.
Then Ernest came back, and Lassagne put his finger to his lips. I nodded, and that was that. That night, as planned, Adolphe, Rousseau, and I met.
Can anything possibly be more melancholy than a meeting of authors whose works have been refused? Unless one is a Corneille or a M. Viennet, there is always the haunting doubt that the manager may be correct, and the author self-deceived. Rather than settle this momentous question outright, we adopted a via media, and that was to read it before some other theatre. But to which should we take it? Poirson had contemptuously condemned us to the boulevard theatres, so Rousseau offered to read it at the Ambigu. The manager, Warez, was a friend of his, so there was a chance he could get a hearing at once, which would certainly not be the case elsewhere. We therefore sanctioned the proposal, and the reading, which Rousseau, asked on the following day, was accorded for the ensuing Saturday.
Can anything be more depressing than a gathering of authors whose works have been rejected? Unless you're a Corneille or a M. Viennet, there's always that nagging doubt that the manager might be right and the author just fooling themselves. Instead of directly settling this crucial issue, we decided to take a middle path and read it at another theater first. But which one should we choose? Poirson had scornfully sent us to the boulevard theaters, so Rousseau suggested reading it at the Ambigu. The manager, Warez, was a friend of his, so there was a good chance we could get a hearing right away, which definitely wouldn’t happen elsewhere. So, we agreed to the plan, and Rousseau, who inquired the next day, arranged for the reading to take place the following Saturday.
We awaited that day in great anxiety, I especially; for the result, miserable though it might be, was almost a matter of life or death to me. My mother and I were terrified to see how nearly we had reached the end of our resources. Although our neighbour Després was dead and we had taken his rooms as he advised, since they were a hundred francs cheaper than ours, and although we exercised the greatest possible economy in our expenses, our resources were lessening, little by little, but quite fast enough to give us serious uneasiness as we contemplated the time when we should be reduced to living on my income only.
We waited for that day with a lot of anxiety, especially me, because the outcome, no matter how bad, felt like a matter of life or death. My mother and I were scared to realize how close we were to running out of money. Even though our neighbor Després had passed away and we took his rooms as he suggested since they were a hundred francs cheaper than ours, and even though we were being as frugal as possible with our spending, our funds were dwindling, slowly but fast enough to make us seriously anxious about the time when we would only have my income to rely on.
The eventful Saturday arrived.
The busy Saturday arrived.
I went to my office, the others to the reading.
I went to my office while the others went to the reading.
At one o'clock the door of my office opened, but behind it stood two faces whose expression left me no more room for doubt than I had had the first time.
At one o'clock, the door to my office opened, and there stood two faces whose expressions left me with no more doubt than I had the first time.
"Accepted?" I cried.
"Accepted?" I yelled.
"With acclamation, my dear boy," said Rousseau.
"With cheers, my dear boy," said Rousseau.
"And what about the hare passage?"
"And what about the hare passage?"
"Encored!"
"Encore!"
Oh! instability of human judgment! that which had revolted M. Poirson sent M. Warez into ecstasies.
Oh! the unpredictability of human judgment! What disgusted M. Poirson sent M. Warez into a frenzy of excitement.
It seemed, then, that there were indeed hares and hares, boulevards and boulevards. I ascertained what the rights of the author of a vaudeville written for the Ambigu would amount to. They consisted of twelve francs for author's rights and six seats in the theatre. That meant four francs each per night and two seats. These two places were valued at forty sous. The total I should make out of my dramatic début would be six francs a day. Six francs a day, be it understood, equalled my salary and half as much again. Only, when would our first representation be given? They had promised Rousseau it should be as soon as possible, and, as a matter of fact, he was summoned to read it to the actors in a week's time. That was indeed a red-letter day. When he came back after the reading, Rousseau drew me aside.
It seemed there were definitely hares and hares, boulevards and boulevards. I figured out what the rights of the author of a vaudeville written for the Ambigu would be. They amounted to twelve francs for author’s rights and six seats in the theater. That meant four francs each per night and two seats. Those two seats were valued at forty sous. The total I would make from my dramatic debut would be six francs a day. Six francs a day, I should clarify, was my salary plus half of that again. The only question was, when would our first show be? They had assured Rousseau it would happen as soon as possible, and in fact, he was called in to read it to the actors in a week. That was certainly an important day. When he returned after the reading, Rousseau pulled me aside.
"Listen," he said; "we have become intimate friends during our ups and downs of disappointment and delight—if you are hard up for a little money...."
"Listen," he said, "we've become close friends through our ups and downs of disappointment and joy—if you need a bit of money...."
"Hard up for money? I should think I am, indeed!"
"Short on cash? I definitely am!"
"All right; if you are in need, I will tell you of a decent fellow who will lend you some."
"Okay; if you need it, I'll tell you about a good guy who will lend you some."
"On what security?"
"On what basis?"
"On your tickets."
"On your tickets."
"On what tickets?"
"On which tickets?"
"Why, on your theatre tickets."
"Why, on your tickets."
"On my two seats a day?"
"On my two seats a day?"
"Yes, that is what I mean. I have sold him both my tickets and my rights ... he has paid me two hundred and fifty francs outright. So, I said to myself, I mustn't forget my friends. I puffed you up well; I told him you were a young fellow just beginning your career, but that you showed considerable promise. I left him under the impression that you I were going to surpass Scribe and Casimir Delavigne altogether, and he is expecting you this evening at the café de l'Ambigu."
"Yes, that's exactly what I mean. I sold him both my tickets and my rights... he handed me two hundred and fifty francs right away. So, I thought to myself, I shouldn’t forget my friends. I really talked you up; I told him you were a young guy just starting your career, but that you had a lot of potential. I left him believing that you would completely surpass Scribe and Casimir Delavigne, and he's looking forward to seeing you this evening at the café de l'Ambigu."
"What is your man's name?"
"What's your man's name?"
"Porcher."
"Pig farmer."
"Good! I will go."
"Awesome! I'm going."
Rousseau had already gone a little way when he came back again.
Rousseau had already walked a short distance when he turned back again.
"By the bye, talk to him about whatever you like, but don't run down Mélesville to him."
"By the way, feel free to talk to him about anything, but don’t badmouth Mélesville to him."
"Why ever do you suppose I should say anything against Mélesville? I think nothing but good of him."
"Why do you think I should say anything negative about Mélesville? I only have good things to say about him."
"Oh, you callow lad! Don't you know that in the literary arena it is of those one thinks the best that one says the worst things?"
"Oh, you naive kid! Don't you know that in the literary world, it's often the ones we think the most highly of that we say the worst things about?"
"No, I did not know.... But why must one not speak ill of Mélesville to Porcher?"
"No, I didn't know.... But why shouldn't we say anything bad about Mélesville to Porcher?"
"Some day when I have time I will tell you."
"One day when I have the time, I'll let you know."
And Rousseau nodded amicably to me, and, with a wave of his hand, went off jingling his 250 francs, leaving me to puzzle as to why I might not run down Mélesville to Porcher.
And Rousseau nodded friendly at me, then waved his hand and walked off jingling his 250 francs, leaving me wondering why I wouldn’t go down Mélesville to Porcher.
I did not wait till the usual closing hour, but ran home gleefully with the good news to my mother. I did not, however, mention the offer Rousseau had made me. That evening, after making up my second mail-bag, I went to the café de l'Ambigu and asked for M. Porcher. He was pointed out to me playing a game of dominoes. I went up to him, and he probably knew who I was, for he got up.
I didn't wait until the usual closing time, but ran home excitedly with the good news for my mom. I didn't, however, mention the offer Rousseau had made me. That evening, after packing my second mailbag, I headed to the café de l'Ambigu and asked for M. Porcher. They pointed him out to me as he was playing a game of dominoes. I approached him, and he probably recognized me because he got up.
"I am the young man Rousseau spoke about," I said to him.
"I am the young man Rousseau talked about," I said to him.
"I am at your service, monsieur. Are you in a hurry, or will you allow me to finish my game of dominoes?"
"I’m here to serve you, sir. Are you in a rush, or can you wait for me to finish my game of dominoes?"
"By all means finish it, monsieur—I am in no hurry; I will take a walk on the boulevard."
"Go ahead and finish it, sir—I’m not in a rush; I’ll take a walk on the boulevard."
I went outside the café to wait, and Porcher came out five minutes later.
I stepped outside the café to wait, and Porcher came out five minutes later.
"So you have had a play accepted at the Ambigu?" he began.
"So you got a play accepted at the Ambigu?" he started.
"Yes, and it has been put in rehearsal to-day."
"Yes, and it's been put into rehearsal today."
"I know. And you want money advanced on your tickets?"
"I understand. So, you want an advance on your ticket money?"
"Listen!" I said; "this is how I am placed." And I told him in a few words the whole story of my life.
"Listen!" I said; "this is my situation." And I quickly shared the entire story of my life with him.
"How much do you want on your tickets? You know they are only worth two francs per day?"
"How much do you want for your tickets? You know they're only worth two francs a day?"
"Oh yes, I know that only too well!"
"Oh yes, I know that all too well!"
"I cannot therefore give you much."
"I can't give you much."
"I know that also."
"I know that too."
"For the piece may not be a success."
"For the piece might not be a success."
"Well, what can you give me?"
"Well, what can you offer me?"
"How much?... Let us see!"
"How much? Let's check it out!"
I rallied all my courage, for I thought myself that the request was exorbitant.
I gathered all my courage because I believed the request was unreasonable.
"Can you give me fifty francs?"
"Can you give me fifty bucks?"
"Oh yes," said Porcher.
"Oh yeah," said Porcher.
"When?"
"When?"
"Immediately—I haven't the amount with me, but I will get it from the café."
"Right away—I don’t have the amount on me, but I’ll get it from the café."
"And I will come in and give you a receipt."
"And I will come in and give you a receipt."
"No need; I shall put your name down on my register, as I do M. Mélesville's and other authors'; but it is an understood thing, is it not, that you will always do business with me?"
"No need; I'll add your name to my list, like I do with M. Mélesville's and other authors'; but it’s understood, right, that you’ll always work with me?"
"I agree, on my sacred honour."
"I agree, on my sacred honor."
Porcher went in, got fifty francs from the desk and handed them to me. I have experienced few sensations as delightful as the touch of the first money I earned by my pen: hitherto, what I had earned had been but for my orthography.
Porcher walked in, took fifty francs from the desk, and passed them to me. I have felt few things as satisfying as the feel of the first money I made from my writing: until now, what I earned had only been for my spelling.
"Look here," he said, "be sensible, work hard, and I will introduce you to Mélesville."
"Listen," he said, "be reasonable, work hard, and I'll introduce you to Mélesville."
I looked at Porcher: this was the second time he had pronounced the name in connection with which Rousseau had cautioned me particularly.
I looked at Porcher: this was the second time he had mentioned the name that Rousseau had specifically warned me about.
"Why should I make Mélesville's acquaintance?" I ventured to ask timidly.
"Why should I get to know Mélesville?" I asked hesitantly.
"Why, to work along with him, to be sure. If you worked with Mélesville, your future would be assured."
"Of course, it's to work alongside him. If you team up with Mélesville, your future is guaranteed."
I looked at Porcher.
I looked at Porcher.
"Listen, monsieur," I said; "lam awfully afraid that what I am going to say to you may displease you."
"Listen, sir," I said; "I'm really afraid that what I'm about to say might upset you."
"Oh! oh!" Porcher began. "You are not going to say anything against M. Mélesville to me, are you?"
"Oh! oh!" Porcher started. "You’re not going to say anything bad about M. Mélesville to me, are you?"
"Heaven forbid, monsieur; no! I have only seen M. Mélesville once or twice, I believe, at the most: he is a man of about thirty-five, is he not?"
"Heaven forbid, sir; no! I’ve only seen Mr. Mélesville once or twice, I think, at most: he's around thirty-five, right?"
"Yes."
"Yep."
"Dark and thin?"
"Skinny and dark?"
"Yes."
"Yep."
"Always laughing?"
"Always joking?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"With a splendid set of teeth?"
"With a great set of teeth?"
"That is he."
"That's him."
"Well, M. Mélesville is a man of infinite genius."
"Well, M. Mélesville is an incredibly talented guy."
"He is indeed!"
"He's definitely!"
"But I have an ambition."
"But I have a goal."
"What is it?"
"What's that?"
"To succeed by my own efforts in a year or two's time."
"To achieve success on my own in a year or two."
"At what house?"
"At which house?"
"At the Théâtre-Français."
"At the French Theatre."
"Ah! ah!—that would be a bad job."
"Wow! That would be a tough situation."
"At the Théâtre-Français?"
"At the French Theatre?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"For whom?"
"Who for?"
"For me."
"For me."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Ah! you have no idea of the difficulties they make over their tickets at that deuced theatre. Never mind! Authors' rights are good, and if you manage to get in there, why! you will do very well ... only, I warn you, it won't be an easy matter."
"Ah! You have no idea how much trouble they cause over their tickets at that annoying theater. Never mind! Authors' rights are important, and if you manage to get in there, you'll do just fine... just a heads up, it won't be an easy task."
"I know that well enough; but I know M. Talma slightly."
"I know that well enough; but I'm familiar with M. Talma a little."
"Oh! all right, then; that is equivalent to the Roman saying, I know the pope.' Good, excellent, magnificent! Go ahead ... but don't forget that your first transactions were with Porcher."
"Oh! fine then; that's like the Roman saying, 'I know the pope.' Great, awesome, amazing! Go for it ... but don't forget that your first dealings were with Porcher."
"I will remember."
"I'll remember."
"Have a good memory; people with good memories are generally good-hearted."
"Have a good memory; people who remember well are usually kind."
"Monsieur, I think you are a living proof of your own statement."
"Mister, I think you are living proof of what you just said."
"Why so?"
"Why is that?"
"Because you have mentioned the name of Mélesville three times."
"Because you have mentioned Mélesville's name three times."
"Mélesville! Why, monsieur, I would kill myself for his sake."
"Mélesville! Honestly, sir, I would take my own life for him."
"I will not be so inquisitive as to inquire the reason of this devotion."
"I won't be so curious as to ask why this devotion exists."
"Oh, it is easily explained. I was a hairdresser and used to cut M. Mélesville's hair; he was in Fortune's good books, but that didn't matter! he wrote plays. Ten or twelve years ago that was, and then authors did not sell their tickets, they gave them away."
"Oh, it's easy to explain. I was a hairdresser and used to cut M. Mélesville's hair; he was in Fortune's good graces, but that didn't matter! He wrote plays. That was ten or twelve years ago, and back then, authors didn't sell their tickets; they gave them away."
"Monsieur Porcher, believe me, if I were richer I would give you mine with the greatest pleasure."
"Monsieur Porcher, trust me, if I were wealthier, I would gladly give you mine."
"You do not understand: tickets, in those times, were given away, not sold. M. Mélesville, then, gave me his tickets; I went to see his plays with friends, and I applauded. He produced so many plays, and gave me so many tickets, that an idea came into my head; namely, instead of taking them and giving them away for nothing, to buy them from him, and sell them, so I proposed the business to him. 'You are a simpleton, Porcher,' he said to me. 'What the deuce could you make out of that?' 'Let me try.' 'Oh, try if you like, my dear fellow.' I tried it, monsieur, and it succeeded. From that time, I have carried on my little business, and if I ever acquire a fortune, it will be to M. Mélesville I shall owe it. Come home with me, and I will show you his portrait along with those of my wife and children."
"You don’t get it: back then, tickets were given out, not sold. M. Mélesville, then, gave me his tickets; I went with friends to see his plays and I cheered them on. He produced so many plays and gave me so many tickets that I had an idea; instead of just taking them and giving them away for free, why not buy them from him and sell them? So I pitched the idea to him. 'You’re being ridiculous, Porcher,' he told me. 'What on earth could you make from that?' 'Just let me try.' 'Oh, go ahead if you want, my friend.' I tried it, sir, and it worked. Since then, I’ve kept this little business going, and if I ever make a fortune, it’ll be thanks to M. Mélesville. Come home with me, and I’ll show you his portrait along with those of my wife and kids."
I have been several times to Porcher's home since then,—probably a hundred times to ask his help, once only to give him assistance,—and every time I have been there I have looked at Mélesville's portrait, raised by the gratitude of that[Pg 158] worthy man to the level of those of his wife and children. Once, Porcher had something or other to ask of Cavé, when Cavé was Director of the Beaux-Arts. I took Porcher to Cavé's house, and I said to the latter—
I’ve been to Porcher's place many times since then—probably around a hundred times to ask for his help, and just once to help him out—and each time I’ve visited, I’ve looked at Mélesville's portrait, which was elevated by that grateful man to be on par with those of his wife and kids. One time, Porcher needed to ask Cavé something when Cavé was the Director of the Beaux-Arts. I took Porcher to Cavé's house and said to him—
"Look here, I am bringing you a man who has done more for literature during the past five-and-twenty years than you and your predecessors and successors have done, or will do, in a century."
"Listen, I'm introducing you to a man who has contributed more to literature in the past twenty-five years than you, your predecessors, and your successors have done or will do in a hundred years."
And I only said what was true. It never enters the head of any literary struggler to apply to the Minister of the Interior or to the Director of the Beaux-Arts in his pecuniary difficulties. But it does occur to him to apply to Porcher, and he will be aided. He will find a cheerful face and open bank at Porcher's—two things he will certainly not find at the Home Office. Théaulon, Soulié and Balzac among the dead, and all authors now alive, will bear me out.
And I only spoke the truth. It never crosses the mind of any struggling writer to ask the Minister of the Interior or the Director of the Beaux-Arts for financial help. But they do think of reaching out to Porcher, and he will provide support. They will find a friendly face and a welcoming bank at Porcher's—two things they definitely won’t find at the Home Office. Théaulon, Soulié, and Balzac among the deceased, as well as all living authors, will back me up.
During the past five-and-twenty years Porcher has probably lent to literary men 500,000 francs. I am as grateful on my own account to Porcher, as Porcher was to Mélesville, and when I visit him nowadays I feel both proud and delighted to see my own portrait, in bust, pastel and medallion, hanging up beside the portraits of his own children. But I am the most grateful of all for those first fifty francs he gave me, which I carried to my mother, and which revived in her heart the heavenly flower of hope that had begun to fade! And ask Madame Porcher, who has known all the finest minds in France, to let you see some of the charming letters she has received. She certainly ought to publish a selection from them. They would not yield in interest to those of Madame de Sévigné, although they would be of a somewhat different nature. We will select one at haphazard, sent her by an author of our acquaintance; it is not one of mine, though the signature is extraordinarily like mine. He had asked for the modest loan of a hundred francs, and had received the reply that he must wait for a few days, after which the transaction could in all probability be carried out. This is the letter:—
During the past twenty-five years, Porcher has probably lent around 500,000 francs to writers. I feel just as thankful to Porcher for his help as he was to Mélesville, and when I visit him now, I'm both proud and happy to see my own portrait, in bust, pastel, and medallion, hanging next to the portraits of his children. But I’m most grateful for the first fifty francs he gave me, which I took to my mother, and which rekindled the heavenly flower of hope in her heart that had started to fade! And ask Madame Porcher, who has met all the greatest minds in France, to show you some of the lovely letters she has received. She really should publish a selection of them. They would be just as interesting as those of Madame de Sévigné, though they might be a bit different. Let’s pick one at random, sent to her by an author we know; it’s not one of mine, although the signature looks a lot like mine. He asked for a modest loan of a hundred francs, and he received a reply saying he would have to wait a few days, after which the transaction could likely happen. This is the letter:—
"'Wait a few days,'madame! Why, that is the same as telling a man whose head is to be cut off to dance a jig—or make a pun; why, in a few days I shall be a millionaire! I shall have got five hundred francs! If I apply to you, if I bother you, it is because I am reduced to such a state of wretchedness that I could even give points to Job—the most unfortunate hero of times past. If you do not send the hundred francs by my slave, I shall squander my last remaining sous in procuring a clarionette and a poodle-dog, and I shall come and perform with them in front of your door, with the inscription writ large on my stomach: 'Have pity on a literary man whom Madame Porcher has deserted.' Would you have me come and ask you for the hundred francs on my head, or cry, 'Vive la république,' or marry Mademoiselle Moralès?—Would you rather I went to l'Odéon, or unearthed talent à Cachardy, or wore chapeaux gibus? I will do exactly what you command me, if only you will send me the hundred francs. Send it me ten times over rather than not at all! With deepest and reiterated devotion,
"'Just wait a few days,' madame! That’s like telling a man who's about to be executed to dance or tell jokes; in a few days, I’ll be a millionaire! I’ll have five hundred francs! The reason I’m coming to you, the reason I’m bothering you, is that I’m in such a dire situation that I could rival Job—the most unfortunate character in history. If you don’t send the hundred francs with my messenger, I’ll waste my last few coins on a clarinet and a poodle, and I’ll perform in front of your door with 'Have pity on a literary man abandoned by Madame Porcher' written large on my stomach. Would you rather I arrive asking for the hundred francs with my head on the chopping block, or shouting, 'Long live the republic,' or marrying Mademoiselle Moralès?—Would you prefer I go to l'Odéon, or dig up talent like à Cachardy, or wear chapeaux gibus? I’ll do whatever you want, as long as you send me the hundred francs. Send it to me ten times over instead of not at all! With deepest and repeated devotion,
X——
X——
"P. S.—It does not matter to me whether the hundred francs are in silver, in gold or in notes—send whichever is convenient to you."
"P. S.—I don't care if the hundred francs are in coins, gold, or bills—just send whatever is easiest for you."
[1] "A couplet written for effect and especially notable for the wealth of its rhymes."—LITTRÉ.
[1] "A couplet crafted for impact and particularly striking for its rich use of rhymes."—LITTRÉ.
CHAPTER III
The success of my first play—My three stories—M. Marie and his orthography—Madame Setier—A bad speculation—The Pâtre, by Montvoisin—The Oreiller—Madame Desbordes-Valmore—How she became a poetess—Madame Amable Tastu—The Dernier jour de l'année—Zéphire
The success of my first play—My Three Stories—Mr. Marie and His Spelling—Madame Setier—A Bad Investment—The Pâtre, by Montvoisin—The Oreiller—Madame Desbordes-Valmore—How She Became a Poet—Madame Amable Tastu—The Dernier jour de l'année—Zéphire
La Chasse et l'Amour was played at a special performance on 22 September 1825. It was an immense success. Dubourjal took the principal part; I entirely forget who were the other actors. I should certainly have forgotten the title of the play as well as the names of the actors, if I had not wished to indicate the starting-point of the hundred dramas I shall probably compose, as I shall presently indicate the starting-point of the six hundred volumes I have written. This success inspired Porcher with sufficient confidence to lend me a hundred crowns in addition to what I had already had, and on the strength of my future tickets. Now you shall hear what became of the hundred crowns. Whilst la Chasse et l'Amour was in rehearsal, and whilst I was looking about me for a subject to start work upon with Lassagne, I had written a little book of tales that I wished to publish. It was the period of great successes in small matters; I have previously made the same remark with reference to Soumet's Pauvre Fille and M. Guirand's Savoyards, and I repeat it. It was the same with regard to two or three stories just published by Madame de Duras and Madame de Salm, though not with regard to mine. I did not thoroughly understand the nature of these successes, or, more correctly, of the sensation they produced. I did not realise the part played by the social position of illustrious authors, and I did not see why I[Pg 161] should not have the same reputation and the same success with respect to my stories that Mesdames de Duras and de Salm (Ourika, etc.) had had with theirs. I had written three tales, which formed a small volume, and I offered this little volume to six publishers who refused it at the first glance, and, to give them their due, without the least hesitation. These three tales were called Laurette, Blanche de Beaulieu and—but I have totally forgotten the title of the third. But of Blanche de Beaulieu I have since made the Rose rouge; and from the third, the title of which I have forgotten, I constructed the Cocher de Cabriolet. After encountering refusal after refusal at the publishers, and being convinced that the appearance of my book would produce quite as great a sensation in the literary world as Ourika, I made up my mind to print the volume at my own expense.
La Chasse et l'Amour was performed at a special event on September 22, 1825. It was a huge hit. Dubourjal played the lead role; I completely forget who the other actors were. I would definitely have forgotten the play's title as well as the actors' names if I hadn’t wanted to mark the starting point of the hundred dramas I plan to write, and I’ll soon indicate the starting point of the six hundred volumes I have already written. This success gave Porcher enough confidence to lend me a hundred crowns on top of what I had already received, based on my future ticket sales. Now you’ll hear what happened with the hundred crowns. While la Chasse et l'Amour was in rehearsal, and while I was searching for a subject to work on with Lassagne, I had written a short book of stories that I wanted to publish. It was a time of great successes in smaller projects; I’ve previously noted this regarding Soumet's Pauvre Fille and M. Guirand's Savoyards, and I stand by it. The same went for a couple of stories just released by Madame de Duras and Madame de Salm, though not for mine. I didn’t fully grasp the nature of these successes, or rather, the sensation they caused. I didn’t realize the influence of the social status of renowned authors, and I didn’t see why I[Pg 161] shouldn’t have the same reputation and success with my stories that Mesdames de Duras and de Salm (Ourika, etc.) had achieved with theirs. I had written three stories, which made a small volume, and I offered this little collection to six publishers who rejected it at first glance, and to give them credit, without any hesitation at all. These three stories were titled Laurette, Blanche de Beaulieu, and— but I have completely forgotten the title of the third. However, from Blanche de Beaulieu, I later created Rose rouge; and from the third story, the title of which I can’t remember, I adapted Cocher de Cabriolet. After facing rejection after rejection from publishers and being convinced that my book would cause just as much of a stir in the literary world as Ourika, I decided to print the volume at my own expense.
There lived somewhere, at that time, a man who put forth a most peculiar claim. He claimed to upset all the rules of orthography, and to substitute for them an orthography without any rule. According to his notion, each word ought to be written as it was pronounced, and he did not trouble his head whether it were derived from Greek or Celtic, Latin, Arabic or Spanish. Thus he would write the adverb aucunement, of which we have just made use, oqunemen.
There was a man living at that time who made a very strange claim. He said he could break all the rules of spelling and replace them with a spelling system that had no rules at all. According to his idea, every word should be written as it sounded, and he didn't care if it came from Greek, Celtic, Latin, Arabic, or Spanish. For example, he would spell the adverb aucunement, which we just used, as oqunemen.
It was difficult enough to read, but he considered it much easier to write. His name was M. Marle. M. Marle hunted far and wide for recruits for his orthography; he realised that he could not bring about any revolution unless, Attila-like, he could muster a force of a million or so of followers.
It was tough enough to read, but he found it much simpler to write. His name was M. Marle. M. Marle searched high and low for supporters of his spelling system; he understood that he couldn't create any major change unless, like Attila, he could rally a force of about a million followers.
Now, having doubtless made up his mind that men of letters, and vaudevillists in particular, would be the most likely of all to disregard correct orthography, he made special efforts to raise recruits among us, and, worthy man, he published a journal written in the strange tongue we have above referred to. He published the journal at a printing-office owned by Setier, who lived in the cour des Fontaines. When I made M. Marie's acquaintance, I also made that of M. and Madame Setier. Madame Setier was a remarkable[Pg 162] woman. She was English, or, at any rate, she knew the language perfectly. She offered to translate some English plays for me, which she made out I could easily get taken up on the French stage. As the cour des Fontaines was close to my office, to which, as I have said, I was obliged to go back every evening, and also close to the passage Véro-Dodat where my friend Thibaut lived, to whom I went every day, I frequently called in at the establishment in the cour des Fontaines.
Now, convinced that writers, especially vaudevillists, were the most likely to ignore proper spelling, he made extra efforts to recruit among us, and, being a good man, he published a journal written in the unusual language we mentioned earlier. He published the journal at a printing office owned by Setier, who lived in the cour des Fontaines. When I met M. Marie, I also got to know M. and Madame Setier. Madame Setier was an impressive[Pg 162] woman. She was English, or at least she spoke the language perfectly. She offered to translate some English plays for me, which she thought I could easily get produced on the French stage. Since the cour des Fontaines was close to my office, which I had to return to every evening, and also near the passage Véro-Dodat where my friend Thibaut lived and I visited daily, I often stopped by the place in the cour des Fontaines.
When my three stories were finished, I gave them to Madame Setier to read. Madame Setier, being a woman, had an indulgent nature; she thought my stories charming, and got her husband to print them at half his usual prices. A thousand copies of the tales—I thought we couldn't print too many—would cost 600 francs, and M. Setier agreed to print them for 300. He would stand the remaining 300 francs. After he had repaid himself the 300 francs, we were to divide the profits in equal shares between us. That was why I asked Porcher to lend me 300 francs upon my next tickets as author. I took my 300 francs to M. Setier, handed him my MS. and, two days later, I experienced the delight of correcting my first proofs. Who would have thought that what at that time gave me great joy would, in after life, become a weariness to the flesh?
When I finished my three stories, I gave them to Madame Setier to read. Being a woman, Madame Setier had a kind nature; she found my stories charming and convinced her husband to print them for half his usual price. A thousand copies of the tales—I thought we couldn't print too many—would cost 600 francs, but M. Setier agreed to print them for 300. He would cover the remaining 300 francs. After he paid himself back the 300 francs, we would split the profits equally. That's why I asked Porcher to lend me 300 francs against my next author royalties. I took my 300 francs to M. Setier, handed him my manuscript, and two days later, I experienced the joy of correcting my first proofs. Who would have thought that what brought me so much happiness at the time would later become a burden?
At the end of a month, during which la Chasse et l'Amour had a triumphant run, bringing me in 180 francs in author's royalties and in the sale of my tickets, my volume of stories appeared under my name, with the title Nouvelles contemporaines.
At the end of a month, during which la Chasse et l'Amour had a successful run, earning me 180 francs in author royalties and from ticket sales, my collection of stories was published under my name, titled Nouvelles contemporaines.
Four copies of it were sold, and an article on it was written in the Figaro. The article was by Étienne Arago. When this chapter appears, I hope he will have returned to France. In any case, should it come under his notice, in his exile, great will be his surprise, no doubt, to find that I recollect, after a lapse of twenty-five years, an article which he will have forgotten. The four copies sold brought in ten francs to M. Setier's till. Thus, M. Setier was out of pocket to the tune of 290 francs for[Pg 163] having printed the Nouvelles contemporaines, and I 300 francs for having written them. It was an unlucky speculation for both of us. I then remembered the advice given me by a very shrewd publisher, M. Bossange—
Four copies of it were sold, and an article about it was published in the Figaro. The article was written by Étienne Arago. By the time this chapter comes out, I hope he will have returned to France. In any case, if he happens to see it while in exile, he’ll be quite surprised to find that I remember an article he probably forgot after twenty-five years. The four copies sold brought in ten francs for M. Setier. So, M. Setier ended up losing 290 francs for[Pg 163] printing the Nouvelles contemporaines, and I lost 300 francs for writing them. It was a poor investment for both of us. I then recalled the advice given to me by a very savvy publisher, M. Bossange—
"Make a name for yourself, and then I will publish your works."
"Build your reputation, and then I will publish your work."
That was just the very difficulty! To make a name for oneself! It is the condition laid down for every man who sets forth to carve his own career. When it is first put to him, he asks himself, in despair, how the condition is ever to be fulfilled; and, nevertheless, he fulfils it.
That was the real challenge! Creating a name for yourself! It's the requirement for anyone who wants to build their own career. When it’s first presented to them, they wonder, in frustration, how they will ever meet that requirement; yet, somehow, they do.
I do not believe in the existence of ignored talent, or in genius that remains unknown. There must have been reasons why Gilbert and Hégésippe Moreau died in the hospitals. There must have been reasons why Escousse and Lebras committed suicide. It is a hard thing to say, but neither of these two poor foolish fellows, if they had lived, would have earned by the end of twenty years' work the reputation that Béranger's epitaph gave them.
I don't believe there is such a thing as overlooked talent or hidden genius. There had to be reasons why Gilbert and Hégésippe Moreau died in hospitals. There were reasons why Escousse and Lebras took their own lives. It's tough to say, but neither of these two unfortunate guys, if they had lived, would have earned the kind of reputation that Béranger's epitaph gave them after twenty years of work.
So I set to work very earnestly to make a name sufficient to sell my books, in order that I should no longer have to pay half the cost of printing them. And, moreover, that name, short and humble though it was, had already begun to be known in the land. Vatout had read my Ode au général Foy and my Nouvelles contemporaines (for it will be realised that the sale of only four copies had given a wide field to my generosity in the matter of presentation copies), and one day he sent me three or four lithographs, asking me to take one, and compose some lines to go under it. This requires explanation. Vatout published the Galerie du Palais-Royal. It was a sumptuously printed work and appeared under the patronage of the Duc d'Orléans. It was a lithographic reproduction of all the pictures in the gallery of the Palais-Royal, with notices, information or lines composed in their honour by all the literary men of the day. It would therefore seem that I was included among these literary personages, since Vatout asked me for some lines. My reasoning thus was[Pg 164] more in the nature of sophistry than a dilemma; but, as I had no one with whom to discuss the matter, it presented itself to me as a dilemma and became an encouragement to me. Oh! there was nothing I needed then more than encouragement from all sides. I selected a print depicting a Roman shepherd lad, after a picture by Montvoisin. The boy was lying down asleep in the shade of a clump of vines. I do not reproduce the verses I made on this subject for their merit, but rather as an interesting study of my progress in poetical diction:—
So I started working really hard to build a name that would help sell my books, so I wouldn't have to cover half the printing costs anymore. Plus, that name, though short and humble, was already starting to get recognized around the country. Vatout had read my Ode au général Foy and my Nouvelles contemporaines (since it's worth noting that selling just four copies had allowed me to be quite generous with presentation copies), and one day he sent me three or four lithographs, asking me to choose one and write some lines to go with it. This needs some context. Vatout published the Galerie du Palais-Royal. It was a beautifully printed work backed by the Duc d'Orléans. It was a lithographic reproduction of all the paintings in the Palais-Royal gallery, with notes, information, or lines written in tribute by all the literary figures of the time. So, it seemed that I was included among these literary individuals, since Vatout asked me for some lines. My thinking was more like clever reasoning than a genuine dilemma; however, since I had no one to talk to about it, it felt like a dilemma and motivated me. Oh! I needed encouragement from all sides at that time. I picked a print showing a Roman shepherd boy, based on a painting by Montvoisin. The boy was lying asleep in the shade of some vines. I won’t share the verses I wrote on this topic for their quality, but instead as an interesting reflection of my growth in poetic language:—
"Il est une heure plus brûlante
Où le char du soleil, au zénith arrêté,
Suspend sa course dévorante,
Et verse des torrents de flamme et de clarté.
Alors, un ciel d'airain pèse au loin sur la terre,
Les monts sont désertés, la plaine est solitaire,
L'oiseau n'a plus de voix pour chanter ses amours,
Et, sur la rive desséchée,
La fleur implore en vain, immobile et penchée,
Le ruisseau tari dans son cours.
Il est une place au bocage
Où, s'arrondissant en berceaux,
Le lierre et la vigne sauvage
Se prolongent en verts arceaux.
C'est là qu'étendu sous l'ombrage,
Un berger du prochain village
Trouve un sommeil réparateur;
Et près de lui son chien fidèle
Veille, attentive sentinelle,
Sur les troupeaux et le pasteur.
Tu dors! jeune fils des montagnes,
Et mon œil, aux débris épars autour de toi,
Reconnaît ces vastes campagnes,
Où florissait le peuple roi!
Tu dors! et, des mortels ignorant le délire,
Nul souvenir de gloire à ton cœur ne vient dire
Que tes membres lasses ont trouvé le repos
Sur la poussière d'un empire
Et sur la cendre des héros.
[Pg 165]
Ces grands noms, qu'aux siècles qui naissent
Lèguent les siècles expirants,
Et qui toujours nous apparaissent
Debout sur les débris des ans,
De nos cœurs sublimes idoles,
Sont pour toi de vaines paroles,
Dont les sons ne t'ont rien appris;
Et, si ta bouche les répète,
C'est comme l'écho qui rejette
Des accents qu'il n'a pas compris.
Conserve donc cette ignorance,
Gage d'un paisible avenir,
Et qu'une molle indifférence
T'épargne même un souvenir.
Que de tes jours le flot limpide
Coule comme un ruisseau timide
Qui murmure parmi des fleurs,
Et, loin des palais de la terre,
Voit dans son onde solitaire
Le ciel réfléchir ses couleurs.
Si du fleuve orageux des âges
Tu voulais remonter les bords,
Que verrais-tu, sur ces rivages?
Du sang, des débris et des morts;
Les lâches clameurs de l'envie
La vertu toujours poursuivie,
Aux yeux des rois indifférents;
Et, profanant les jours antiques,
Sur la cendre des républiques,
Des autels dressés aux tyrans.
Que dirais-tu, lorsque l'histoire
Viendrait dérouler à tes yeux
Ses fastes sanglants, où la gloire
Recueille les erreurs des cieux?
Ici, les fils de Cornélie,
Que tour à tour la tyrannie
Écrase, en passant, sous son char;
Là, trahi du dieu des batailles,
Caton déchirant ses entrailles
Pour fuir le pardon de César!
[Pg 166]
Près de ces illustres victimes,
Que pleure encor la liberté,
Tu verrais, puissants de leurs crimes,
Les grands fonder l'impunité:
Lorsque sa rage est assouvie,
Un Sylla terminant sa vie,
Tranquille au toit de ses aïeux;
Un Tibère que l'on encense,
Et qu'à sa mort un peuple immens
Ose placer au rang des dieux.
Alors, à cette heure voilée,
Où l'ombre remplace le jour,
Quand les échos de la vallée
Redisent de doux chants d'amour,
Seul peut-être, au pied des collines,
D'où Rome sort de ses ruines,
Viendrais-tu sans chiens, sans troupeaux,
Et, regrettant ton ignorance,
Fuirais-tu les jeux et la danse,
Pour soupirer sur des tombeaux!"
"It's that sizzling hour"
When the sun's chariot, at its highest point,
Holds its steady course suspended,
And pours down torrents of flame and light.
At that moment, a leaden sky weighs heavily on the land,
The mountains are deserted, the plains are lonely,
The bird no longer has a voice to sing its love,
And, on the dry bank,
The flower pleads in vain, motionless and bent,
To the stream that has dried up.
There's a spot in the grove
Where, arching like cradles,
The ivy and wild vine
Extend in green arches.
It’s there that, lying in the shade,
A shepherd from the nearby village
Finds a restorative sleep;
And close by, his faithful dog
Watches, a vigilant sentinel,
Over the flocks and the shepherd.
You sleep! young child of the mountains,
And my eye, at the strewn remnants around you,
Recognizes these large fields,
Where the royal family once flourished!
You sleep! and, ignorant of human madness,
No memory of glory comes to your heart
To tell you that your tired limbs have found rest
On the ruins of an empire
And on the ashes of heroes.
[Pg 165]
These great names, which the dying ages
Bequeath to the new ones,
And which always appear to us
Standing on the debris of years,
Of our hearts’ sublime idols,
Are for you empty words,
Whose sounds have taught you nothing;
And if your mouth repeats them,
It's like the echo that throws back
Accents it does not understand.
So keep this ignorance,
A promise of a peaceful future,
And let a soft indifference
Even spare you a memory.
May the clear flow of your days
Run like a timid stream
That murmurs among flowers,
And, far from the palaces of the earth,
Sees in its solitary waters
The sky reflect its colors.
If from the stormy river of ages
You wanted to trace the banks,
What would you see on those shores?
Blood, debris, and corpses;
The cowardly cries of envy
The virtue always pursued,
In the indifferent eyes of kings;
And, desecrating ancient days,
On the ashes of republics,
Altars raised to tyrants.
What would you say when history
Unfolds before your eyes
Its bloody glories, where glory
Collects the errors of the heavens?
Here, the sons of Cornelia,
Who are crushed in turn by tyranny
As it rolls past under its chariot;
There, betrayed by the god of battles,
Cato tearing out his entrails
To escape Caesar’s pardon!
[Pg 166]
Near these illustrious victims,
Whom freedom still mourns,
You would see, powerful from their crimes,
The great founding impunity:
When its rage is assuaged,
A Sulla ending his life,
Peaceful under the roof of his ancestors;
A Tiberius being praised,
And at his death, an immense people
Dares to place him among the gods.
Then, at this veiled hour,
When shadow replaces day,
When the echoes of the valley
Reiterate sweet love songs,
Perhaps alone, at the foot of the hills,
Where Rome emerges from its ruins,
You would come without dogs, without flocks,
And, regretting your ignorance,
Would you flee from games and dance,
To sigh over tombs?"
Meanwhile, M. Marle had been obliged to give up his journal, and Adolphe and I proposed to turn his two or three hundred subscribers to account by making of these good folk a nucleus for a monthly publication. After a great deal of discussion as to whether the publication had better be in prose or verse, we decided it should be both in verse and prose and should be styled Psyché. This was an admirable way for me to publish all I had previously written both in prose and verse without having to pay half the expense. Neither prose nor poetry inserted in Psyché would bring us in anything, but at the same time it would not cost us anything. We published, at this period, some delightful verses by Madame Desbordes-Valmore and by Madame Amable Tastu. Here are those by Madame Desbordes-Valmore:—
Meanwhile, M. Marle had to give up his journal, and Adolphe and I suggested that we use his two or three hundred subscribers to create a monthly publication. After a lengthy discussion about whether the publication should be in prose or verse, we decided it should include both and be called Psyché. This was a great way for me to publish everything I had written previously, in both prose and verse, without having to cover half the costs. Neither the prose nor the poetry published in Psyché would earn us anything, but it also wouldn’t cost us anything. During this time, we featured some wonderful verses by Madame Desbordes-Valmore and Madame Amable Tastu. Here are those by Madame Desbordes-Valmore:—
"Cher petit oreiller, doux et chaud sous ma tête,
Plein de plume choisie, et blanc, et fait pour moi,
Quand on a peur du vent, des loups, de la tempête,
Cher petit oreiller, que l'on dort bien sur toi!
[Pg 167]
Beaucoup, beaucoup d'enfants pauvres et nus, sans mère,
Sans maison, n'ont jamais d'oreiller pour dormir;
Ils ont toujours sommeil.... O destinée amère!
Cela, douce maman, cela me fait gémir....
Et, quand j'ai prié Dieu pour tous ces petits anges
Qui n'ont point d'oreiller, moi, j'embrasse le mien,
Et, seul en mon doux nid, qu'à tes pieds tu m'arranges,
Je te bénis, ma mère, et je touche le tien!
Je ne m'éveillerai qu'à la lueur première
De l'aube au rideau bleu; c'est si beau de la voir!
Je vais faire, tout has, ma plus tendre prière;
Donne encore un baiser, douce maman; bonsoir!
"Dear little pillow, soft and warm under my head,
Filled with chosen feathers, white, and made for me,
When you're afraid of the wind, the wolves, the storm,
Dear little pillow, how well one sleeps on you!
[Pg 167]
So many, many poor, naked children, without a mother,
Without a home, never have a pillow to sleep on;
They are always sleepy.... Oh, bitter fate!
This, sweet mother, makes me sigh....
And when I pray to God for all these little angels
Who have no pillow, I embrace mine,
And alone in my cozy nest, as you arrange for me at your feet,
I bless you, my mother, and I touch yours!
I will only wake at the first light
Of dawn behind the blue curtain; it's so beautiful to see!
I will say, with all my heart, my sweetest prayer;
Give me another kiss, sweet mother; goodnight!
PRIÈRE
"Dieu des enfants! le cœur d'une petite fille,
Plein de prière, écoute, est ici dans tes mains.
Hélas! on m'a parlé d'orphelins sans famille;
Dans l'avenir, mon Dieu, ne fais plus d'orphelins!
Laisse descendre, au soir, un ange qui pardonne,
Pour répondre à des voix que l'on entend gémir;
Mets, sous l'enfant perdu que sa mère abandonne,
Un petit oreiller qui le fera dormir!"
Prayer
"God of children! the heart of a little girl,
Full of prayer, listens, it's here in your hands.
Alas! I've heard about orphans without families;
In the future, my God, don’t make any more orphans!
Let an angel who forgives come down in the evening,
To answer the voices that we hear groaning;
Place, beneath the lost child that his mother abandons,
A little pillow that will help him sleep!"
Madame Desbordes-Valmore was born at Douai.
Madame Desbordes-Valmore was born in Douai.
"I was my mother's last born, and her only fair child," she wrote to me once, "and I was christened with special honours on account of the colour of my hair, which was much admired in my mother's case. She was as beautiful as a Madonna, and everybody hoped I should be like her in everything; but I only resembled her slightly, and if I have ever been loved, it has certainly been for other attractions than great beauty. My father was a heraldic painter; he also painted arms on carriages and church decorations. His house was close to the cemetery of the lowly parish of Notre-Dame de Douai. I thought the dear old house very big when I quitted it at the age of seven; but I have since seen it, and it is one[Pg 168] of the smallest and meanest in the town. All the same, I love it better than any other place in the whole world, for I have never really had such peace and happiness as there. Then, suddenly, came great and overwhelming misery, when my father could get no more carriages to paint or coats of arms to design.... I was four when France was going through the period of its greatest troubles. My father's great-uncles, who had been previously exiled to Holland, at the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, offered their immense inheritance to us if we would renounce the Catholic faith for Protestantism. These two uncles were centenarians and lived in Amsterdam, unmarried, where they had established a publishing-house. I possess some books printed by them in my poor little library. A family council was called. My mother wept sorely; my father was in a state of vacillation and kissed us. Finally, the inheritance was declined from fear of selling our souls, and we remained in our miserable state of poverty, which grew worse and worse as the months passed by, leaving an impression of unhappiness on me which has never been obliterated. My mother was brave and daring, and she made up her mind to go to America to look for a wealthy relative there, in the hope of re-establishing the fortunes of her family. Her four children shuddered at the prospect of the voyage, so she only took me with her. I was willing enough to go with her, but the sacrifice cost me all my lightness of heart, for I worshipped my father as one worships God Himself. That long journey, the seaports, the great ocean filled me with terror, and I sheltered against my mother's garments as my only harbour of refuge. When we reached America, my mother found her cousin a widow, driven from her estate by the negroes. The colony had risen in revolt, and the yellow fever was raging in all its horror. Awakened thus rudely from her cherished dream, she could not bear up under the fresh blow that had overtaken us. It killed her, and she died at the age of forty-one. I nearly died by her side when they took me in my mourning dress from the rapidly depopulating isle and shipped me from[Pg 169] vessel to vessel, until I was restored again to my relatives, who were now poorer than ever. Then it was that the theatre offered us a harbour of refuge. I was taught to sing; I tried hard to recover my cheerfulness of disposition but it was of no use; I managed better in melancholy or passion-fraught parts. That is practically the whole of my life-story. I was taken on at the Théâtre Feydeau, and everybody predicted a brilliant future before me. I was made a member before I was sixteen, without either hoping or asking for it; but at that time my insignificant part only brought me in eighty francs per month, and the poverty with which I struggled passes description. I was obliged to sacrifice the future for the sake of the present, and for my father's sake I returned to the provinces. At twenty, a great sorrow compelled me to give up singing. The very sound of my voice would set me weeping; but the music still rang in my unhappy head, and the measured rhythms unwittingly forced my thoughts to keep pace with them. I felt compelled to commit my fevered ideas to paper, and when it was done I was told I had written an elegy. M. Alibert, who looked after my very frail health, recommended me to write as a curative, for he knew nought else that would be of any avail. I followed his advice without any knowledge or study of my subject. And this gave me much extra trouble, because I could never find the right words to express my thoughts. My first volume was published in 1822. You asked, dear friend, how I came to be a poet. I can only answer you by telling you how I came to write."
"I was my mother's last child and her only light-haired one," she once wrote to me, "and I was baptized with special honors because of my hair color, which was highly praised just like my mother's. She was as stunning as a Madonna, and everyone hoped I would be just like her in every way; but I only looked a little like her, and if I have ever been loved, it was definitely for reasons other than beauty. My father was a heraldic painter; he also painted coat of arms on carriages and church decor. His house was near the cemetery of the humble parish of Notre-Dame de Douai. I thought the old house was huge when I left it at seven, but I've since seen it, and it’s one[Pg 168] of the smallest and plainest in town. Still, I love it more than any other place in the world, because I’ve never really experienced such peace and happiness anywhere else. Then, suddenly, came great and overwhelming sadness when my father couldn’t find any more carriages to paint or coats of arms to design.... I was four when France was going through its toughest times. My father’s great-uncles, who had been exiled to Holland after the Edict of Nantes was revoked, offered us their vast inheritance if we renounced our Catholic faith for Protestantism. These two uncles were centenarians living in Amsterdam, unmarried, where they had started a publishing house. I have some books printed by them in my little library. A family meeting was called. My mother cried hard; my father was uncertain and kissed us. In the end, we declined the inheritance out of fear of losing our souls, and we remained in our miserable poverty, which got worse as the months went by, leaving a lasting sense of unhappiness in me. My mother was brave and determined, and she decided to go to America to find a wealthy relative, hoping to restore our family's fortunes. My siblings were fearful about the journey, so she only took me with her. I was willing to go, but it cost me all my happiness because I revered my father like a god. The long journey, the ports, the vast ocean terrified me, and I clung to my mother's clothes as my only shelter. When we got to America, my mother found her cousin a widow, forced from her home by the black community. The colony had revolted, and yellow fever was spreading. Awakened from her dream in such a harsh way, she couldn’t handle the new blow we faced. It killed her, and she died at 41. I almost died beside her when they took me away in mourning clothes from the rapidly emptying island and moved me from[Pg 169] ship to ship until I was reunited with relatives who were now poorer than ever. That’s when the theater became our refuge. I was taught to sing; I tried hard to regain my cheerful spirit, but it didn’t work; I did better in sad or passionate roles. That’s pretty much the story of my life. I got a job at the Théâtre Feydeau, and everyone expected a bright future for me. I became a member before I was sixteen, without even hoping or asking for it; but at that time, my small part only paid me eighty francs a month, and the poverty I struggled with is hard to describe. I had to sacrifice my future for the sake of the present, and for my father's sake, I went back to the provinces. At twenty, a major loss forced me to stop singing. Just hearing my voice would make me cry; but the music still echoed in my troubled mind, and the rhythms unintentionally made my thoughts follow along. I felt driven to write down my restless ideas, and when I was done, I was told I had written an elegy. M. Alibert, who cared for my very delicate health, suggested I write as a form of therapy since he didn’t know anything else that would help. I took his advice without any prior knowledge or study of writing. This made things even harder, as I could never find the right words to express my thoughts. My first book was published in 1822. You asked, dear friend, how I became a poet. I can only tell you how I started writing."
Madame Tastu had had a less troublous and unhappy life, and one discerns it in the calm pulsations of her lines. She had quite simply accepted, her position as a woman, and given her life to her mother, to her husband, to her children.
Madame Tastu had a less troubled and unhappy life, and you can see it in the calm rhythms of her lines. She had simply accepted her role as a woman and dedicated her life to her mother, her husband, and her children.
She had lived her life in the light of these three loves, desiring nothing beyond them, regretting nothing, pouring forth poetry from her heart when it became too full to contain[Pg 170] itself, as water overflows from a too full vessel. The following example will give some idea of her gentle, melancholy style:—
She had lived her life in the light of these three loves, wanting nothing more than them, regretting nothing, sharing poetry from her heart when it became too full to hold[Pg 170] it, like water spilling from an overflowing vessel. The following example will give some idea of her gentle, melancholy style:—
"Déjà la rapide journée
Fait place aux heures du sommeil,
Et du dernier fils de l'année
S'est enfui le dernier soleil.
Près du foyer, seule, inactive,
Livrée aux souvenirs puissants,
Ma pensée erre, fugitive,
Des jours passés aux jours présents.
Ma vue, au hasard arrêtée,
Longtemps de la flamme agitée
Suit les caprices éclatants,
Ou s'attache à l'acier mobile
Qui compte sur l'émail fragile
Les pas silencieux du Temps.
Encore un pas, encore une heure,
Et l'année aura, sans retour,
Atteint sa dernière demeure,
L'aiguille aura fini son tour!
Pourquoi de mon regard avide
La poursuivre ainsi tristement,
Quand je ne puis, d'un seul moment,
Retarder sa marche rapide?
Du temps qui vient de s'écouler
Si quelques jours pouvaient renaître,
Il n'en est pas un seul, peut-être,
Que ma voix daignât rappeler ...
Mais des ans la fuite m'étonne;
Leurs adieux oppressent mon cœur.
Je dis: 'C'est encore une fleur
Que l'âge enlève à ma couronne,
Et livre au torrent destructeur;
C'est une ombre ajoutée à l'ombre
Qui déjà s'étend sur mes jours,
Un printemps retranché du nombre
De ceux dont je verrai le cours!'
Écoutons ... le timbre sonore
Lentement frémit douze fois;
Il se tait ... je l'écoute encore,
[Pg 171]Et l'année expire à sa voix.
C'en est fait! en vain je l'appelle!
Adieu!... Salut, sa sœur nouvelle!
Salut!... quels dons chargent ta main?
Quel bien nous apporte ton aile?
Quels beaux jours dorment dans ton sein?
Que dis-je! à mon âme tremblante
Ne révèle pas tes secrets!
D'espoir, de jeunesse et d'attraits,
Aujourd'hui tu parais brillante;
Et ta course, insensible et lente,
Peut-être amène les regrets.
Ainsi chaque soleil se lève
Témoin de nos vœux insensés,
Et, chaque jour, son cours s'achève
En emportant, comme un vain rêve,
Nos vœux déçus et dispersés ...
Mais l'espérance fantastique,
Répandant sa clarté magique
Dans la nuit du sombre avenir,
Nous guide, d'année en d'année,
Jusqu'à l'aurore fortunée
Du jour qui ne doit point finir!"
"Already the quick day
Gives way to the hours of sleep,
And from the last son of the year
The final sun has vanished.
By the hearth, alone, inactive,
Lost in powerful memories,
My thoughts wander, fleeting,
From days gone by to present ones.
My gaze, randomly paused,
Long follows the flickering flame
And catches the bright whims,
Or focuses on the moving steel
That counts on the fragile enamel
The silent footsteps of Time.
One more step, one more hour,
And the year will have, without a return,
Reached its final resting place,
The hand will have finished its turn!
Why, with my eager eye,
Do I pursue it so sadly,
When I cannot, for a single moment,
Delay its swift march?
Of the time that has just passed,
If only a few days could be reborn,
There isn’t a single one, perhaps,
That my voice would deign to recall...
But the flight of years astonishes me;
Their farewells oppress my heart.
I say: 'It’s yet another flower
That age takes from my crown,
And hands over to the destructive torrent;
It’s a shadow added to the shadow
That already stretches over my days,
A spring cut from the number
Of those whose course I will see!'
Let’s listen... the sonorous chime
Slowly rings twelve times;
It falls silent... I listen again,
[Pg 171]And the year expires with its voice.
It’s done! In vain I call for it!
Farewell!... Hello, its new sister!
Hello!... what gifts does your hand carry?
What good does your wing bring us?
What beautiful days sleep within you?
What am I saying! To my trembling soul,
Do not reveal your secrets!
Of hope, youth, and charm,
Today you appear radiant;
And your course, insensible and slow,
May bring regrets.
So each sun rises
As a witness to our foolish wishes,
And each day, its course ends
Carrying away, like a vain dream,
Our disappointed and scattered wishes...
But the fantastic hope,
Spreading its magical light
In the darkness of the grim future,
Guides us, year after year,
Until the fortunate dawn
Of the day that must not end!"
There was still another poet at this time, a most charming poet, whose very name is now, perhaps, forgotten save by myself, and I registered a vow never to forget him. He was called Denne-Baron. We published a poem by him called Zéphire, that Prudhon's picture had inspired him to write.
There was another poet during this time, a truly charming poet, whose name is probably now forgotten except by me, and I promised never to forget him. He was called Denne-Baron. We published a poem by him titled Zéphire, which was inspired by Prudhon's painting.
Here it is. Tell me if you have ever read smoother lines:—
Here it is. Let me know if you've ever read smoother lines:—
"Il est un demi-dieu, charmant, léger, volage;
Il devance l'aurore, et, d'ombrage en ombrage,
Il fuit devant le char du jour;
Sur son dos éclatant, où frémissent deux ailes,
S'il portait un carquois et des flèches cruelles,
Vos yeux le prendraient pour l'Amour.
C'est lui qu'on voit, le soir, quand les heures voilées
Entr'ouvrent du couchant les portes étoilées,
Glisser dans l'air à petit bruit;
C'est lui qui donne encore une voix aux Naïades,
Des soupirs à Syrinx, des concerts aux Dryades
Et de doux parfums à la nuit.
[Pg 172]
Zéphire est son doux nom; sa légère origine,
Pure comme l'éther, trompa l'œil de Lucine,
Et n'eut pour témoins que les airs;
D'un souffle du printemps, d'un soupir de l'aurore,
Dans son liquide azur, le ciel le vit éclore
Comme un alcyon sur les mers.
Ce n'est point un enfant, mais il sort de l'enfance;
Entre deux myrtes verts, tantôt il se balance;
Tantôt il joue au bord des eaux,
Ou glisse sur un lac, ou promène sur l'onde
Les filets d'Arachné, la feuille vagabonde,
Et le nid léger des oiseaux.
Souvent sur les hauteurs du Cynthe ou d'Érymanthe,
Sous les abris voûtés d'une source écumante
Il lutine Diane au bain;
Ou, quand, aux bras de Mars, Vénus s'est endormie,
Sur leur couche effeuillant un rosier d'Idalie,
Il les cache aux yeux de Vulcain.
Parfois, aux antres creux,—palais bizarre et sombre
De la sauvage Écho, du sommeil et de l'ombre,—
Du Lion il fuit les ardeurs;
Parfois, dans un vieux chêne, aux forêts de Cybèle,
Dans le calme des nuits il berce Philomèle,
Son nid, ses chants et ses malheurs.
O puisses-tu, Zéphire, auprès de ton poëte,
Pour seul prix de mes vers, au fond de ma retraite
Caresser un jour mes vieux ans!
Et, si le sort le veut, puisse un jour ton haleine
Sur les bords fortunés de mon petit domaine
Bercer mes épis jaunissants!"
"He's a demigod, charming, light, and carefree;
He outpaces the dawn, and, from shade to shade,
He races ahead of the day's chariot;
On his shining back, where two wings flutter,
If he carried a quiver and cruel arrows,
You might mistake him for Love at first glance.
It's him you see in the evening when the veiled hours
Open the starry gates of the west,
Gliding through the air with a gentle sound;
It's he who still gives a voice to the Naiads,
Sighs to Syrinx, concerts to the Dryads
And sweet fragrances to the night.
[Pg 172]
Zephyr is his sweet name; his light origin,
Pure like ether, deceived Lucine's eye,
And had only the sky as a witness;
With a breath of spring, a sigh of dawn,
In his liquid blue, the sky saw him bloom
Like a peaceful bird on the ocean.
He's not a child, but he comes from childhood;
Between two green myrtles, he sways sometimes;
Sometimes he plays by the water,
Or glides on a lake, or carries on the waves
The nets of Arachne, the wandering leaf,
And the birds' cozy nest.
Often on the heights of Cynthus or Erymanth,
Under the arched shelters of a foaming spring,
He playfully mocks Diana while she takes a bath;
Or when, in Mars' arms, Venus has fallen asleep,
On their bed, plucking a rose from Idalia,
He keeps them hidden from Vulcan's view.
Sometimes, in the hollow caves,—a bizarre and dark palace
Of wild Echo, of sleep and shadow,—
He runs from the Lion's burning stare;
Sometimes, in an old oak, in Cybele's forests,
In the calm of the nights, he cradles Philomela,
Her nest, her songs, and her troubles.
Oh may you, Zephyr, beside your poet,
For the sole reward of my verses, in my retreat
Please approach my old age gently one day!
And, if fate allows, may your breath one day
On the fortunate shores of my little domain
"Touch my golden ears of grain!"
CHAPTER IV
Talma's illness—How he would have acted Tasso—His nephews—He receives a visit from M. de Quélen—Why his children renounced his faith—His death—La Noce et l'Enterrement—Oudard lectures me on my fondness for theatre-going—The capital reply that put the Palais-Royal in a gay humour—I still keep the confidence of Lassagne and de la Ponce—I obtain a success anonymously at the Porte-Saint-Martin
Talma's illness—How he would have performed in Tasso—His nephews—He receives a visit from M. de Quélen—Reasons his kids abandoned his faith—His passing—La Noce et l'Enterrement—Oudard critiques my passion for theater—The amazing reply that lifted the spirits at the Palais-Royal—I still have the confidence of Lassagne and de la Ponce—I find success anonymously at the Porte-Saint-Martin.
In the midst of these first literary labours, into which we had flung ourselves with all the ardour of youth, terrible news for the cause of art spread throughout Paris. Talma was attacked with a fatal disease. He had just reached the zenith of his talent, perhaps, in his last creation of the Démence de Charles VI. The reader will recollect the call Adolphe and I paid him, and how, as he was feeling better, he was hoping to return to the theatre to play Tibère, and his pointing to his lean cheeks which would serve him admirably in taking upon himself the rôle of the aged emperor. But Talma was struck with a mortal disease. Charles VI. was to be his last appearance—an appearance finer than any of the creations of his youth or of his mature years—and Michelot was destined to take the part of Tiberius. We were not the only people, for that matter, to have similar recollections. Towards the close of Talma's life he made a short stay at Enghien, where Firmin went to see him. Firmin was just going to act Tasso, which had been allotted to Talma, but which he had been obliged to renounce. Talma was very fond of Firmin; his enthusiasm enchanted him, and he had often given him advice.
In the middle of our early writing efforts, which we dove into with all the excitement of youth, terrible news for the art community spread throughout Paris. Talma was struck with a deadly illness. He had just reached the peak of his talent, possibly in his final role in the Démence de Charles VI. You might remember the visit that Adolphe and I paid him, and how he was feeling better and hoping to return to the theater to perform Tibère, pointing to his thin cheeks that would suit him perfectly for the role of the aging emperor. But Talma was hit with a terminal illness. Charles VI. was to be his final performance—a performance greater than any of his youthful or mature works—and Michelot was set to take on the role of Tiberius. We weren’t the only ones with similar memories. Toward the end of Talma’s life, he spent some time in Enghien, where Firmin went to visit him. Firmin was just about to perform Tasso, a role originally assigned to Talma, which he had to give up. Talma was very fond of Firmin; his passion delighted him, and he had often offered him advice.
"Well, my dear friend," he said to him, "so you are going to play Tasso?"
"Well, my dear friend," he said to him, "so you’re going to perform Tasso?"
"To my infinite regret," was Firmin's reply. "I would much rather have seen you play it; it would have been a study for me and I should have learnt a lesson from it."
"To my great regret," was Firmin's reply. "I would have much preferred to see you play it; it would have been a valuable study for me and I would have learned a lesson from it."
"It is but a poor play," said Talma, "although there is a fine scene in the fifth act, where, in the hope of restoring reason to the poor madman, people tell him of the honours that are being prepared for him and of the crown awaiting him. And, as you are aware, Firmin, at the word couronne he seems to realise what is being said to him. 'A crown for me!' he exclaims. 'If that be so, Alphonse will no longer refuse me his sister!... Where is this crown? Where is it?' Then, when they show it him, he looks at it and says sorrowfully, 'It is not a golden crown, only a laurel wreath ... the brother will never give his consent!' Listen, Firmin," said Talma; "this is how I should play it...."
"It’s just a bad play," Talma said, "even though there's a great scene in the fifth act, where, in hopes of bringing reason back to the poor madman, people tell him about the honors being prepared for him and the crown that’s waiting for him. And as you know, Firmin, when he hears the word couronne, he seems to understand what they’re saying. 'A crown for me!' he shouts. 'If that’s the case, Alphonse will no longer refuse me his sister!... Where is this crown? Where is it?' Then, when they show it to him, he looks at it and says sadly, 'It’s not a golden crown, just a laurel wreath ... the brother will never give his consent!' Listen, Firmin," Talma said; "this is how I would play it..."
And, sitting half up in his bed, he went through the scene in such telling accents, and with such pathetic and dejected expression, filled throughout with both despair and insanity, that Firmin, who knew nothing but what he had just seen, felt inclined to throw up the part.
And, sitting up partway in his bed, he described the scene in such vivid tones, and with such a sad and defeated expression, brimming with both despair and madness, that Firmin, who only knew what he had just witnessed, felt like quitting his role.
Towards the beginning of October, the improvement which had somewhat restored hope disappeared, and the disease made such rapid progress that Talma himself expressed a desire to see those whom he loved best, whose occupations placed them at a distance from him. Among these was his nephew, Amédée Talma, a surgeon-dentist at Brussels. He arrived on 9 October, and never left his uncle till the end. After the sick man had been prepared for this visitor, Amédée Talma entered the room and went up to his uncle's bedside. Talma held out his hand, drew him close and kissed him. It was dark, but the young man saw by the dampness of his uncle's cheek that he was weeping. The sick man, however, soon recovered himself, and, after a moment's pause, he said—
Towards the start of October, the improvement that had briefly restored hope vanished, and the illness progressed so quickly that Talma himself wanted to see his beloved family members, even though their work kept them far away. One of them was his nephew, Amédée Talma, a dental surgeon in Brussels. He arrived on October 9 and stayed with his uncle until the end. After preparing the sick man for his visit, Amédée Talma entered the room and approached his uncle's bedside. Talma reached out his hand, pulled him close, and kissed him. It was dark, but the young man noticed the moisture on his uncle's cheek indicating that he was crying. However, the sick man quickly composed himself, and after a brief pause, he said—
"You must not stay here more than two or three days. Your business will not admit of longer absence. I sent for you because you have known for a long time the disease I am[Pg 175] suffering from, and my doctors wish to learn what you can tell them about it before they were called in."
"You can’t stay here for more than two or three days. You can’t afford to be away longer. I had you come because you’ve known for a while about the illness I am[Pg 175] dealing with, and my doctors want to hear what you can share about it before they come in."
A fresh consultation was therefore held on the 12th, at which the young doctor was present. Only two or three out of the eleven medical men present thought there was any hope. Still, the new remedies suggested allayed the attacks of vomiting, and these ceased altogether towards the end. When the doctors came to his bedside, Talma said to them—
A new consultation took place on the 12th, and the young doctor was there. Only two or three out of the eleven doctors present believed there was any hope. However, the new treatments suggested helped reduce the vomiting, and it stopped completely towards the end. When the doctors arrived at his bedside, Talma said to them—
"Well, is it all up? I will do anything you desire ... but I doubt if you can pull me through, and I have reconciled myself to the inevitable. But the thing that troubles me most and what I want you to care for most is my eyesight: I am afraid I am going to lose my sight."
"Well, is that everything? I’ll do whatever you want ... but I doubt you can help me out, and I've accepted what’s going to happen. But what worries me the most, and what I want you to pay the most attention to, is my eyesight: I’m afraid I'm going to lose it."
Another of Talma's nephews, named Charles Jeannin, arrived from Brussels on the 16th. The greatest precautions were necessary in breaking the news of this fresh visitor to Talma. Nothing that went on round him escaped his notice. MM. Dupuytren, Biett and Begin were standing by the fireplace talking in low voices, when Talma caught a word or two of their conversation.
Another of Talma's nephews, named Charles Jeannin, showed up from Brussels on the 16th. It was really important to be careful when telling Talma about this new visitor. He noticed everything happening around him. Messrs. Dupuytren, Biett, and Begin were standing by the fireplace speaking quietly when Talma overheard a word or two of their conversation.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
"What are you saying?" he asked.
M. Dupuytren did not answer him, but went up to Amédée Talma. "I was asking these gentlemen," he said to the young man, "whether Talma had been told of the archbishop's visits."
M. Dupuytren didn’t respond to him but walked over to Amédée Talma. "I was asking these gentlemen," he said to the young man, "if Talma was informed about the archbishop’s visits."
As a matter of fact, the archbishop called almost daily, but they had not allowed him to see the patient.
As a matter of fact, the archbishop called nearly every day, but they hadn’t let him see the patient.
"The archbishop?" repeated Talma. "What are you saying about the archbishop?"
"The archbishop?" Talma repeated. "What are you talking about regarding the archbishop?"
Amédée hastened to reply—
Amédée quickly replied—
"M. Dupuytren was telling these gentlemen, uncle, that the Archbishop of Paris has called every day to ask after you."
"M. Dupuytren was telling these guys, uncle, that the Archbishop of Paris has been calling every day to check on you."
"Oh! what good a fellow the archbishop is!" Talma exclaimed. "I am much touched by his remembering me.... I used to meet him at the house of the Princesse de Wagram: he is a very excellent man."
"Oh! what a great guy the archbishop is!" Talma said. "I'm really touched that he remembered me.... I used to see him at the Princesse de Wagram's house: he's a truly wonderful man."
"Yes," Amédée reiterated,—"yes, he has called nearly every day."
"Yes," Amédée repeated,—"yes, he has called almost every day."
"Here?" Talma asked.
"Here?" Talma asked.
"Here; I have spoken to him myself twice; I have even promised him that, when you are better, you will see him."
"Here; I have talked to him myself twice; I've even promised him that, when you feel better, you'll see him."
"Oh! no, no," said Talma quickly; "but when I am better he shall be the first on whom I will call. I remember once he was good enough to send an ecclesiastic to me to tell me that he had nothing to do with the insult put on my children in the matter of the distribution of prizes and that the whole blame should fall on the headmaster of the school."
"Oh! No, no," Talma said quickly. "But when I feel better, he'll be the first person I reach out to. I remember that once he kindly sent a priest to tell me that he had nothing to do with the insult towards my kids regarding the distribution of prizes and that all the blame should rest on the headmaster of the school."
I will give the story of what had happened: the event wounded Talma to the quick, for he adored his two children.
I will tell you what happened: the event deeply hurt Talma because he loved his two children so much.
The Archbishop of Paris was asked to preside at a prize distribution at the College Morin. Now it seems that the authorities did not dare to ask the ecclesiastic to reward the two sons of the great actor, so the names of the two lads were omitted, and it was not until after M. de Quélen's departure that the prizes they had earned were handed to them privately. Talma instantly caused his two children to renounce the Catholic faith, and from that time they belonged to the Reformed religion.
The Archbishop of Paris was invited to lead an awards ceremony at the College Morin. It seems that the authorities were hesitant to ask the cleric to present awards to the two sons of the famous actor, so the boys' names were left out. It wasn't until after M. de Quélen left that they were given their well-deserved prizes in private. Talma immediately had his two kids renounce the Catholic faith, and from that point on, they became part of the Reformed religion.
The doctors withdrew, and, as they were leaving, M. Dupuytren said to Amédée—
The doctors left, and as they were walking out, M. Dupuytren said to Amédée—
"I am going to the château: if I meet the archbishop what shall I say to him?"
"I’m heading to the château: if I run into the archbishop, what should I say to him?"
"Why, monsieur," the young man replied, "I do not think you can do better than tell him what we have just heard and my uncle's answer to what I said; if, later, my uncle asks for him, I shall have much pleasure in sending for him at once."
"Well, sir," the young man replied, "I think the best thing to do is to tell him what we just heard and my uncle's response to what I said; if my uncle wants to see him later, I'll be happy to fetch him right away."
But, instead of following out these instructions, M. Dupuytren, who did not meet the archbishop, took upon himself to write to him and tell him he could go and see Talma. The archbishop made haste to attend to the request, which he had no idea came only from M. Dupuytren; but, as on previous occasions, he was received by Amédée Talma. On[Pg 177] 18 October M. Charles Jeannin was obliged to leave his uncle and return to keep an engagement in Brussels for the 20th. On 19 October, at six in the morning, seeing Amédée by his bedside, Talma said—
But instead of following these instructions, M. Dupuytren, who didn’t meet the archbishop, took it upon himself to write to him and let him know that he could go see Talma. The archbishop hurried to act on the request, unaware that it only came from M. Dupuytren; however, like before, he was welcomed by Amédée Talma. On[Pg 177] 18 October, M. Charles Jeannin had to leave his uncle and head back to keep a commitment in Brussels for the 20th. On 19 October, at six in the morning, as he saw Amédée by his bedside, Talma said—
"What, my dear boy, have you not gone yet?"
"What, my dear boy, haven't you left yet?"
"There was only one vacant seat in the diligence, uncle, and I gave it up to Charles, who was urgently wanted in Brussels."
"There was only one empty seat in the coach, uncle, and I gave it up to Charles, who really needed to get to Brussels."
"When do you go?"
"When are you leaving?"
"To-morrow morning."
"Tomorrow morning."
"At what time?"
"What time is it?"
"Six o'clock ... if I can get a seat."
"Six o'clock... if I can find a seat."
Talma gently shook his head.
Talma gently shook his head.
"You are deceiving me," he said; "you have not been able to save me, and you wish to stay with me to the end.... If I had been a peasant from Brunoy, I could have been cured; but they have bungled over me.... However, my death will enable them to learn how they ought to treat someone else. So much for doctoring! Now go and fetch MM. Nicod and Jacquet."
"You’re fooling me," he said. "You haven't been able to save me, and you want to stick around until the end.... If I had been a peasant from Brunoy, I could have been treated; but they messed up with me.... Anyway, my death will teach them how to treat someone else. So much for medicine! Now go get MM. Nicod and Jacquet."
These were his lawyers. The gardener was called and sent on this errand. Talma recognised him.
These were his lawyers. The gardener was called and sent on this task. Talma recognized him.
"Ah! is that you, Louette?" he said.
"Hey! Is that you, Louette?" he said.
Then, turning to his nephew, he added—
Then, turning to his nephew, he added—
"I have not paid him for the last two months; you must tell Madame it is most essential.... But, by the bye, where is Caroline?"
"I haven't paid him for the last two months; you need to tell Madame it's really important.... But, by the way, where is Caroline?"
"She is asleep."
"She’s sleeping."
"Which means she is crying."
"That means she's crying."
Madame Talma heard, and she came up to the bedside.
Madame Talma heard this and walked over to the bedside.
"What time is it?" Talma continued, not seeing her.
"What time is it?" Talma asked, not noticing her.
"Six o'clock, uncle."
"6 PM, uncle."
"It is always six o'clock with you."
"It’s always six o'clock with you."
He tried to set going the repeater of his watch.
He tried to start the alarm on his watch.
"I cannot any longer hear my watch," he said.
"I can't hear my watch anymore," he said.
"Would you like a timepiece?"
"Would you like a watch?"
"Yes; go and fetch me the one out of my bedroom."
"Yeah, go grab the one from my bedroom."
His nephew went, and Madame Talma was exposed to view.
His nephew left, and Madame Talma was revealed.
"Ah! there you are, Caroline," he said; "we must now put matters right for you."
"Ah! there you are, Caroline," he said; "we need to sort things out for you now."
His nephew brought the clock and put it on the night table.
His nephew brought the clock and placed it on the nightstand.
"I am very unsightly, am I not, my good Amédée?" Talma remarked. "My beard is so long...."
"I look pretty bad, don’t I, my dear Amédée?" Talma said. "My beard is so long..."
"You shall have it trimmed to-day."
"You'll get it cut today."
"Give me a looking-glass."
"Give me a mirror."
He took it and looked at himself.
He took it and looked at himself.
"I tell you, Amédée, I am losing my sight; for pity's sake, have something done for my eyes. Oh! I shall lose them—I cannot see at all to-day."
"I’m telling you, Amédée, I’m losing my sight; please, do something for my eyes. Oh! I’m going to lose them—I can’t see at all today."
The lawyers arrived and, with them, M. Davilliers. But Talma tried in vain to discuss business matters—he was past all that; he could only speak in whispers, although he believed he was speaking very loudly, and his speech grew more and more indistinct. MM. Arnault and de Jouy were announced. Talma signed for them to be brought to him. M. Arnault embraced Talma, to whom he was tenderly attached, and, as he did so, the word "Adieu" escaped from his lips.
The lawyers showed up, along with M. Davilliers. But Talma struggled to talk about business—he was done with that; he could only talk in whispers, even though he thought he was speaking loudly, and his words became less and less clear. MM. Arnault and de Jouy were announced. Talma signaled for them to come to him. M. Arnault hugged Talma, whom he was very close to, and as he did, the word "Goodbye" slipped from his lips.
"Are you going away, then?" asked Talma.
"Are you leaving, then?" asked Talma.
"Yes," Amédée answered hastily, "these gentlemen are going to Brussels."
"Yeah," Amédée replied quickly, "these guys are heading to Brussels."
Both men embraced him and, to hide their sobs, rushed quickly from the room; as Talma saw them go out he said—
Both men hugged him and, to hide their tears, hurried out of the room; as Talma watched them leave, he said—
"Quite right, be quick and go, then I shall hope to see you again soon; the sooner you go, the sooner you will come back."
"You're right, hurry up and go, then I hope to see you again soon; the quicker you leave, the quicker you'll return."
When MM. de Jouy and Arnault had gone away, his two children were brought him, and Talma held out his hands to them, to be kissed. A few minutes later, he uttered three words—
When Messrs. de Jouy and Arnault had left, his two children were brought to him, and Talma held out his hands to them for kisses. A few minutes later, he spoke three words—
"Voltaire!... like Voltaire!..."
"Voltaire!... just like Voltaire!..."
Then, immediately afterwards, he murmured—
Then, he quietly said—
"The cruellest thing of all is to lose one's sight."
"The cruelest thing of all is losing one's sight."
The next moment, some piece of furniture cracked very loudly, and Talma turned his head in the direction of the sound. A lady who had just arrived took advantage of this movement to say—
The next moment, a piece of furniture cracked really loudly, and Talma turned his head towards the sound. A lady who had just arrived seized this opportunity to say—
"Talma, it is I, Mademoiselle Menocq."
"Talma, it's me, Miss Menocq."
The dying man made a slight token of acknowledgment and pressed her hand. It struck half-past eleven. Talma took his handkerchief in both hands, lifted it up slowly to his mouth, wiped his lips and then put it behind his head, still holding it in both hands. After the lapse of a few seconds, his hands released their hold and fell down by his sides. His nephew took hold of the hand nearest him, and felt that his pressure was returned feebly. At eleven thirty-five, without any convulsion or muscular contraction of the face, one sigh escaped his lips—it was his last breath.
The dying man gave a slight nod and squeezed her hand. It was half-past eleven. Talma took his handkerchief in both hands, brought it slowly to his mouth, wiped his lips, and then placed it behind his head, still holding it with both hands. After a few seconds, his hands relaxed and fell to his sides. His nephew took hold of the closest hand and felt a weak squeeze in return. At eleven thirty-five, without any twitch or muscle movement in his face, he let out a sigh—it was his last breath.
When Garrick died, four peers of England claimed it as an honour to bear the four corners of his pall, and to follow their English Roscius to his resting-place among the tombs of kings.
When Garrick died, four noblemen from England considered it an honor to carry the four corners of his coffin and to accompany their English Roscius to his final resting place among the tombs of kings.
One hundred thousand persons followed Talma's funeral procession, but not a single representative from those in high places in the State were among the number.
One hundred thousand people followed Talma's funeral procession, but not a single representative from the high-ranking officials in the State was among them.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lassagne had told me to think of a subject for a vaudeville. I had done so, and believed I had found one. It was in the Arabian Nights, one of the episodes in the travels of Sinbad the sailor, I believe. I say "I believe," for I am not quite sure, and the matter is not really worth the trouble of ransacking my desk to find out. Sinbad, the indefatigable traveller, reaches a country where they bury wives with their husbands, and husbands with their wives. He imprudently marries; his wife dies, and he has a narrow escape of being buried with her. A mere trifle. But the episode suggested a vague plan, which I took to Lassagne.
Lassagne had asked me to come up with an idea for a vaudeville show. I did some thinking and felt like I had found one. It was from the Arabian Nights, one of the stories about Sinbad the sailor, I think. I say "I think," because I'm not entirely sure, and honestly, it's not worth digging through my desk to find out. Sinbad, the tireless traveler, arrives in a place where they bury wives with their husbands and husbands with their wives. He carelessly gets married; his wife passes away, and he barely escapes being buried with her. Just a small detail. But this story gave me a vague idea, which I took to Lassagne.
Lassagne read it, and, if that were possible he was more kindly disposed towards me even than at the first, when he[Pg 180] saw how determined I was to succeed. With the exception of a few corrections, which he undertook to make, he decided that the scheme would serve. He therefore communicated with a clever young fellow named Vulpian, a friend of his, who was also later to become one of mine. Vulpian is one more name to be marked with a cross in these recollections; for he is dead. We met together two or three times and shared the task. This time I had to do with collaborators who were more punctilious in keeping their promises than poor Rousseau had been. At the first meeting, each of us had his part ready. We joined the three pieces together and made them into something like a harmonious whole. Lassagne undertook to put the polishing touches to the work, which took him three or four days. When this was done, the three authors, pronouncing it to be perfect, decided it should be read under the title of la Noce et l'Enterrement at the Vaudeville, where Lassagne and Vulpian knew Désaugiers. Unluckily, Désaugiers, who was already affected with the disease that eventually killed him, was at home undergoing a second or third operation, and could not be present at the reading. The upshot of his absence was that la Noce et l'Enterrement received almost as abrupt a refusal at the Vaudeville as la Chasse et l'Amour had at the Gymnase. It seemed I was not to be favoured with good luck while I shared my work with others. I felt terribly discouraged. But I felt worse still the day after the reading, when Lassagne put in an appearance with an expression of gloom on his face. It was so rarely he was depressed that I rose from my seat feeling sure something was wrong.
Lassagne read it, and, if possible, he was even more kindly disposed towards me than before when he[Pg 180] saw how determined I was to succeed. Aside from a few corrections that he took on himself, he decided that the plan would work. He then reached out to a smart young guy named Vulpian, a friend of his who would later become a friend of mine as well. Vulpian is one more name I need to mark with a cross in these memories because he has passed away. We met two or three times to work together. This time, I had collaborators who were more diligent in keeping their promises than poor Rousseau had been. At the first meeting, each of us had our part prepared. We combined the three pieces into something resembling a harmonious whole. Lassagne took on the final touches, which took him three or four days. Once that was done, the three authors agreed it was perfect and decided it should be read under the title of la Noce et l'Enterrement at the Vaudeville, where Lassagne and Vulpian knew Désaugiers. Unfortunately, Désaugiers, who was already suffering from the illness that would eventually take his life, was at home undergoing a second or third operation and couldn’t attend the reading. Because of his absence, la Noce et l'Enterrement received nearly as abrupt a rejection at the Vaudeville as la Chasse et l'Amour had at the Gymnase. It seemed like luck wasn’t on my side when I shared my work with others. I felt really discouraged. But I felt even worse the day after the reading when Lassagne showed up with a gloomy look on his face. He was so rarely down that I stood up, sensing something was wrong.
"What is the matter now?" I asked.
"What’s going on now?" I asked.
"Matter enough, my poor friend; for somehow or other it has leaked out, although your name was not breathed at the reading, that I have written a play with you; and, in consequence, Oudard has just sent for me."
"Matter enough, my poor friend; for somehow it has slipped out, even though your name wasn't mentioned at the reading, that I’ve written a play with you; and because of that, Oudard just sent for me."
"Well?"
"What's up?"
"Well, he made out I had given you a taste for literature;[Pg 181] he says this taste will ruin your future career and he has made me pass my word of honour not only to cease helping you in any other play, but also to cast aside the one already finished."
"Well, he acted like I had sparked your interest in literature;[Pg 181] he says this interest will mess up your future career and he has made me promise not only to stop helping you with any other play but also to set aside the one that's already done."
"And did you promise?" I asked.
"And did you promise?" I asked.
"I felt obliged to do so for your sake, Dumas. You haven't General Foy any longer to uphold your interests here. I don't know who has done you a bad turn by speaking to M. de Broval, but they do not at all look upon your literary propensities with friendly eyes."
"I felt it was necessary to do this for you, Dumas. You no longer have General Foy to support your interests here. I'm not sure who influenced M. de Broval against you, but they definitely don't view your literary ambitions positively."
I do not think my heart ever felt heavier. The two or three hundred francs which la Chasse et l'Amour had brought in had so sensibly lightened our circumstances, that I had been looking forward to the time when I should be drawing not merely twenty to twenty-five francs more per month, but earning four times that amount by literary work. Moreover, a portion of what la Noce et l'Enterrement was to bring me in was hypothecated to Porcher, who had lent me 300 francs. What Lassagne had just told me pretty well overthrew all my castles in Spain. It seemed to me most cruel to forbid me working for the drama out of office hours, and to insist that my mother, my son and I should be compelled to live on 125 francs per month. This feeling was so strong that it fired me with courage to go straight to Oudard. I entered his office with tears in my eyes but my voice under control.
I don't think my heart has ever felt heavier. The two or three hundred francs that la Chasse et l'Amour brought in had really lightened our situation, so I had been looking forward to the time when I would be earning not just twenty to twenty-five francs more each month, but four times that amount from my writing. Plus, part of what la Noce et l'Enterrement was supposed to bring me was already promised to Porcher, who had lent me 300 francs. What Lassagne just told me pretty much shattered all my dreams. It felt really cruel to forbid me from working on the drama outside of office hours and to insist that my mother, my son, and I should survive on just 125 francs a month. This feeling was so intense that it gave me the courage to go straight to Oudard. I walked into his office with tears in my eyes but my voice steady.
"Is it true, monsieur," I asked, "that you have forbidden Lassagne to work with me?"
"Is it true, sir," I asked, "that you've forbidden Lassagne to work with me?"
"Yes," was his reply. "Why do you ask me that?"
"Yeah," he said. "Why do you ask me that?"
"Because I should not have thought you would have had the courage to do so."
"Because I didn't think you would have the courage to do that."
"What do you mean by that?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, it seems to me a man needs courage to condemn three persons to live on a hundred and twenty-five francs a month."
"Well, it seems to me that a man needs courage to condemn three people to live on a hundred and twenty-five francs a month."
"And it seems to me you ought to think yourself very fortunate to have the hundred and twenty-five francs per month, instead of despising them."
"And it seems to me you should consider yourself very lucky to have the hundred and twenty-five francs a month, instead of looking down on them."
"I do not despise them, monsieur; on the contrary, I am very grateful to those who give them to me; only, I repeat that the sum is not sufficient and that I think I ought to be allowed the right to add to it so long as it does not interfere with attention to my office work."
"I don’t look down on them, sir; on the contrary, I’m really thankful to those who give them to me; it’s just that I reiterate that the amount isn’t enough and I believe I should be allowed to add to it as long as it doesn’t interfere with my office work."
"It may not interfere with your office work now, but it very soon will."
"It might not affect your office work right now, but it soon will."
"That will be the time, then, for you to be anxious."
"That will be the time for you to feel anxious."
"It is really no affair of mine," said M. Oudard. "I simply and solely convey the views of the chief director."
"It’s really none of my business," said M. Oudard. "I’m just relaying the opinions of the chief director."
"Of M. de Broval?"
"About M. de Broval?"
"Yes, of M. de Broval."
"Yes, of Mr. de Broval."
"I thought M. de Broval pretended to foster literature."
"I thought M. de Broval was pretending to support literature."
"Literature? Perhaps he does ... but do you call la Chasse et l'Amour and la Noce et l'Enterrement literature?"
"Literature? Maybe he does ... but do you consider la Chasse et l'Amour and la Noce et l'Enterrement literature?"
"Most surely not, monsieur. But my name was not put on the bills at the Ambigu, where la Chasse et l'Amour was played, and it will not be put on the bills of the theatre, whatever it may be, which may accept la Noce et l'Enterrement."
"Definitely not, sir. But my name wasn't included on the posters at the Ambigu, where la Chasse et l'Amour was performed, and it won't be included on the posters of any theater that decides to host la Noce et l'Enterrement."
"Still, if you are ashamed to own those productions, why make them?"
"Still, if you’re embarrassed to claim those creations, why make them?"
"First, monsieur, because at present I do not feel myself able to do better, and because, such as they are, they bring comfort to our poverty ... yes, monsieur, to our poverty—I do not shrink from the truth. One day, you somehow learnt that I had sat up several nights to copy some stage plays which brought in four francs an act, and that, under the same conditions, I copied out M. Théaulon's comedy, the Indiscret,—well, you complimented me then on my pluck."
"First, sir, because right now I don’t feel capable of doing better, and because, as they are, they provide comfort to our poverty ... yes, sir, to our poverty—I don’t shy away from the truth. One day, you somehow found out that I had stayed up several nights to copy some stage plays that paid four francs per act, and that, under the same circumstances, I copied M. Théaulon's comedy, the Indiscret,—well, you praised me then for my courage."
"Quite true."
"Absolutely."
"How then, may I ask, am I more guilty in making my own plays than in copying out those of others? You must, of course, be aware that Adolphe also writes plays?"
"How, may I ask, am I more guilty for creating my own plays than for copying those of others? You must know that Adolphe also writes plays, right?"
"Which Adolphe?"
"Which Adolphe?"
"Adolphe de Leuven."
"Adolphe de Leuven."
"What then?"
"What's next?"
"Why, I heard you speak to M. de Broval the other day in support of Adolphe's request for a post in the offices of the Duc d'Orléans."
"Why, I heard you talking to M. de Broval the other day in support of Adolphe's request for a position in the Duc d'Orléans' offices."
"M. Adolphe de Leuven was highly recommended to me."
"M. Adolphe de Leuven came highly recommended."
"And I, monsieur, was not I also highly recommended to you? True, de Leuven was highly recommended to you by Benjamin Constant, General Gérard and Madame de Valence, whilst I was only recommended to you by General Foy."
"And I, sir, wasn’t I also highly recommended to you? True, de Leuven was highly recommended to you by Benjamin Constant, General Gérard, and Madame de Valence, while I was only recommended to you by General Foy."
"And what does that mean?"
"And what does that mean?"
"It means that Adolphe de Leuven's patrons are alive while my supporter is dead."
"It means that Adolphe de Leuven's patrons are alive while my supporter is dead."
"M. Dumas!..."
"M. Dumas!..."
"Oh! do not be put out. I see I have hit the right nail on the head."
"Oh! Don't be upset. I can see I've nailed it."
"Then you absolutely insist on continuing your writing?"
"So you really want to keep writing?"
"Yes, monsieur; I desire to do so both from inclination, and from necessity."
"Yes, sir; I want to do that both because I want to and because I have to."
"Very well, produce literature like Casimir Delavigne's and instead of blaming you, we will give you encouragement."
"Alright, create literature like Casimir Delavigne's, and instead of criticizing you, we will support you."
"Monsieur," I replied, "I am not M. Casimir Delavigne's age, who has been poet laureate since 1811; neither have I received the education M. Casimir Delavigne had at one of the best colleges in Paris. No, I am only twenty-two; I am busy educating myself every day, probably at the cost of my health, for all I learn—and I assure you I am studying many subjects—I learn when other people are fast asleep or amusing themselves. So I cannot, just at this moment, produce work like M. Casimir Delavigne's. But, M. Oudard, I would ask you, in conclusion, to listen carefully to what I am about to say, strange though it may sound to your ears: if I did not believe I could do different work in days to come than M. Casimir Delavigne's, well, monsieur, I should meet you and M. de Broval more than half-way in your wishes, and at this very instant I would give you my sacred promise, I would take a solemn oath, never to touch literature again."
"Monsieur," I replied, "I’m not the same age as M. Casimir Delavigne, who has been the poet laureate since 1811; I also didn’t have the education he had at one of the best colleges in Paris. No, I’m only twenty-two; I’m busy learning every day, probably at the expense of my health, because everything I learn—and I promise you, I’m studying a lot of subjects—I do when other people are fast asleep or enjoying themselves. So, at this moment, I can’t produce work like M. Casimir Delavigne’s. But, M. Oudard, I’d like to ask you, in closing, to listen carefully to what I’m about to say, no matter how strange it may sound to you: if I didn’t believe I could create different work in the future than M. Casimir Delavigne’s, well, monsieur, I would be more than willing to meet you and M. de Broval halfway, and right now I would give you my sacred promise, I would take a solemn oath, never to touch literature again."
Oudard looked at me with expressionless eyes; for my pride took his breath away. I bowed to him and went out. Five minutes later, he went to M. Deviolaine to tell him of my insane carryings on. M. Deviolaine inquired if it were really in his presence, if it were really to him, that I had said such monstrous things.
Oudard looked at me with blank eyes; my pride had left him speechless. I nodded to him and left. Five minutes later, he went to M. Deviolaine to report my crazy behavior. M. Deviolaine asked if it was truly in his presence, if it was really to him, that I had said such outrageous things.
"Yes, it was in my presence and to me," said Oudard.
"Yeah, it happened in front of me and it was directed at me," Oudard said.
"I will tell his mother about it," said M. Deviolaine; "and if he continues possessed with this madness, send him to me. I will take him into my office and see that he doesn't go altogether stark staring mad."
"I'll let his mom know," said M. Deviolaine; "and if he keeps being consumed by this madness, have him come see me. I'll bring him into my office and make sure he doesn't completely lose his mind."
And, indeed, my mother was told that very same night. When I returned from making up the portfolio, I found her in tears. M. Deviolaine had sent for her, and told her of all that had passed between M. Oudard and me that morning. Next day, the crime of which I had been guilty was public property throughout the offices. The sixty-three clerks of His Royal Highness never lost an opportunity of saying to each other as they met, "Have you heard what Dumas said to M. Oudard yesterday?"
And, in fact, my mom was informed that very same night. When I got back from putting together the portfolio, I found her in tears. M. Deviolaine had called her in and told her everything that had happened between M. Oudard and me that morning. The next day, the mistake I had made was common knowledge throughout the offices. The sixty-three clerks of His Royal Highness never missed a chance to say to each other as they crossed paths, "Did you hear what Dumas said to M. Oudard yesterday?"
And the clerk to whom the question was addressed would reply with either a Yes or a No. If he replied in the negative, the story was related with corrections, embellishments and exaggerations, that did the greatest credit to the imagination of my colleagues. During the whole day and for several days to follow, homeric laughter could be heard throughout the corridors of the Maison de la rue Saint-Honoré No. 216. There was one solitary book-keeping clerk who had only been engaged the previous day, and whom no one as yet knew, who did not laugh.
And the clerk who was asked the question would respond with either a Yes or a No. If he answered No, the story was told with corrections, embellishments, and exaggerations that really showcased my colleagues' imaginations. Throughout the day and for several days after, uproarious laughter echoed through the halls of the Maison de la rue Saint-Honoré No. 216. There was one lone bookkeeping clerk who had just started the day before, and nobody knew him yet, who didn't laugh.
"Why," said the others to him, "you aren't laughing."
"Why," the others said to him, "you're not laughing."
"No."
"Nope."
"Why don't you laugh?"
"Why aren't you laughing?"
"Because it doesn't seem to me a laughing matter."
"Because it doesn’t seem like a joke to me."
"What! Don't you think it a huge joke that Dumas said he would do better things than Casimir Delavigne?"
"What! Don't you think it's a big joke that Dumas said he would do better work than Casimir Delavigne?"
"In the first place, he did not say he would do better, he said he would do something different."
"In the first place, he didn’t say he would do better, he said he would do something different."
"It is all the same."
"It's all the same."
"No, it is quite different."
"No, it's quite different."
"But do you know Dumas?"
"But do you know Dumas?"
"Yes, and because I know him I tell you he will do something; I don't know what it will be, but I tell you that that something will astonish everybody, save myself."
"Yes, and since I know him, I can tell you he will do something; I don't know what it will be, but I assure you that whatever it is will amaze everyone except me."
This employé, who had just joined the office, in the book-keeping department, was my old German and Italian master, Amédeé de la Ponce.
This employee, who had just started in the office, in the bookkeeping department, was my old German and Italian teacher, Amédeé de la Ponce.
So there were two people out of the seventy-two persons, heads and employés, who composed His Royal Highness's official staff, who did not despair of me! Lassagne and he.
So there were two people out of the seventy-two individuals, heads and employees, who made up His Royal Highness's official staff, who did not give up on me! Lassagne and him.
From this time began the warfare of which Lassagne had warned me when I first entered the office. But, no matter what the war was going to be like, or how long it was going to last, I made up my mind to fight to the end.
From this point on, the battle that Lassagne had warned me about when I first joined the office began. But regardless of what the conflict would be like or how long it would last, I was determined to fight until the very end.
A week later, a ray of comfort came to me. Vulpian came to tell Lassagne and me that our play had been accepted by the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin for Serres' début.
A week later, I received some good news. Vulpian came to inform Lassagne and me that our play had been accepted by the Porte-Saint-Martin theater for Serres' debut.
So it will be seen I was gently drawing nearer to the Théâtre-Français, but I had learnt Italian enough to understand the 1 proverb, "Che va piano va sano."
So it will be seen I was gently getting closer to the Théâtre-Français, but I had learned enough Italian to understand the proverb, "Che va piano va sano."
The author's rights were also higher. The theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin paid eighteen francs for a vaudeville, and allowed twelve francs' worth of tickets.
The author's rights were also greater. The Porte-Saint-Martin theater paid eighteen francs for a vaudeville and provided twelve francs' worth of tickets.
So this meant for me eight francs per night instead of six;—exactly double, this time, what my office work brought me in.
So this meant for me eight francs a night instead of six;—exactly double what my office job paid me this time.
La Noce et l'Enterrement was played on 21 November 1826. My mother and I saw my play from the orchestra. As my name did not transpire, and as I was totally unknown, I experienced no inconvenience from allowing myself the satisfaction of being present. The play succeeded admirably; but, even as the Roman emperors, in their days of triumph, were reminded by a slave that they were mortal, so, lest my success should intoxicate me, Providence placed a neighbour on my left who remarked, as he rose at the fall of the curtain—
La Noce et l'Enterrement was performed on November 21, 1826. My mother and I watched my play from the orchestra. Since my name wasn’t shared and I was completely unknown, I had no trouble enjoying the moment. The play was a big hit; however, just like how Roman emperors were reminded by a slave that they were mortal during their triumphs, to keep me grounded and prevent my success from going to my head, fate put a neighbor on my left who commented as he stood up when the curtain fell—
"Come, come, it isn't such stuff as this that will uphold the theatre."
"Come on, this kind of stuff won't support the theater."
My neighbour was right, and he knew what he was talking about all the more in that he was a fellow-writer.
My neighbor was right, and he knew what he was talking about even more since he was also a writer.
The play was acted some forty times, and, as Porcher generously left me half my rights, claiming only the remaining half to liquidate previous advances, the four francs per night that I received from the tickets helped us to get over the winter of 1826 to 1827.
The play was performed about forty times, and since Porcher kindly gave me half of my rights, keeping the other half to settle past advances, the four francs per night I earned from the tickets helped us survive the winter of 1826 to 1827.
CHAPTER V
Soulié at the mechanical saw-mill—His platonic love of gold—I desire to write a drama with him—I translate Fiesque—Death of Auguste Lafarge—My pay is increased and my position lowered—Félix Deviolaine, condemned by the medical faculty, is saved by illness—Louis XI. à Péronne—Talma's theatrical wardrobe—The loi de justice et d'amour—The disbanding of the National Guard
Soulié at the mechanical sawmill—His idealistic love for gold—I want to write a play with him—I’m translating Fiesque—The death of Auguste Lafarge—My pay increases, but my status declines—Félix Deviolaine, condemned by the medical faculty, is saved by his illness—Louis XI. at Péronne—Talma's stage costume—The law of justice and love—The disbanding of the National Guard
From that moment I made up my mind firmly; like Ferdinand Cortez, I had burnt my boats, and I had either to succeed or to hang myself. Unfortunately, I was not staking for myself alone; my poor mother was also equally involved in the game.
From that moment on, I resolved completely; like Ferdinand Cortez, I had burned my bridges, and I had to either succeed or end it all. Unfortunately, I wasn't in this alone; my poor mother was just as much a part of this gamble.
Although Soulié had been less fortunate than we had been, in not yet having had anything of his acted, I had divined what strength of imagination lay in his work, and I had decided to attempt a work of some importance in collaboration with him. At heart, I really agreed with M. Oudard's estimate of my first two productions, and I had shown it by not wishing my name to appear in connection with either of them, while, by some instinct that did not lead me far astray, I had signed the Ode sur la mort du général Foy, the Nouvelles contemporaines and Pâtre romain. But I quite decided not to sign my name to any theatrical work until I could do something that would make a great sensation. Soulié had moved; he lodged near La Gare. By some means or other, he had become head of a saw-mill, in which upwards of a hundred workpeople were employed. In comparison with us, Soulié was wealthy. He had a small allowance from his father, plus his salary as manager of this industrial establishment; so he could jingle a little gold in his pockets, which was quite out of the[Pg 188] question in our case. Soulié had a real passion for gold, and he liked to look at it and to handle it. Towards the close of his life, he was earning between forty and fifty thousand francs per annum; and, when he had contracts to pay by the end of the month, he would often keep the two or three thousand francs thus hypothecated, in his drawer, from the 15th to the 20th. Then, in order to procure the joy which the sight of gold gave him, he would change his five-francs piece or his bank-notes for napoleons, asking that the newest and most glittering coins should be sent him, even at the expense of four or five sous per napoleon,—for Soulié had not the good fortune to live in the happy period of the depreciation of gold,—then, when the end of the month came, it cost him such anguish to part from his gold, that, although the sum owing lay there in his drawer, he seldom settled his account when it was due, preferring to pay twenty, thirty, fifty or a hundred francs extra, in order to feast his eyes upon the rich metal for a few days longer. And yet nobody could be more generous or liberal-handed or lavish than Soulié. He loved gold; but do not misunderstand us, it was not after the fashion of a miser that he loved it, but as the representative of luxury, as the surest means to procure all the pleasures of life: he loved gold for the power it bestows. So he had a very special predilection for the romance of Monte-Cristo. I hope I may be forgiven if I dwell at too great length on Soulié; he was one of the most interesting personalities I ever met, and I say of him, as Michelet once said of me, "he was one of the forces of nature." I could picture Soulié poaching in the forests of America, a pirate in the Indian Seas or in the Arctic Ocean, an explorer along the shores of Lake Tchad or Senegal, far better than as a romance-writer or a dramatist.
Although Soulié hadn’t been as lucky as we had, not having had anything of his performed yet, I could tell how much imagination was in his work, and I decided to try collaborating with him on something significant. Deep down, I agreed with M. Oudard’s view of my first two productions, which I showed by not wanting my name associated with either. Yet, by some instinct that didn’t lead me too astray, I signed the Ode sur la mort du général Foy, the Nouvelles contemporaines, and Pâtre romain. But I was determined not to attach my name to any theatrical work until I could create something that would make a real impact. Soulié had moved; he lived near La Gare. Somehow, he had become the head of a sawmill, which employed over a hundred workers. Compared to us, Soulié was wealthy. He had a small allowance from his father, plus his salary as the manager of this industrial business, so he could carry a little gold in his pockets, which was completely out of the question for us. Soulié had a real passion for gold; he enjoyed looking at it and handling it. Towards the end of his life, he was earning between forty and fifty thousand francs a year; when he had contracts due at the end of the month, he would often keep two or three thousand francs set aside in his drawer from the 15th to the 20th. Then, to enjoy the sight of gold, he would exchange his five-franc coins or banknotes for gold coins, insisting that the newest and shiniest ones be sent to him, even if it meant paying four or five sous extra for each napoleon—since Soulié wasn’t fortunate enough to live in the happy era of gold depreciation. When the end of the month came, it pained him to part with his gold. Even though the money he owed sat in his drawer, he rarely paid his bills on time, opting instead to pay an extra twenty, thirty, fifty, or a hundred francs to keep the beautiful metal in his sight for a few more days. Yet no one could be more generous or free-handed than Soulié. He loved gold; but let’s be clear, it wasn’t in a miserly way; he loved it as a symbol of luxury, as the best way to secure all life’s pleasures: he loved gold for the power it brings. He had a deep fondness for the romance of Monte-Cristo. I hope I’m not rambling too much about Soulié; he was one of the most fascinating people I ever met, and I say, as Michelet once said of me, "he was one of the forces of nature." I could imagine Soulié as a poacher in the forests of America, a pirate in the Indian Seas or Arctic Ocean, or an explorer along the shores of Lake Tchad or Senegal far easier than as a writer of romances or a dramatist.
He was consummate, too, in the midst of his hundred workmen at the saw-mill, as he directed them by a nod of the head, by a wave of the hand, giving his orders in a tone of voice at once gentle and firm, kindly yet full of power. He had just finished his imitation of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. There were some fine lines in that piece of work, well conceived,[Pg 189] some great thoughts vigorously handled; but, in the main, it was a mediocre production. He had started it two years too late, and had not attempted anything fresh at a time when to be original was one of the conditions of success.
He was exceptional, too, among his hundred workers at the sawmill, as he directed them with a nod of his head and a wave of his hand, giving his orders in a voice that was both gentle and firm, kind yet powerful. He had just finished his take on Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. There were some great lines in that piece, well thought out,[Pg 189] some impressive ideas tackled with energy; but overall, it was an average production. He had started it two years too late and hadn't tried anything new at a time when being original was essential for success.
I told Soulié frankly that I had come to ask him to write a drama with me; but, as neither of us felt at all strong enough to attempt anything in the way of original creation, we decided to take a subject from Walter Scott. Walter Scott was all the rage; his Kenilworth Castle had just been played with great success at the Porte-Saint-Martin, and a version of Quentin Durward was to be acted at the Théâtre-Français. Talma was allotted the part of Louis XI., and he had intended it to follow his Tiberius. What a glorious thing it would have been for the drama for Talma to have personated a character from Walter Scott! We settled upon Old Mortality. There were two characters in Old Mortality—John Balfour of Burley and Bothwell—that completely fascinated Soulié.
I straight up told Soulié that I wanted him to co-write a play with me; but since neither of us felt confident enough to come up with something original, we agreed to adapt a story from Walter Scott. Walter Scott was super popular at the time; his Kenilworth Castle had just been performed with great success at the Porte-Saint-Martin, and a version of Quentin Durward was about to be staged at the Théâtre-Français. Talma was set to play Louis XI., and he had planned for it to follow his Tiberius. It would have been amazing for the theater to see Talma portray a character from Walter Scott! We decided on Old Mortality. Soulié was completely captivated by the two characters in Old Mortality—John Balfour of Burley and Bothwell.
When our subject was chosen, we set to work with great zest; but in vain did we put our heads together, the plan did not go well. To put it baldly, we each of us had too much individuality, and we were continually knocking against each other's angles. At the end of two or three months of fruitless labour, after five or six useless meetings, we had made no headway at all, and were scarcely farther advanced than at our first meeting. But I had gained enormously by my struggle with this rough champion; I felt all kinds of new forces springing up in me, and, like a blind man whose sight has been restored, each day, little by little, my range of vision seemed to widen.
When we picked our topic, we got to work with a lot of enthusiasm; but no matter how hard we tried to collaborate, the plan just didn't come together. To put it simply, we each had too much individuality, and we kept clashing with each other's perspectives. After two or three months of frustrating work and five or six pointless meetings, we hadn't made any progress at all and were hardly any farther along than we were at our first meeting. However, I had gained a lot from my struggle with this tough opponent; I felt all sorts of new strengths developing within me, and, like a blind person who has just regained their sight, each day, bit by bit, my understanding seemed to expand.
Meantime, I was practising how to handle dramatic poetry by translating Schiller's Fiesque into verse. I undertook the task in order to teach myself, and not in hope of payment; and, although it was not to bring me in a penny, and we stood in the greatest need of work that would pay me, I had the courage to finish it from end to end.
Meanwhile, I was practicing how to tackle dramatic poetry by translating Schiller's Fiesque into verse. I took on the task to teach myself, not for any payment; and even though it wouldn't earn me a cent, and we desperately needed paying work, I had the determination to complete it from start to finish.
About this time, my poor mother, who was always in fear of my losing my place, and who, I must confess, was quite[Pg 190] justified in her fears, had a fresh instance of deceived hopes to bring before my notice. My compatriot, Auguste Lafarge, the stylish lawyer's clerk who had momentarily revolutionised the whole town of Villers-Cotterets, and who had been obliged to sell his business to pay his debts, because he could not find a rich wife to save the situation, had flung himself into literature for want of other means of livelihood, and had just died after two or three years' struggle against horrible poverty. It was in vain I said to my mother that Lafarge never had the making of a dramatic poet in him; in vain I told her he had never struggled, but, on the contrary, had given in without a fight; in vain I urged that Lafarge never possessed a fraction of my energy and perseverance; the material fact was that he had suffered hunger and misery and had died in consequence of his privations.
About this time, my poor mother, who was always worried about me losing my job, and who, I must admit, was quite justified in her worries, had a new example of shattered hopes to bring to my attention. My fellow countryman, Auguste Lafarge, the stylish lawyer's clerk who had temporarily transformed the whole town of Villers-Cotterets, and who had been forced to sell his business to pay off his debts because he couldn't find a wealthy wife to bail him out, had turned to writing for lack of other ways to make a living, and had just died after two or three years of struggling against terrible poverty. It was useless for me to tell my mother that Lafarge never had what it takes to be a dramatic poet; it was pointless to explain that he never really fought back but had given up without a struggle; and it was futile to argue that Lafarge never had even a fraction of my determination and persistence; the undeniable fact was that he had experienced hunger and misery and had died as a result of his hardships.
Another fact that ought to have set her fears to rest only gave her fresh anxiety. Betz had been promoted. The reader will recollect that Betz was the nice lad who had been my second in the duel with M. B. He had been made chief clerk at a salary of 2400 francs, and his post as order clerk at 2000 francs was given to Ernest, who, in his turn, left his place of 1800 francs vacant. As I had attended to my office work with a regularity that not even my worst enemy could have found fault with, and as, although they may have been unjust towards me, they were not really ill-intentioned, they could hardly refuse to give me Ernest's place, which I asked of Oudard as though it were my due. My request was acceded to, but they changed me from the Secretarial Department to the Relieving Offices. The Bureau des secours was really a branch of the Secretariat, but it was looked upon as a subordinate department. I should most of all have regretted leaving Lassagne, but a change had been made some time before in the arrangement of the offices, and a room had been given him to himself, in consideration of his position as deputy head-clerk. So it came about that I was quite as near him in the Relief Office as I had been under the new arrangements at the Secretariat. I gained two things by this change: first, an increase of salary; secondly, a greater freedom of[Pg 191] action; since, having to obtain information concerning the unfortunate people who asked for help, I spent whole days in going about from one end of Paris to the other. I should have been well pleased, as compensation for the two advantages thus gained, to have given up my portfolio making, but there was no way out of this.
Another fact that should have calmed her fears only added to her anxiety. Betz had been promoted. You might remember that Betz was the nice guy who had my back in the duel with M. B. He was now chief clerk with a salary of 2400 francs, and his old position as order clerk at 2000 francs went to Ernest, who then left his job, which paid 1800 francs, open. Since I had kept up with my office work so reliably that not even my worst critic could complain, and although they might have been unfair to me, they weren’t really malicious, they had no choice but to give me Ernest's position when I asked Oudard for it as if it were rightfully mine. My request was granted, but they moved me from the Secretarial Department to the Relief Offices. The Bureau des secours was technically part of the Secretariat, but it was seen as a lower-tier department. I would have missed working with Lassagne the most, but a change had been made earlier in the office setup, giving him his own room due to his role as deputy head clerk. So, I ended up just as close to him in the Relief Office as I had been under the new setup in the Secretariat. I gained two things from this change: first, a salary increase; and second, more freedom of[Pg 191]action. Since I needed to gather information about the unfortunate people seeking help, I spent whole days traveling across Paris. I would have been happy to give up my portfolio work in exchange for these two benefits, but there was no way around it.
In spite of my increase of salary, and the greater freedom I gained, my mother looked upon this change in my position as in the nature of a disgrace. She was not deceived; and, if she had been, M. Deviolaine would have taken care to put her right on this head.
Despite my raise and the increased freedom I gained, my mother viewed this change in my status as a kind of disgrace. She wasn’t fooled; and even if she had been, M. Deviolaine would have made sure to set her straight on that.
In addition to this, a very real calamity was threatening to strike at that household with which we were closely connected. For some time past, Félix Deviolaine, who looked the very picture of health, had been troubled with a cough, and was losing flesh. He grew uneasy at the weakness he felt to be growing on him, and one day he sought me out and begged me to take him to Thibaut, whose medical skill he had often heard me praise. I hastened to do him this service, and took him to Thibaut, begging him to examine Félix very carefully. Thibaut made him strip to the waist, tapped his chest, listened to his breathing both with his ear and with the stethoscope; and, after ten minutes' examination, told him plainly that he was suffering from a serious lung complaint, although he was in no danger. But to me he whispered—
In addition to this, a very real disaster was threatening to hit the household we were closely connected to. For some time, Félix Deviolaine, who looked perfectly healthy, had been dealing with a cough and was losing weight. He became worried about the weakness he felt was growing on him, and one day he found me and asked me to take him to Thibaut, whose medical skills he had often heard me praise. I quickly agreed to help him and took him to Thibaut, asking him to examine Félix thoroughly. Thibaut had him take off his shirt, tapped his chest, listened to his breathing both with his ear and with the stethoscope; and after a ten-minute examination, he plainly told him that he was suffering from a serious lung issue, although he was not in any immediate danger. But to me, he whispered—
"The lad is doomed."
"The guy is doomed."
I cannot describe the grief and dismay this curtly expressed declaration caused me. Félix had never been particularly friendly towards me; he was of a somewhat jealous disposition, and had rather repelled than drawn me in to share the enjoyments which, thanks to his father's social position, he could have obtained for me, especially with regard to shooting, which I loved above all else. But, nevertheless, his was one of the tender friendships of my early days, and if this prophecy were fulfilled it would be the first leaf that death would tear from the golden branch of my childish recollections.
I can't describe the sadness and shock that this blunt statement caused me. Félix had never really been friendly towards me; he was somewhat jealous and had pushed me away rather than inviting me to join in the fun that, thanks to his father's social status, he could have shared with me, especially when it came to shooting, which I loved most of all. Still, he was one of the meaningful friendships from my youth, and if this prediction came true, it would be the first thing death took away from the beautiful memories of my childhood.
I did not want to announce this sad news to M. Deviolaine,[Pg 192] so I sought out Oudard and told him what had transpired. Oudard utterly declined to believe it; for Félix had seemed, until now, the most unlikely subject to die of pulmonary consumption; but I sent for Thibaut himself, and Thibaut repeated to him the fatal verdict he had told me. Without telling the whole truth to M. Deviolaine, Oudard gave him to understand that Félix required great care, and, as Félix did not wish to have any other doctor than Thibaut, it was arranged that Thibaut should pay him daily visits. It was then that I made the special study of pulmonary consumption which I later turned to account in my romance, Amaury. I have already stated that, just as Thibaut's prediction was on the point of being realised, and all hopes were given up—even in his mother's heart, that last sanctuary of hope—Félix Deviolaine was miraculously saved by articular rheumatism, which drew off the inflammation, and did what no other remedies had been able to effect.
I didn’t want to share this sad news with M. Deviolaine,[Pg 192] so I went to Oudard and told him what had happened. Oudard flatly refused to believe it; Félix had seemed, until now, the least likely person to die from tuberculosis. But I called Thibaut over, and Thibaut confirmed the terrible news he had shared with me. Without revealing the whole truth to M. Deviolaine, Oudard suggested that Félix needed a lot of care, and since Félix didn’t want any doctor other than Thibaut, they agreed that Thibaut would visit him daily. It was then that I began a deep study of tuberculosis, which I later used in my novel, Amaury. I’ve already mentioned that just as Thibaut’s prediction was about to come true, and all hope was lost—even in his mother’s heart, that last refuge of hope—Félix Deviolaine was miraculously saved by rheumatic fever, which relieved the inflammation and did what no other treatments could accomplish.
Whilst these events were happening, the representation of the drama of Louis XI. à Péronne, in which Talma was to have acted, took place at the Théâtre-Français. It was a great event for all of us young writers who were aspiring to produce some novel creation; Taylor had urged its production, had seen that the costumes were accurate and the staging perfect. The play owed its success partly to the astonishment it evoked, and partly to its intrinsic worth. I did not see it at the first presentation, because I was unable to procure a ticket and was too poor to afford to buy one at the doors; but Soulié joined us afterwards at the café des Variétés and told us all about it. He was most enthusiastic over it. This inspired us with courage, and we tried to take up our Puritains d'Écosse once more.
While these events were happening, the performance of the play Louis XI. at Péronne, in which Talma was supposed to perform, took place at the Théâtre-Français. It was a major event for all of us young writers looking to create something new; Taylor had pushed for its production, ensuring the costumes were accurate and the staging flawless. The play succeeded partly because of the shock it generated and partly because of its inherent quality. I didn't catch the first performance because I couldn't get a ticket and was too broke to buy one at the door; however, Soulié joined us later at the café des Variétés and filled us in on all the details. He was extremely enthusiastic about it. This gave us a boost of confidence, and we attempted to pick up our Puritains d'Écosse once again.
Talma's dramatic succession at the Théâtre-Français had been divided: Michelot took Tiberius and Louis XI.; Firmin took Tasso; Joanny was prepared to undertake the whole of the illustrious dead actor's repertory; Lafond had become both the one and the other[1]; everybody regarded Talma as an obstacle, and now that this obstacle was removed, each strove[Pg 193] to acquire for himself the reputation of the man who had eclipsed all other reputations. In order not to lose any chance of success, they divided his costumes among themselves, as they divided his rôles. A public sale of Talma's wardrobe was announced for 27 April. Here are some of the prices that the different costumes fetched. The actors who hoped to buy his talent with his clothes, did not pay dear for them.
Talma's dramatic succession at the Théâtre-Français was split up: Michelot took on Tiberius and Louis XI; Firmin took Tasso; Joanny was ready to handle the entire repertoire of the esteemed deceased actor; Lafond had become both the one and the other[1]; everyone saw Talma as an obstacle, and now that he was gone, each one aimed to claim the title of the person who overshadowed all other talents. To maximize their chances of success, they divided his costumes among themselves, just as they divided his roles. A public sale of Talma's wardrobe was scheduled for April 27. Here are some of the prices that various costumes sold for. The actors who hoped to buy his talent along with his clothes didn’t have to pay a lot for them.
Francs
Charles VI and His Wig 205
Ladislas 230
Le Cid 62
Mithridates 100
Richard III 120
The Two Nerons 412
The Crown of Nero 132
Othello, Once Performed at the Opera 131
Leonidas 200
Clovis 97
Joad 120
Nicomedus 60
The Mayor of the Palace 115
Philoctetes 40
Typpo-Saeb 96
Leicester 321
Meynau 45
Falkland 42
Danville 130
The Misanthrope 400
Bayard 51
The Grand Master of the Templars 40
Jean de Bourgogne 79
Manlius 80
Sylla, with the Wig 160
Hamlet, with the Dagger 236
The Orestes of Andromaque. 100
The Orestes of Clytemnestra. 80
fr. 3,884
Two items may be noted in the above: one, Les deux Néron, and the other, Othello, une fois joué à l'Opéra. These two[Pg 194] descriptions show how conscientiously Talma hunted up particulars about his costumes. Once he discovered in Suetonius that Nero had entered the Senate in a blue mantle embroidered with gold stars; he instantly had a costume made after the same pattern, and came on to the stage in just such a blue mantle with gold stars as Nero had worn on entering the Senate. But, next day, some critic, who had not bothered his head to read Suetonius, and who took this costume to be a freak of the actor, said in one of the papers that Talma looked like Night in the prologue to Amphitryon. This was quite enough to prevent Talma from wearing the star-spangled robe. On another occasion, before playing Othello at the Opéra for a benefit, he reflected that as the Moor had become a Venetian general he must necessarily have discarded his Oriental costume and adopted the Venetian dress. So he wore a very exact copy of a Venetian costume of the fifteenth century. But, in casting aside the turban, the girdle and the baggy ornamental pantaloons, half the picturesque effect had fled and not even all Talma's genius was able to make up for it, so, disappointed himself, and thinking that the change of costume had had a damaging effect on his play, he went back to the traditional costume for the remainder of the performances and never used the other again. The costume for the Misanthrope, found in Talma's wardrobe, indicated the lifelong desire he had cherished to play the part of Alceste, but it was a wish he had never dared to satisfy. The person who bought it was not afflicted with like modesty.
Two things stand out in the above: one, Les deux Néron, and the other, Othello, once performed at the Opéra. These two[Pg 194] descriptions reveal how meticulously Talma searched for details about his costumes. Once he found out from Suetonius that Nero had entered the Senate in a blue cloak embroidered with gold stars; he immediately had a costume made to match and came on stage wearing the same blue cloak with gold stars that Nero wore when he entered the Senate. But the next day, a critic who hadn’t bothered to read Suetonius and thought this costume was just an actor's whim said in one of the papers that Talma looked like Night in the prologue to Amphitryon. That was enough for Talma to abandon the starry robe. On another occasion, before performing Othello at the Opéra for a benefit, he reasoned that since the Moor had become a Venetian general, he must have left behind his Oriental attire and adopted Venetian dress. So, he wore a very accurate replica of a fifteenth-century Venetian outfit. However, by removing the turban, the belt, and the baggy decorative pantaloons, he lost half the visual appeal, and even Talma's talent couldn’t compensate for it. Feeling disappointed and thinking that the change of costume negatively affected his performance, he reverted to the traditional costume for the rest of the shows and never used the other one again. The costume for the Misanthrope, found in Talma's wardrobe, reflected his long-held desire to play the role of Alceste, but it was a wish he had never dared to fulfill. The person who bought it didn’t share that same modesty.
Whilst these events were occurring, that were of such secondary importance to France, but so vitally interesting to ourselves, the Government was slyly attempting to re-establish the Censorship that it had abolished. In the king's speech to the Chamber, he had said—
Whilst these events were happening, which were of minimal importance to France but incredibly interesting to us, the Government was secretly trying to bring back the Censorship that it had abolished. In the king's speech to the Chamber, he had said—
"I should have preferred, had it been possible, not to pay any attention to the press; but, since the habit of publishing political articles has developed, it has produced fresh abuses which require more efficacious and extensive means of repression. It is time to put a stop to painful scandals, and[Pg 195] to preserve the liberty of the press itself from the danger of its own excesses; a project will be submitted to you with this object in view."
"I would have preferred, if it were possible, to ignore the press entirely. However, now that publishing political articles has become common, it has led to new issues that need more effective and broader measures to control. It's time to put an end to damaging scandals, and[Pg 195] to protect the freedom of the press from the risks of its own excesses; a proposal will be presented to you with this goal in mind."
This paragraph was nothing more nor less than a threat, which translated itself into a Bill presented to the Chamber under the title of Projet de loi sur la police de la presse. The reading of this Act was interrupted by the Opposition a score of times and ended in a scene of terrible agitation. Casimir Périer jumped up from his seat, exclaiming—
This paragraph was simply a threat, which turned into a Bill introduced to the Chamber titled Projet de loi sur la police de la presse. The reading of this Act was interrupted by the Opposition twenty times and concluded in a chaotic scene. Casimir Périer jumped up from his seat, exclaiming—
"You might just as well bring forward a Bill consisting of the single clause, 'Printing is suppressed in France to the benefit of Belgium'!"
"You might as well propose a bill with just one statement: 'Printing is banned in France for the benefit of Belgium'!"
M. de Chateaubriand called this law a law of Vandalism. And to the outcry in the capital, the whole of France responded, sending joint and separate petitions to implore the Chamber to reject the Bill as destructive of all public liberties, disastrous to commerce and an attack on the sacred rights of property. In the midst of that terrible manifestation which, in 1827, predicted the armed opposition of 1830, the Moniteur had either the cleverness or the perfidiousness—one never can quite fathom the Moniteur's real sentiments—to insert in an article in favour of the law the phrase characterising it as a law of justice and of love. Oh! what an opportunity this gave for the weapon of sarcasm, always powerful in France! It fastened upon this phrase and used it as a weapon with which, on every possible occasion, to prick the heart of M. de Peyronnet. Everybody exclaimed against this Act, even the Academy itself. It was M. de Lacretelle who ventured to take the hazardous and difficult step of attempting to awake the Forty Immortals in their chairs. He read a rousing discourse to them on 4 January, on the disadvantages of the projected law, and the fetters it would put upon thought; he repudiated this fresh Censorship, which was to make printers judges of authors, and demanded that the Academy should make use of its prerogative and petition the king to accede to the entreaties of the Forty by withdrawing the Bill. After an hour's discussion, it was decided almost unanimously that this petition should be[Pg 196] presented to the king, and MM. de Chateaubriand, Lacretelle and Villemain were deputed to draw it up. On 21 January, the following notice appeared in the Moniteur:—
M. de Chateaubriand referred to this law as a law of Vandalism. In response to the uproar in the capital, all of France came together, sending both joint and individual petitions urging the Chamber to reject the Bill, claiming it would destroy public freedoms, harm commerce, and attack the fundamental rights of property. Amidst that intense protest, which in 1827 foreshadowed the armed opposition of 1830, the Moniteur either cleverly or deceitfully—one can never quite grasp the Moniteur's true feelings—inserted in an article supporting the law the phrase labeling it a law of justice and of love. Oh! What a chance this provided for sarcasm, always a potent tool in France! It seized upon this phrase and wielded it as a weapon to repeatedly jab at M. de Peyronnet. Everyone criticized this Act, even the Academy itself. It was M. de Lacretelle who took the bold and challenging step of trying to awaken the Forty Immortals from their complacency. He delivered an impassioned speech on January 4, highlighting the drawbacks of the proposed law and the limitations it would impose on free thought; he denounced this new Censorship, which would place printers in the position of judging authors, and requested that the Academy exercise its rights and petition the king to heed the Forty’s plea to withdraw the Bill. After an hour of debate, it was almost unanimously decided that this petition should be [Pg 196] submitted to the king, and M. de Chateaubriand, Lacretelle, and Villemain were chosen to draft it. On January 21, the following notice appeared in the Moniteur:—
"ART. I. The appointment of Sieur Villemain, maître des requêtes to the Council of State, is revoked.."
"ART. I. The appointment of Sieur Villemain, master of requests to the Council of State, is revoked."
Then, lower down:—
Then, lower down:—
"By order of the King, M. Michaud of the French Academy will no longer be one of His Majesty's readers.
"By the King's decree, M. Michaud from the French Academy will no longer serve as one of His Majesty's readers."
"By command of His Excellency the Minister of the Interior, dated to-day, M. de Lacretelle has been dismissed from the post of Dramatic Censor."
"According to the order from His Excellency the Minister of the Interior, issued today, M. de Lacretelle has been dismissed from his position as Dramatic Censor."
This persecution was received by a burst of indignation against the Government and with demonstrative sympathy towards the victims of Ministerial cruelty. Finally, the chorus of opposition rose to such a threatening pitch that the Government grew frightened and withdrew on 18 April the Act that it had introduced on 29 November. A furore of delight then broke out in Paris: houses poured forth their inhabitants into the streets, and every face glowed with joy; hands were held out in greeting, and journeymen printers ran through the boulevards shouting, "Vive le roi!" waving white flags; and a general illumination took place all over Paris that night. But the mortified Government sent out troops, shots were fired and wounds received, and the withdrawal of the famous loi de justice et d'amour should be accredited not to the king's intelligence, but to his fear.
This persecution was met with an outburst of anger against the government and strong support for the victims of ministerial cruelty. Eventually, the opposition's outcry became so intense that the government got scared and withdrew the Act it had introduced on November 29 on April 18. A wave of joy then erupted in Paris: people flooded the streets, and every face shone with happiness; hands reached out in greeting, and journeymen printers raced through the boulevards shouting, "Long live the king!" while waving white flags; and a citywide celebration took place that night. But the embarrassed government sent in troops, shots were fired, and people were wounded, showing that the withdrawal of the famous loi de justice et d'amour should be credited not to the king's intelligence, but to his fear.
When Charles X.—poor, blind, deaf monarch—believing that the enthusiasm aroused by his accession to the throne would last for ever, commanded a review of the National Guard to be held on 29 April, on the Champ de Mars, he heard, to his vast surprise, mingled with those cries of "Vive le roi!" with which sovereigns are intoxicated, and thrill on their thrones, the bitter and raucous cries of "A bas les ministres!" and "A bas les Jésuits!" These cries came particularly from the ranks of the second, third, fifth, seventh[Pg 197] and eighth legions, those, namely, belonging to the financial aristocracy and the lower middle classes. Astounded by such a reception, Charles X. drew up for an instant; then, spurring his horse to the front ranks of the legion that had uttered the bitterest of these invectives, he exclaimed—
When Charles X.—a poor, blind, deaf king—thought that the excitement from his rise to the throne would last forever, he ordered a review of the National Guard on April 29 at the Champ de Mars. To his shock, along with the cheers of "Long live the king!" that typically intoxicate and thrill rulers from their thrones, he heard harsh and raucous shouts of "Down with the ministers!" and "Down with the Jesuits!" These shouts mainly came from the second, third, fifth, seventh[Pg 197], and eighth legions, which were composed of the financial upper class and the lower middle class. Stunned by such a reception, Charles X. paused for a moment; then, he spurred his horse to the front ranks of the legion that had shouted the loudest, and he exclaimed—
"Messieurs, I have come here to receive homage and not lectures."
"Guys, I’m here to get respect, not lectures."
Alas! the kings of 1827, like those of 1848, should have known that homage blinds and lectures enlighten.
Alas! The kings of 1827, just like those of 1848, should have realized that flattery can deceive and lectures can inform.
By six o'clock next morning every post of the National Guard was relieved by troops of the line, and by seven o'clock, instead of a leading article in the Moniteur on the review, there appeared the order to disband. From that moment there was a breach between the Elder Branch, and the middle class. The former possessed its king, elected by divine right, to reign over it and to die with it. But from that hour far-seeing eyes could discern the approaching clouds that were bringing on their wings the tempest of 1830.
By six o'clock the next morning, every National Guard post was replaced by regular troops, and by seven o'clock, instead of a leading article in the Moniteur about the review, there was an order to disband. From that moment on, a rift formed between the Elder Branch and the middle class. The former had its king, chosen by divine right, to rule over it and to die with it. But from that moment, sharp observers could see the looming storm clouds that heralded the upheaval of 1830.
CHAPTER VI
English actors in Paris—Literary importations—Trente Ans, or la Vie d'un Joueur—The Hamlet of Kemble and Miss Smithson—A bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau—Visit to Frédéric Soulié—He declines to write Christine with me—A night attack—I come across Adèle d'Alvin once more—I spend the night au violon
English actors in Paris—Literary imports—Trente Ans, or the Life of a Player—The Hamlet of Kemble and Miss Smithson—A bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau—Visit to Frédéric Soulié—He refuses to co-write Christine with me—A night ambush—I run into Adèle d'Alvin again—I spend the night in a cell
Somewhere about 1822 or '23, I believe, a company of English actors attempted to give a series of representations in the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin, but they were received with so much opposition and hooting, and so many apples and oranges had been flung at the unfortunate actors from the pit, that they were compelled to abandon the field of battle under the heavy firing of projectiles. And that was how the national spirit expressed itself in 1822. But then, in 1822, it was considered degrading for any theatre where the productions of MM. Caignez and Pixérécourt were performed (not to mention those of Corneille and Molière) to lend its boards to such a barbarian as Shakespeare, and to the train of œuvres immondes which followed in his wake.
Somewhere around 1822 or '23, a group of English actors tried to put on a series of performances at the Porte-Saint-Martin theater. However, they faced so much resistance and yelling, and so many apples and oranges were thrown at the poor actors from the audience, that they had no choice but to leave the stage under heavy fire. That was how the national spirit showed itself in 1822. Back then, it was seen as embarrassing for any theater that hosted the works of MM. Caignez and Pixérécourt (not to mention Corneille and Molière) to allow performances by someone like Shakespeare, along with the wave of œuvres immondes that followed him.
Only five years had gone by since that period, and now the second Théâtre-Français greatly astonished everybody by advertising that a company of English actors was going to act the chief plays of Shakespeare. So quickly did ideas mature in the burning sun of the nineteenth century that only five years were necessary to bring about such an enlightenment of public opinion as this. However, the example of courtesy had been set us by our neighbours across the Channel. Mademoiselle Georges had just succeeded—thanks, no doubt, to the political reminiscences that surrounded her—in obtaining what Talma never obtained, in spite of his Anglo-French[Pg 199] descent, namely, a public non-subsidised performance of a French play.
Only five years had passed since that time, and now the second Théâtre-Français amazed everyone by announcing that a group of English actors would perform the major plays of Shakespeare. Ideas developed so quickly in the vibrant atmosphere of the nineteenth century that just five years were enough to bring about such a shift in public opinion. However, our neighbors across the Channel had already set an example of courtesy. Mademoiselle Georges had just managed—thanks, undoubtedly, to the political memories that surrounded her—to achieve what Talma never could, despite his Anglo-French[Pg 199] heritage: a public, non-subsidized performance of a French play.
On 28 June 1827, Mademoiselle Georges gave a most successful representation of Sémiramis, under the patronage of the Duke of Devonshire. The receipts amounted to eight hundred pounds sterling (20,000 francs). A few days later, again with similar success, she played Mérope. This twofold triumph suggested to the director of the Odéon the idea of inviting a company of English actors over, and a series of performances, announced for the beginning of September, was looked forward to eagerly. In fact, opinion had changed from complete disdain of English literature to enthusiastic admiration of it. M. Guizot, who did not then know a word of English—and who has known it but too well since—had re-translated Shakespeare with the help of Letourneur. Walter Scott, Cooper and Byron were in everybody's hands. M. Lemercier had made a tragedy out of Richard III.; M. Liadière had produced another on Jane Shore. Kenilworth Castle had been played at the Porte-Saint-Martin; Louis XI. à Péronne at the Théâtre-Français; Macbeth at the Opéra. People talked of Frédéric Soulié's Juliette and of Alfred de Vigny's Othello. Assuredly, the wind had veered round to the west and pointed to a literary revolution. Nor was this all: a play was produced at the Porte-Saint-Martin, with a denouement borrowed from Werner's Vingt-Quatre Février, which had brought about a revolution both by its style and its execution.
On June 28, 1827, Mademoiselle Georges had a highly successful performance of Sémiramis, supported by the Duke of Devonshire. The earnings hit eight hundred pounds sterling (20,000 francs). A few days later, she again enjoyed similar success with Mérope. This double victory prompted the director of the Odéon to consider inviting a troupe of English actors, and a series of performances scheduled for early September created a lot of excitement. In fact, public perception had shifted from outright disdain for English literature to enthusiastic admiration. M. Guizot, who at the time didn’t know any English—and who has since become quite familiar with it—had re-translated Shakespeare with assistance from Letourneur. Works by Walter Scott, Cooper, and Byron were in everyone's possession. M. Lemercier adapted Richard III. into a tragedy; M. Liadière created another one based on Jane Shore. Kenilworth Castle was performed at the Porte-Saint-Martin; Louis XI. à Péronne at the Théâtre-Français; and Macbeth at the Opéra. People were talking about Frédéric Soulié's Juliette and Alfred de Vigny's Othello. The tide had certainly turned toward a literary revolution. And it didn’t stop there: a play was produced at the Porte-Saint-Martin, with an ending inspired by Werner's Vingt-Quatre Février, which sparked a revolution through both its style and execution.
We should like to say a few words with reference to Trente Ans, or la Vie d'un Joueur, by MM. Victor Ducange and Goubaux. Besides the dramatic importance of this work, it brought to light two eminent artistes, Frédérick and Madame Dorval. It is rarely one finds two actors so highly endowed, the one as good as the other. He, as a matter of fact, was the wretched tragedian who, three years before, had played one of the brothers Macchabée at the Odéon! She was the little girl, forgotten as soon as she had played the thankless part of Malvina, in the Vampire!
We'd like to say a few words about Trente Ans, or la Vie d'un Joueur, by Messrs. Victor Ducange and Goubaux. Aside from the dramatic significance of this work, it introduced two outstanding performers, Frédérick and Madame Dorval. It's rare to find two actors so equally talented. He was actually the unfortunate tragic actor who, three years earlier, played one of the brothers Macchabée at the Odéon! She was the little girl who was quickly forgotten after playing the thankless role of Malvina in Vampire!
Popular drama had its Talma, and boulevard tragedy its[Pg 200] Mademoiselle Mars. Everybody has become familiar with Trente Ans; everybody has seen it played by the two artistes I have just named. But not everybody witnessed the fever of excitement that mastered both actors and spectators during those first representations.
Popular drama had its Talma, and boulevard tragedy had its [Pg 200] Mademoiselle Mars. Everyone knows about Trente Ans; everyone has seen it performed by the two artists I just mentioned. But not everyone experienced the intense excitement that took over both the actors and the audience during those first performances.
So the English artistes found Parisian playgoers warmly enthusiastic, eagerly demanding new emotions to take the place of those they had just experienced. Such moments as these are experienced at various times and seasons when everything is quiet outside the realms of imagination. As physical life is in no danger, minds sigh after imaginary dangers; human sympathy must exercise itself on something. Twelve years of calm caused everyone to cry out for emotion; ten years of laughter called aloud for tears. With a national spirit restless and adventurous by nature, we must ever express ourselves dramatically, whether on the stage or in real life.
So the English artists found the audience in Paris excited and eager for new feelings to replace the ones they had just felt. These moments come and go at different times when everything outside of imagination is still. While physical life isn’t threatened, our minds long for make-believe dangers; human empathy has to be directed toward something. After twelve years of calm, everyone was craving emotion; ten years of laughter made people want tears. With a national spirit that is naturally restless and adventurous, we always have to express ourselves dramatically, whether on stage or in real life.
In 1827 the theatre had things all its own way. On 7 September the English actors gave their first performance. Abbott opened the proceedings with a short speech in very carefully pronounced French, and they played The Rivals by poor Sheridan, who had just been buried amidst financial difficulties; then Allingham's Caprice of Fortune. The comic actors of the company carried off the honours of the first night, and, although one noticed a comic actor called Liston, and a sweetheart played by Miss Smithson, we felt quite certain that the much longed for company had not been brought across the Channel just for this exhibition of its powers. I had made up my mind to attend these English performances with some assiduity, and as Porcher had nearly got back the advances he had lent me, I asked him for two hundred francs, a hundred and fifty of which went towards our housekeeping expenses, and fifty were intended to initiate me into the beauties revealed in the English drama. I already nearly knew Shakespeare by heart at this period; but plays, according to the Germans, are meant to be seen and not read. So I resisted the temptation of going to the first representation, and waited to see the English company in Shakespeare.
In 1827, the theater had everything going for it. On September 7, the English actors held their first performance. Abbott kicked things off with a brief speech in carefully pronounced French, and they performed The Rivals by unfortunate Sheridan, who had just been buried amidst financial struggles; then came Allingham’s Caprice of Fortune. The comic actors of the company stole the show on the opening night, and while we noticed a comic actor named Liston and a love interest played by Miss Smithson, it was clear that the much-anticipated company hadn’t traveled across the Channel just for this showcase of talent. I had decided to attend these English performances regularly, and as Porcher had nearly recouped the advances he had given me, I asked him for two hundred francs, one hundred and fifty of which went towards our living expenses, and fifty were meant to introduce me to the wonders of English drama. By this time, I almost knew Shakespeare by heart; however, as the Germans say, plays are meant to be seen, not just read. So I resisted the temptation to go to the first showing and waited to see the English company perform Shakespeare.
They announced Hamlet. There was no fear of my missing it this time. Fortunately, it was Ernest's week to make up the portfolio. I left the office at four o'clock and went to take my position in the queue, rather better informed, this time, than I had been on my first visit to Paris. I knew Hamlet so well that I did not need to buy the words; I could follow the actors, translating the words as soon as they were uttered. I must admit that the impression made upon me far exceeded my expectations: Kemble was wonderful as Hamlet, and Miss Smithson made a divine Ophelia. The stage scene, the screen scene and that of the two portraits, the mad scene and that in the graveyard electrified me. Only then did I realise what the drama could be, and from the ruins of my past feeble attempts, which the shock of this revelation brought about, I saw what was needed to create a new world.
They announced Hamlet. This time, I wasn't worried about missing it. Luckily, it was Ernest's week to handle the portfolio. I left the office at four and got in line, much better informed than I had been on my first visit to Paris. I knew Hamlet so well that I didn’t need to buy the script; I could follow the actors and translate the lines as soon as they spoke. I have to admit, the impact it had on me was way beyond what I expected: Kemble was amazing as Hamlet, and Miss Smithson was a fantastic Ophelia. The scenes on stage, the screen scene, the two portraits, the mad scene, and the graveyard scene blew me away. It was then that I realized what drama could be, and from the wreckage of my past weak attempts, sparked by this revelation, I saw what it would take to create a new world.
"And darkness was upon the face of the deep, and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters"; as the Bible puts it.
"And darkness was on the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God moved over the waters," as the Bible says.
This was the first time that I had seen real passions on the stage, inspiring men and women of real flesh and blood. Now I understood Talma's moans over each fresh part he created; I understood that everlasting aspiration for a literature that could give him the chance of depicting a hero who should be a living being; I understood his despair at dying before he had given expression to that side of his genius which perished unknown within him and with him. The present generation will not understand what I am saying; for its childish studies have made it as familiar with Walter Scott as with Lesage, with Shakespeare as with Molière. Our century, which has become pre-eminently a century of appreciation, smiles incredulously when it hears that a comedian could be hissed because he was an Englishman, or a play hooted because it was by Shakespeare.
This was the first time I had seen real emotions on stage, performed by real people. Now I understood Talma's sighs over every new role he took on; I realized his constant desire for a literature that would allow him to portray a hero who felt alive; I felt his frustration at the thought of dying before he expressed that aspect of his genius that remained unknown both within him and with him. The current generation won’t get what I’m saying; their superficial studies have made them as familiar with Walter Scott as with Lesage, with Shakespeare as with Molière. Our century, which is primarily a century of appreciation, raises its eyebrows in disbelief when it hears that an actor could be booed simply for being English, or a play could be jeered at because it was by Shakespeare.
These representations continued with increasing popularity. After Hamlet came Romeo and Juliet, then Othello; then, finally, one after the other, all the masterpieces of the English stage. To Kemble and Miss Smithson belonged all the[Pg 202] honours of these representations. It is impossible to describe the scene of Ophelia's madness, the balcony scene in Juliet, the poisoning scene in the vault among the dead, Othello's jealousy and the death of Desdemona, as played by those two great artistes. Abbott, also, showed himself a graceful comedian in the parts he played. His Mercutio, among the rest, was a real masterpiece of delightful acting.
These performances continued to grow in popularity. After Hamlet came Romeo and Juliet, then Othello; finally, one after another, all the masterpieces of the English stage followed. Kemble and Miss Smithson received all the[Pg 202] accolades for these performances. It's impossible to describe the scene of Ophelia's madness, the balcony scene in Juliet, the poisoning scene in the vault among the dead, Othello's jealousy, and Desdemona's death as portrayed by those two great actors. Abbott also proved to be a charming comedian in the roles he played. His Mercutio, among others, was a true masterpiece of engaging acting.
And now let us notice how strange it is that events which are to influence a man's life seem to link themselves together. On the 10th, the English actors gave the last of their series of representations, leaving me palpitating with fresh impressions, and my mind flooded with fresh light. On the 4th, six days before, the Salon Exhibition had just opened. At this Salon, Mademoiselle de Fauveau exhibited two small bas-reliefs, round which all artists congregated.
And now let’s point out how odd it is that events that are going to influence someone’s life seem to connect with each other. On the 10th, the English actors performed the last show in their series, leaving me buzzing with new impressions and my mind filled with fresh insights. On the 4th, just six days earlier, the Salon Exhibition had just opened. At this Salon, Mademoiselle de Fauveau showcased two small bas-reliefs, which drew all the artists together.
One of these bas-reliefs represented a scene from the Abbé; the other, the assassination of Monaldeschi. I came up to look at these bas-reliefs with the crowd, and I probably appreciated more than most of the gazers the power and delicacy of the work thus cleverly handled by a woman's fingers. I had read the Abbé, so I knew all about one of these bas-reliefs; but I was so ignorant on some portions of history that I not only did not know the incident the other piece of sculpture depicted, but I was also ignorant who were either Monaldeschi or Christine; and I left the Musée without venturing to ask anyone to tell me. As it was Sunday, and as I had not seen Soulié for several days, I decided to go and spend part of the evening with him at la Gare.
One of these bas-reliefs showed a scene from the Abbé; the other depicted the assassination of Monaldeschi. I approached to view these bas-reliefs alongside the crowd, and I probably appreciated the skill and finesse of the work crafted by a woman's hands more than most of the onlookers. I had read the Abbé, so I was familiar with one of the bas-reliefs; however, I was so clueless about certain parts of history that I not only didn't know the story behind the other sculpture but also had no idea who Monaldeschi or Christine were. I left the Musée without asking anyone for information. Since it was Sunday and I hadn't seen Soulié for a few days, I decided to go spend part of the evening with him at la Gare.
At nine o'clock—after telling my mother that I should probably not be home until very late—I sweetened a cup of tea in front of a capital fire (for wood is plentiful in a saw-mill) and began a discussion with Soulié concerning the alterations his Juliette would need to undergo since the English acting had come under notice. All at once, I recollected the bas-relief of the death of Monaldeschi, and, not daring to ask Soulié for particulars for fear he would make fun of me because of my ignorance, I asked him if he possessed a Biographie universelle.[Pg 203] He had one, and I read the two articles on Monaldeschi and on Christine. Then, after a few moments' reflection, in the depths of which I seemed to see all sorts of tragic characters moving amid the glitter of swords, I said to Soulié, as though he had been following my thoughts—
At nine o'clock—after telling my mom that I probably wouldn’t be home until really late—I sweetened a cup of tea in front of a nice fire (since wood is abundant in a sawmill) and started chatting with Soulié about the changes his Juliette would need to make since the English acting had been noticed. Suddenly, I remembered the bas-relief of Monaldeschi’s death, and not wanting to ask Soulié for details because I was worried he would mock me for not knowing, I instead asked him if he had a Biographie universelle.[Pg 203] He did have one, and I read the two entries on Monaldeschi and Christine. Then, after a moment of reflection, during which I felt like I could see all kinds of tragic figures moving amid the shine of swords, I said to Soulié, as if he had been following my thoughts—
"Do you know, there is a terrible drama in all that?"
"Did you know there's a terrible drama in all of that?"
"In what?"
"In what way?"
"In the assassination of Monaldeschi by Christine."
"In the assassination of Monaldeschi by Christine."
"I should just think so."
"I should definitely think so."
"Shall we do it together?"
"Should we do it together?"
"No," Soulié replied emphatically; "I do not mean to work any more with others."
"No," Soulié replied firmly; "I don't want to work with anyone else anymore."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Because David has promised me the Cross, through the influence of M. Portalis, when I write my first important work alone."
"Because David has promised me the Cross, thanks to the influence of M. Portalis, when I write my first significant work on my own."
I looked at Soulié in utter amazement. I do not think that even he himself quite realised the nature of his brusque outbursts.
I looked at Soulié in total shock. I don't think he even fully understood the nature of his sudden outbursts.
"Therefore," he added, "I intend to use that subject for a tragedy myself."
"So," he added, "I plan to use that topic for a tragedy myself."
"Oh!" I said, laying the volumes down.
"Oh!" I said, putting the books down.
"That need not prevent you writing your own drama, you understand, if you mean to stick to the idea."
"That shouldn't stop you from writing your own play, you know, if you're committed to the concept."
"On the same subject as you?"
"On the same topic as you?"
"There are more theatres than one in Paris; and a dozen ways of treating a subject."
"There are multiple theaters in Paris, and countless ways to approach a topic."
"But which of us will read it at the Théâtre-Français?"
"But which of us will read it at the Théâtre-Français?"
"Whichever shall finish first."
"Whoever finishes first."
"Would it not annoy you?"
"Wouldn't it annoy you?"
"What the devil do you think it would do to me?"
"What do you think it would do to me?"
"You are not very amiable to-night."
"You’re not very friendly tonight."
"I am not in a good temper."
"I’m not in a good mood."
"What is the matter with you?"
"What's the matter with you?"
"This is the matter. If only I had seen the English actors before I had constructed my Juliette I should either not have done it at all, or done it differently."
"This is the situation. If I had only seen the English actors before I created my Juliette, I either wouldn’t have done it at all or I would have done it differently."
"Will you take my advice?"
"Will you take my advice?"
"In what way?"
"How?"
"As the sincere advice of a friend.... Leave your Juliette on one side as I have left my Fiesque, and dream of something else."
"As the genuine advice of a friend... Set aside your Juliette just like I’ve set aside my Fiesque, and think about something different."
"Bah! when it is finished!"
"Ugh! When it's done!"
I saw Soulié had made up his mind to go on with it, and I dropped the subject. Then, as I could not afford to buy the Biographie universelle, I asked Soulié if I might copy out the two articles, and he let me do so. It was evident my writing on the same subject did not inspire him with much terror. We separated at midnight; and, as I went along the boulevard, I dreamt already of my future Christine. It was a dark, rainy night, and the boulevard was almost deserted. When I reached the gate of Saint-Denis, just as I was leaving the boulevard to re-enter the street, I heard cries thirty steps ahead of me; then, in the midst of the darkness, I could see what looked like a group of people struggling violently on the boulevard, and I ran in the direction of the cries. Two fellows were attacking a man and woman. The man attacked was trying to defend himself with a cane, the woman had been thrown down and the thief was trying to snatch a chain that hung round her neck. I leapt on the thief, and the next moment he was on the ground in his turn, and I was kneeling on him. When the second thief saw this, he left off attacking the man and ran away. It would seem that, unwittingly, I had been squeezing the throat of my thief unmercifully; for suddenly, to my great surprise, he yelled out—
I saw that Soulié was determined to go ahead with it, so I dropped the subject. Since I couldn’t afford to buy the Biographie universelle, I asked Soulié if I could copy the two articles, and he agreed. It was clear my writing on the same topic didn't scare him much. We parted ways at midnight, and as I walked along the boulevard, I was already imagining my future Christine. It was a dark, rainy night, and the boulevard was nearly empty. When I got to the Saint-Denis gate, just as I was leaving the boulevard to head back into the street, I heard screams about thirty steps ahead of me. In the darkness, I saw what looked like a group of people struggling violently on the boulevard, so I ran towards the sounds. Two guys were attacking a man and a woman. The man was trying to defend himself with a cane, while the woman had been thrown down, and a thief was trying to grab a chain from around her neck. I jumped on the thief, and suddenly he was on the ground under me. When the second thief saw this, he stopped attacking the man and ran away. Unknowingly, I must have been squeezing the thief's throat really hard because, to my great surprise, he suddenly yelled out—
"Help, help, help!"
"Help!"
This shout, together with those already uttered by the man and woman assaulted, brought several soldiers from the military station of Bonne-Nouvelle. I had not loosened my hold of the thief, and the soldiers dragged him out of my hands. Then only was I able to respond to the thanks of those whom I had rescued. The woman's voice struck me strangely. It was Adèle d'Alvin, whom I had not seen since I left Villers-Cotterets,[Pg 205] and the man was her husband. There had been a special performance at the Porte-Saint-Martin at which la Noce et l'Enterrement had been played, and knowing I had had a hand in that masterpiece, they had wanted to see it. The performance had not finished until late, as is usual in the case of special representations, and Adèle was hungry. When they came out, they went to the theatre café for supper, and this had delayed them. Just as they reached Charlard's chemist's shop they were attacked by the two ruffians of whom I had rid them, and of whom one had been arrested by the defenders of the country. Unluckily, these defenders of the country were not as intelligent as they were brave. They could not distinguish between robbers and robbed, between thieves and honest folk, and they took us all to the guard-room, informing us we must stop there till the morning. At daybreak they sent for a police-officer, who separated the wheat from the tares.
This shout, along with the ones already yelled by the man and woman who had been attacked, attracted several soldiers from the military station at Bonne-Nouvelle. I hadn’t let go of the thief, and the soldiers pulled him out of my grip. Only then was I able to respond to the gratitude of those I had rescued. The woman's voice sounded oddly familiar. It was Adèle d'Alvin, whom I hadn’t seen since I left Villers-Cotterets,[Pg 205] and the man was her husband. There had been a special performance at the Porte-Saint-Martin where la Noce et l'Enterrement was shown, and knowing I was involved in that masterpiece, they had wanted to see it. The show didn't finish until late, as is common with special performances, and Adèle was hungry. When they came out, they went to the theater café for dinner, which had delayed them. Just as they arrived at Charlard's chemist's shop, they were attacked by the two thugs I had just rescued them from, one of whom had been caught by the defenders of the country. Unfortunately, these defenders weren’t as smart as they were brave. They couldn’t tell the difference between robbers and victims, between thieves and honest people, and they took us all to the guardroom, telling us we had to stay there until morning. At dawn, they called for a police officer, who sorted out the innocent from the guilty.
We tried to explain ourselves, and asked that they should examine carefully our persons, our countenances, our appearances, and compare them with those of the man whom I had arrested, and that they should not keep us till next day before rendering us the justice that was our due. But to all this the defenders of the country replied imperturbably that by night all cats look grey; and, consequently, one might easily be deceived, whereas, on the morrow, there would be daylight on the matter.
We tried to explain ourselves and asked them to carefully look at us—our faces, our appearances—and compare us with the man I had arrested. We urged them not to hold us until the next day before giving us the justice we deserved. But the defenders of the country calmly responded that by night all cats look grey; therefore, anyone could be easily misled. They said that tomorrow would bring daylight on the situation.
The decision was neither logical nor eloquent; but we were the weaker party. They made us, assaulted and assaulter alike, go into that part of the guard-house that is called the violon, and there was no help for it but to await the good pleasure of M. le chef du poste.
The decision made no sense and wasn't well-articulated; but we were the weaker side. They forced us, both the attacked and the attackers, into that part of the guardhouse known as the violon, and all we could do was wait for the decision of M. le chef du poste.
We all leant up one against another, as people do in a carriage, and tried to sleep. As Adèle and her husband had taken one corner of the camp bed for themselves, there was one left for me. I gazed sadly at the woman for a long time; she was associated with the earliest recollections of my life, and now, apparently perfectly happy, she was falling asleep[Pg 206] on the shoulder of another, to whom she spoke in accents of familiar intercourse. She had two children: motherhood had consoled her for her lost love. They both fell asleep; but neither the thief nor I slept at all. Soon my eyes tore themselves away from watching Adèle and her husband; my thoughts retraced their steps and I resumed my dream where it had been interrupted. I saw, in my mind's eye, the bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau as it hung fastened against the wall, and, in the guard-room of the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, by the side of that woman and her husband, face to face with the thief who was to get three years' imprisonment at the next assizes, my imagination conjured up the first scenes of Christine. At eight next morning the police-officer entered, took down our depositions and addresses and then set us at liberty; whilst our friend the thief was immediately hustled off to the police station. I returned home to find my poor mother terribly upset. She, like myself, had never closed her eyes all night. I saw Adèle again once or twice during her stay in Paris; but, since that time, my imagination, if not my heart, has been the slave of a mistress who has supplanted all my past mistresses, and even done injury to those of later years. That mistress, or rather that master, was Art.
We all leaned against each other, like people do in a car, and tried to sleep. Since Adèle and her husband had taken one side of the camp bed for themselves, I had the other side. I watched her sadly for a long time; she was linked to my earliest memories, and now, seemingly perfectly happy, she was drifting off on the shoulder of another person, speaking to him in a familiar tone. She had two kids: motherhood had helped her move on from her lost love. They both fell asleep, but neither the thief nor I could sleep at all. Soon, I tore my eyes away from watching Adèle and her husband; my thoughts wandered back, and I picked up my dream where I had left off. In my mind's eye, I saw the bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau hanging on the wall, and in the guardroom on the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, next to that woman and her husband, facing the thief who would get three years in prison at the next trial, my imagination brought to life the first scenes of Christine. At eight the next morning, the police officer came in, took our statements and addresses, and then set us free; meanwhile, our friend the thief was immediately taken off to the police station. I returned home to find my poor mother extremely upset. Like me, she hadn’t slept a wink all night. I saw Adèle once or twice more during her time in Paris; but since then, my imagination, if not my heart, has been devoted to a mistress who has replaced all my previous loves and even affected those of later years. That mistress, or rather that master, is Art.
CHAPTER VII
Future landmarks—Compliments to the Duc de Bordeaux—Vates—Cauchois-Lemaire's Orléaniste brochure—The lake of Enghien—Colonel Bro's parrot—Doctor Ferrus—Morrisel—A tip-top funeral cortège—Hunting in full cry—An autopsy—Explanation of the death of the parrot
Future landmarks—Shoutout to the Duke of Bordeaux—Vates—Cauchois-Lemaire's Orleanist pamphlet—Lake Enghien—Colonel Bro's parrot—Doctor Ferrus—Morrisel—An impressive funeral procession—Hunting season in full swing—An autopsy—Explanation of the parrot's death
It is most instructive to every philosophic mind to review a past period of time, and to recall that once it was looked forward to as a future. It can then be seen how gradually changes came about; landmarks are recognised, and it is realised that there is nothing sudden or inexplicable in the evolution of things; that which in the present we look upon as all-powerful chance, when investigated in the light of the past, is seen to be Providence. Thus, Charles X., the last representative of a dying aristocracy, was destined to fall; thus Louis-Philippe, the representative of the people at its strongest moment, was destined to ascend the throne; and, from 1827 and 1828, everything was being prepared so that people were ready for the great catastrophe of 1830. And yet no one can clearly read the signs of an immediate future.
It’s incredibly insightful for any thoughtful person to look back at a previous time and remember that it was once anticipated as the future. You can see how changes happened gradually; landmarks are recognized, and it becomes clear that there’s nothing sudden or mysterious about how things evolve. What we currently view as all-powerful chance, when looked at in the context of the past, is revealed to be Providence. For instance, Charles X., the last figure of a fading aristocracy, was fated to fall; likewise, Louis-Philippe, the representative of the people at its peak, was destined to rise to the throne; and starting in 1827 and 1828, everything was being set up so that people were prepared for the major event of 1830. Yet, even so, no one can accurately interpret the signs of what’s coming next.
All the country's hopes seemed centred in the "phenomenal child" (l'enfant du miracle), as they called the Duc de Bordeaux, and, on I January, M. de Barbé-Marbois, first president of the cours des Comptes, addressed to him the following delightful little speech, entirely suited to the young prince's years and intelligence:—
All the country's hopes seemed focused on the "phenomenal child" (l'enfant du miracle), as they referred to the Duc de Bordeaux, and on January 1st, M. de Barbé-Marbois, the first president of the cours des Comptes, delivered the following charming speech, perfectly suited to the young prince's age and intelligence:—
"Monseigneur, you will to-day receive the customary gifts: mine shall be a short story. Once upon a time, the prince whose name you bear, who was then as young as you are, returned to the Court of Navarre after being away. While[Pg 208] he was still seated on his horse, he was surrounded by children of the countryside, who, delighted to see him back again, kept repeating, 'Caye nostre Henry!' which means 'Here is our Henri!' just as though the young prince belonged to them. Queen Jeanne, his mother—an excellent princess—who had seen and heard everything from the palace balcony, well pleased by the welcome they gave the young prince, said to him, 'Those children, my son, have just given you a lesson, the sweetest you can ever receive; by calling you "our Henry," they are teaching you that princes belong to their country just as much as to their own family.' The prince remembered the lesson, and that is why for more than two centuries the French have continued to call him 'our Henry' and will always so speak of him."
"Monseigneur, today you will receive the usual gifts: mine will be a short story. Once upon a time, the prince whose name you share, who was just as young as you are now, returned to the Court of Navarre after being away. While[Pg 208] he was still sitting on his horse, he was surrounded by local children, who, thrilled to see him back, kept shouting, 'Caye nostre Henry!' which means 'Here is our Henri!' as if the young prince belonged to them. Queen Jeanne, his mother—an amazing princess—who had seen and heard everything from the palace balcony, pleased by the warm welcome for her son, said to him, 'Those children, my son, have just given you a lesson, the sweetest you could ever receive; by calling you "our Henry," they are teaching you that princes belong to their country just as much as to their own family.' The prince remembered that lesson, and that's why for over two centuries the French have continued to call him 'our Henry' and will always speak of him that way."
M. le Duc de Bordeaux listened attentively, then replied—
M. le Duc de Bordeaux listened closely, then responded—
"I will not forget."
"I won't forget."
Already the previous year it had been said to him, "And you, monseigneur, who are yet very young and upon whose head rests the future happiness of France, always remember that this fine kingdom also needs a good king—a king who loves truth and wishes it to be spoken to him; a king who despises flattery and who will banish from his presence those who deceive him. You will remember, monseigneur, that this advice has been given you by an aged white-haired man?"
Already the previous year it had been said to him, "And you, sir, who are still very young and on whose shoulders rests the future happiness of France, always remember that this great kingdom also needs a good king—a king who loves the truth and wants it to be told to him; a king who despises flattery and will keep away those who deceive him. You will remember, sir, that this advice has been given to you by an old man with white hair?"
M. le Duc de Bordeaux had replied—
M. le Duc de Bordeaux had replied—
"Yes."
"Yep."
"Your Yes, monseigneur," added the first president, "shall be registered in our annals, where you will find it when you reach your majority,"
"Your Yes, sir," added the first president, "will be recorded in our history, where you can find it when you come of age,"
Alas; all these counsels were to be wasted. The white-haired veteran who had learnt so much by reflection on the past, could not foresee the future. God only endows poets with the gift of clairvoyance. It was a poet, monseigneur, who addressed these words to you—
Alas, all this advice was useless. The old veteran, who had learned so much by looking back on the past, couldn’t predict the future. Only poets are gifted with foresight. It was a poet, my lord, who said these words to you—
"Salut, petit cousin germain!
D'un lieu d'exil, j'ose t'écrire.
La fortune te tend la main;
Ta naissance la fait sourire.
[Pg 209]
Mon premier jour aussi fut beau,
Point de Français qui n'en convienne:
Les rois m'adoraient au berceau ...
Et, cependant, je suis à Vienne!"
"Hey, little cousin!
From a place of exile, I'm brave enough to write to you.
Fortune is reaching out to you;
Your birth makes her smile.
[Pg 209]
My first day was beautiful too,
No Frenchman would disagree:
Kings adored me in my cradle ...
And yet, here I am in Vienna!"
It was a poet, sire, who addressed these words to you:—
It was a poet, sir, who spoke these words to you:—
"O rois, veillez, veillez! tâchez d'avoir régné.
Ne nous reprenez pas ce qu'on avait gagné;
Ne faites point, des coups d'une bride rebelle,
Cabrer la liberté, qui vous porte avec elle;
Soyez de votre temps, écoutez ce qu'on dit,
Et tâchez d'être grands, car le peuple grandit!
Écoutez, écoutez! à l'horizon immense,
Ce bruit qui parfois tombe et soudain recommence,
Ce murmure confus, ce sourd frémissement
Qui roule et qui s'accroît de moment en moment!
C'est le peuple qui vient! c'est la haute marée
Qui monte, incessamment par son astre attirée!
Chaque siècle, à son tour, qu'il soit d'or ou de fer,
Dévoré comme un cap sur qui monte la mer,
Avec ses lois, ses mœurs, les monuments qu'il fonde,
Vains obstacles qui font à peine écumer l'onde,
Avec tout ce qu'on vit et qu'on ne verra plus,
Disparaît sous ce flot qui n'a pas de reflux!
Le sol toujours s'en va, le flot toujours s'élève;
Malheur à qui, le soir, s'attarde sur la grève,
Et ne demande pas au pêcheur qui s'enfuit
D'où vient qu'à l'horizon l'on entend ce grand bruit!
Rois, hâtez-vous! rentrez dans le siècle où nous sommes;
Quittez l'ancien rivage!—A cette mer des hommes
Faites place, ou voyez si vous voulez périr
Sur le siècle passé, que son flot doit couvrir!"
"O kings, pay attention, pay attention! Try to have ruled.
Don’t take back what we’ve earned;
Don’t give in to rebellious actions,
That will go against the freedom that supports you;
Be of your time, listen to what people say,
And try to be great, because the people are growing!
Listen, listen! in the vast horizon,
This sound that sometimes fades and suddenly starts again,
This confused murmur, this dull trembling
That rolls and grows moment by moment!
It’s the crowd coming! It’s the high tide
That rises, constantly drawn by its star!
Each century, in its turn, whether golden or iron,
Is devoured like a cape swallowed by the sea,
With its laws, its customs, the monuments it builds,
Futile obstacles that barely stir the waves,
With all that we’ve seen and will never see again,
Disappears under this tide that never recedes!
The land keeps vanishing, the tide keeps rising;
Woe to those who linger on the shore at night,
And don’t ask the fleeing fisherman
Where that great noise on the horizon comes from!
Kings, hurry! Return to the age we live in;
Leave the old shore!—Make room for this sea of men
Or see if you want to perish
On the past century, which its tide will cover!"
Again it was a poet who uttered these words:—
Again it was a poet who said these words:—
"Mais bientôt, aux regards de ce nouveau ministre,
La nuit vint révéler au avenir sinistre;
Des signes éclatants, au fond des cieux écrits,
De ces partis vainqueurs glacèrent les esprits;
Et la France espéra!—L'immortelle déesse
Qui prête son épée aux martyrs de la Grèce,
Sur le fronton aigu du sénat plébéien,
Parut, en agitant son bonnet phrygien!
[Pg 210]
Panthéon, la croix d'or s'éclipsa de ton dôme!
Sous les marbres sacrés de la place Vendôme,
La terre tressaillit, et l'oiseau souverain
S'agita radieux sur sa base d'airain!..
"However, soon, in the eyes of this new minister,
The night revealed a dark future;
Bright signs written in the depths of the sky,
Chilled the minds of those victorious parties;
And France held on to hope!—The immortal goddess
Who lends her sword to the martyrs of Greece,
Appeared on the sharp edge of the plebeian senate,
Waving her Phrygian cap!
[Pg 210]
Pantheon, the gold cross faded from your dome!
Beneath the sacred marbles of Place Vendôme,
The earth shuddered, and the royal bird
Stirred brightly on its bronze base!..
It was a poet, too, who uttered the following threat:—
It was a poet, too, who made the following threat:—
"Il est amer et triste, à l'heure où le cœur prie,
Et dans l'effusion des plus secrets moments,
D'entendre à ses côtés les pleurs de la patrie,
Des clameurs de colère et des gémissements.
Il est dur que toujours un destin nous entraîne
Aux civiques combats qu'on croyait achevés;
De voir aux passions s'ouvrir encore l'arène,
Et s'enfuir la concorde et le bonheur rêvés.
Rien qu'à ce seul penser, tout ce qu'en moi j'apaise!
Est prêt à s'irriter; la haine me reprend;
Et, pour qui vent guérir toute haine est mauvaise,
Et, pourtant, je ne puis rester indifférent.
Oh! meurent les soupçons! oh! Dieu nous garde encore
De ces duels armés entre un peuple et son roi!
Sous le soleil d'août, dont la chaleur dévore,
Le sang bouillonne vite, et nul n'est sûr de soi."
"He's bitter and sad at the hour when the heart prays,
And in the outpouring of the most secret moments,
To hear by his side the cries of the homeland,
The shouts of anger and the moans.
It's hard that fate always drags us
To civic battles we thought were over;
To see the arena open again to passions,
And to see harmony and dreamed happiness flee.
Just thinking of this makes everything I calm!
Ready to ignite; hatred takes me back;
And for anyone wishing to heal, all hatred is bad,
And yet, I can't remain indifferent.
Oh! may suspicions die! oh! God keep us still
From these armed duels between a people and its king!
Under the August sun, whose heat devours,
Blood boils quickly, and no one feels secure."
True, as we have stated, the action of the Government really helped the public cause. Trial after trial was brought against the press unceasingly, but liberty always comes out triumphant from these encounters, no matter what happens, and, by succeeding, kills those who try to suppress it. Monarchies are not overturned, they undermine themselves and begin to totter; then, some day, the people seeing them shake, shout with a loud voice and down they fall.
Sure, here’s the modernized version of the paragraph: It's true, as we've mentioned, that the government's actions really benefited the public cause. Time and time again, the press faced trial after trial without end, but freedom always comes out on top in these battles, no matter the outcome, and by winning, it weakens those who try to stifle it. Monarchies don’t just get overthrown; they weaken themselves and start to crumble. Then, one day, when the people see them shaking, they shout loudly, and down they go.
The case of the Spectateur religieux was taken from court to court, and finally brought before the Court of Orléans. M. de Senancourt, who had been sentenced by the police correctionelle to nine months' imprisonment and five hundred francs fine for his résumé of Traditions morales et religieuses, was acquitted on appeal.
The case of the Spectateur religieux moved from court to court and eventually reached the Court of Orléans. M. de Senancourt, who had been sentenced by the police correctionelle to nine months in prison and a fine of five hundred francs for his summary of Traditions morales et religieuses, was acquitted on appeal.
Finally, Cauchois-Lemaire was condemned to fifteen months' imprisonment and to a fine of two thousand francs, for having[Pg 211] urged a change of government and a change in the order of succession to the throne in his Lettre à Son Altesse royale M. le Duc d'Orléans, sur la crise actuelle. This letter contained the following incriminating passages. The author laid bare before the prince the situation of France and added:—
Finally, Cauchois-Lemaire was sentenced to fifteen months in prison and fined two thousand francs for having[Pg 211] advocated for a change in government and a new order of succession to the throne in his Letter to His Royal Highness Duke of Orléans on the Current Crisis. This letter included the following incriminating statements. The author revealed the situation in France to the prince and added:—
"But you will perhaps say to me, 'What can I do? As a peer of the realm, France knows that I submit to an ostracism which forbids me to take any part in public affairs.' That, monseigneur, is just the point at issue. Because you are suspended from your privileges, are you therefore suspended from common law? Is the country circumscribed in the Higher Chamber? Does parliamentary inertia condemn everybody to political lethargy? And, because people do not happen to belong to the aristocracy, are they therefore of no account? 'Dangerous questions,' some will exclaim. 'Unsuitable and at any rate irrelevant,' others will say. Such questions, I would reply, are both natural and useful under a constitutional form of government."
"But you might say to me, 'What can I do? Being part of the aristocracy, France knows that I’m excluded from engaging in public matters.' That, my lord, is precisely the problem. Just because you've lost your privileges, does that mean you're also denied basic rights? Is this country only for the Upper House? Does inaction in parliament mean everyone is stuck in political indifference? And just because people aren’t part of the elite, does that mean they don’t matter? 'These are dangerous questions,' some will shout. 'Inappropriate and irrelevant,' others will claim. I would argue that such questions are both reasonable and necessary in a constitutional government."
After that paragraph came the following:—
After that paragraph came the following:—
"Instead of going to Gand, he went to England, thus saving himself from association with the system that marked the epoch of 1815 and from following in the wake of 1815."
"Instead of heading to Gand, he went to England, avoiding any connection to the system that shaped the period of 1815 and escaping its lingering effects."
Then, passing on from politics to advice, he added:—
Then, moving from politics to advice, he added:—
"And in order not to depart from his custom of offering advice, the writer of this letter urges you to exchange your ducal arms for the civic crown. Come, prince, pick up courage; there still remains in our monarchy a fine opening at your disposal, a position such as la Fayette might occupy in a Republic, that of the first citizen of France. Your princedom is but a paltry sinecure beside that moral kingdom!"
"Sticking to his usual advice-giving, the author of this letter urges you to exchange your noble title for the civic crown. Come on, prince, be bold; there’s still a significant opportunity in our monarchy waiting for you, a role akin to what la Fayette might take on in a Republic, that of the first citizen of France. Your princely position is just a minor role compared to that moral leadership!"
Then, on the following page:—
Then, on the next page:—
"The French people is like a big baby in need of teaching. Let us pray it fall not into wicked hands."
"The French people are like a big baby who needs guidance. Let's hope they don't end up with the wrong people."
Again:—
Again:—
"An eager patriotism cannot hold out against a great and noble example, an eminent position and immense wealth—three qualifications all united in your Highness's person. With these you have but to stoop to pick up the jewel lying at your feet, which many are striving for, but cannot obtain for want of the qualifications you have been endowed with by the grace of God."
"A strong sense of patriotism can't compete with a great and noble example, a high status, and vast wealth—three qualities that you possess, Your Highness. With these, all you need to do is reach down to seize the treasure lying at your feet, which many try to attain but can't because of the qualities you’ve been gifted with by the grace of God."
Then:—
Then:—
"Furthermore, a prince who saw the State in peril would not be content to fold his arms lest the chariot, lacking direction, should overturn. We, on our part, have done all in our power; it is for you to try, and to seize hold of the wheel ere it go over the precipice."
"Additionally, a prince who notices the State is in danger wouldn't just sit back and do nothing, as the chariot could tip over without direction. We've done all we can; now it's your turn to step up and take the wheel before it goes over the edge."
And finally:—
And finally:—
"Whilst we are declining," said the writer of that letter, "the Duc de Bordeaux, the Duc de Chartres and even the Duc de Reichstadt are growing up...."
"While we are fading," said the author of that letter, "the Duc de Bordeaux, the Duc de Chartres, and even the Duc de Reichstadt are reaching adulthood...."
Of the three princes specified by Cauchois-Lemaire as growing up at that period, only one survives.
Of the three princes mentioned by Cauchois-Lemaire who were growing up at that time, only one is still alive.
The Duc de Reichstadt disappeared in 1832, as a shadow vanishes with the body that has thrown it. The Duc de Chartres was violently withdrawn from society in 1842, because, by his popularity, he was a substantial obstacle in the way of plans that were developing towards their accomplishment in 1848. Finally, the Duc de Bordeaux, whom Béranger had greeted in the name of his small cousin-german, the Duc de Reichstadt, was to join that duke in his exile two years before his death. What a melancholy yet eloquent spectacle for the populace was that of all those children, born with crowns on their heads or within their grasp, who were to cling weeping to the door-posts when the storm of revolution came to tear them away, one after the other, from the royal hostel which passes by the name of the palace of the Tuileries!
The Duc de Reichstadt disappeared in 1832, like a shadow fades away with the body that cast it. The Duc de Chartres was forcibly removed from society in 1842 because his popularity posed a significant threat to the plans being set in motion for 1848. Finally, the Duc de Bordeaux, who Béranger had welcomed on behalf of his little cousin, the Duc de Reichstadt, was to join him in exile two years before his death. What a sad yet powerful sight it was for the people to see all those children, born into royalty or close to it, clinging in tears to the doorposts as the revolution's storm tore them one by one from the royal residence known as the palace of the Tuileries!
I gradually became acquainted with all the men of the Opposition party, who were beginning the work of undermining the monarchy at the commencement of the nineteenth[Pg 213] century—the uncompleted task of the end of the eighteenth century. I met Carrel at M. de Leuven's house, where he often came, as he wrote for the Courrier, of which paper M. de Leuven was one of the chief editors. I met Manuel, Benjamin Constant and Béranger at Colonel Bro's; but Béranger was the only one of the three with whom I had time to become intimately acquainted or who had himself leisure to gauge me: the other two were to die, one before I became known, and the other when I was but little known. Bro was much attached to me. I have previously recorded how, thanks to him, I had seen Géricault upon his dying bed. He had one son, at that time a charming boy named Olivier, who became one of our bravest officers in the new army, as his father had been one of the bravest in the old grande armée. It was his life that was so miraculously saved by General Lamoricière when a Bedouin's yataghan was already at his throat. I have not seen him since 1829, and I am going to relate a story that will bring back recollections of childhood to him wherever he may be.
I gradually got to know all the guys from the Opposition party who were starting the job of bringing down the monarchy at the beginning of the nineteenth century—the unfinished work from the late eighteenth century. I met Carrel at M. de Leuven's house, where he often visited since he wrote for the Courrier, of which M. de Leuven was one of the main editors. I met Manuel, Benjamin Constant, and Béranger at Colonel Bro's place, but Béranger was the only one of the three I had enough time to get close to or who had time to really understand me: the other two would die, one before I became known, and the other when I was still little known. Bro was very attached to me. I’ve already mentioned how, thanks to him, I had seen Géricault on his deathbed. He had one son, a charming boy named Olivier, who grew up to be one of our bravest officers in the new army, just like his father had been in the old grande armée. It was his life that was miraculously saved by General Lamoricière when a Bedouin's yataghan was already at his throat. I haven't seen him since 1829, and I'm going to tell a story that will bring back childhood memories for him wherever he may be.
Colonel Bro used to procure Adolphe and me all the enjoyments he possibly could, and among them the sport of shooting. By some means or other, I know not how, he owned, at that time, the Lake of Enghien. In 1827 and '28 the Lake of Enghien was not a pretty little smooth, trim, well-kept lake as it is now; it had then no public gardens on its banks filled with roses, dahlias and jessamine; no Gothic châteaux, Italian villas and Swiss châlets all round it; nor, indeed, upon its surface had it a flotilla of swans, as now, begging for cakes from the people who hired boats at three francs fifty centimes the hour, furrowing the surface of its waters, which were as clear as the water in a basin, and as smooth as the glass of a mirror. No, the Lake of Enghien was, at that period, a simple, natural lake, too muddy to be called a lake, and not muddy enough to be called a pond. It was covered with reeds and water-lilies, amongst which diver birds played, water-hens cackled and wild ducks dabbled, in quite sufficient quantities to give sport to a score of guns.
Colonel Bro used to provide Adolphe and me with as many fun experiences as he could, including the sport of shooting. Somehow, I don't know how, he owned the Lake of Enghien at that time. In 1827 and '28, the Lake of Enghien wasn't the beautiful, manicured, well-kept lake it is today; back then, there were no public gardens along its shores filled with roses, dahlias, and jasmine; no Gothic castles, Italian villas, or Swiss chalets around it; and it certainly didn't have a flotilla of swans on its surface, as it does now, begging for bread from people renting boats at three francs fifty centimes per hour, gliding across its waters, which were as clear as a basin and as smooth as glass. No, the Lake of Enghien was, at that time, a simple, natural lake, too muddy to be called a lake but not muddy enough to be considered a pond. It was covered with reeds and water lilies, where diving birds played, water hens clucked, and wild ducks dabbed around in enough numbers to entertain a dozen hunters.
So Colonel Bro had arranged for a day's shooting at Adolphe's and my entreaty and had fixed a Sunday, as on that day Adolphe and I were free from our desks and could take part. The rendezvous was to be at Colonel Bro's house at seven o'clock. We left the rue des Martyrs in three carriages and were at Enghien by nine. Here a breakfast, worthy of a Saxon thane, awaited the guests. At ten o'clock we began our sport; by five we again found a good meal served, and by eleven at night we were all back in our various homes. I was always ready before other people if it were a question of shooting, so I turned up at Colonel Bro's house by half-past six in the morning. I was shown into a little boudoir, where I found myself tête-à-tête with an immense blue-and-red Carolina parroquet. The parroquet was on its stand and I sat down on a sofa. Now I have always felt the greatest respect for men with large noses and animals with big beaks; not because I think them pretty, but because I believe Nature has her reasons when she produces a monstrosity. And on these grounds, Colonel Bro's parrot was fully entitled to my most profound respect. So I addressed a few polite words to it, as I sat down, as I have said, on a couch opposite its perch. The parroquet looked me over for a minute with that melancholy expression peculiar to parroquets; then, with that precaution which never deserts them, it slowly climbed down each branch of its perch, by the help of its claws and beak; then, finally, down the main pole of the perch itself, until it reached the ground. Then it came across to me, waddling, stopping, looking round it on all sides, and uttering a cry at every step it took, until it had reached the toe of my boot, when it began to try to climb my leg. Touched by this mark of confidence on the bird's part, I stretched out my hand to spare it the trouble of the climb; but, whether it was under a misapprehension as to the friendliness of my intentions, or whether it disguised a premeditated attack behind a benevolent exterior, it had scarcely caught sight of my hand within reach when it seized my fore-finger and gave me a double bite above the first joint right through[Pg 215] to the bone. The pain was all the more violent because it was unexpected. I uttered a shriek, and, by a convulsive movement, my leg stiffened with the elasticity of a steel spring, and I kicked the parrot spinning with the end of my hunting-boot, in the centre of its breast, sending it flat against the wall. It fell to the floor, and lay there without a movement. Was its death caused by the kick or by the blow that followed? Was it caused by my boot or by contact with the wall? I never found out, and I made no attempt to ascertain, for I heard footsteps in the next room. I seized hold of the bird, which was still motionless, I raised the cover of the couch, I pushed it with my foot underneath into the dark depths, I let fall the cover again and I sat down as though nothing extraordinary had happened. Next, I bound up my finger I with my handkerchief, and then Colonel Bro entered. We exchanged greetings and, as I kept my hand in my pocket, nothing was noticed.
So Colonel Bro had arranged for a day of shooting at Adolphe's and my request and had picked a Sunday since Adolphe and I were free from work then and could participate. The meeting point was Colonel Bro's house at seven o'clock. We left the rue des Martyrs in three carriages and arrived in Enghien by nine. There, a breakfast fit for a Saxon lord awaited the guests. We began our shooting at ten; by five, another great meal was ready, and by eleven at night, we were all back in our respective homes. I was always ready before everyone else when it came to shooting, so I arrived at Colonel Bro's house by half-past six in the morning. I was shown into a small sitting room, where I found myself one-on-one with a huge blue-and-red Carolina parrot. The parrot was on its stand, and I sat down on a sofa. I've always held a deep respect for men with large noses and animals with big beaks; not because I find them attractive, but because I believe Nature has her reasons for creating oddities. Based on that, Colonel Bro's parrot completely deserved my utmost respect. So I said a few polite words to it as I settled on the couch across from its perch. The parrot looked me over for a moment with that sad look unique to its kind; then, cautiously, it climbed down each branch of its perch with its claws and beak; finally, it descended the main pole of the perch until it reached the floor. It waddled over to me, stopping to look around and making a sound with every step, until it got to my boot, where it began to try to climb my leg. Touched by this show of trust from the bird, I reached out my hand to help it up, but whether it misunderstood my friendly intention or was hiding a planned attack behind a friendly facade, it barely saw my hand before it grabbed my index finger and gave me a sharp bite above the first joint, all the way to the bone. The pain was especially intense because it was so unexpected. I let out a yelp, and with a sudden movement, my leg stiffened like a steel spring, and I kicked the parrot hard in the center of its chest, sending it crashing against the wall. It fell to the ground and lay there without moving. Was its death caused by the kick or the impact that followed? Was it from my boot or hitting the wall? I never found out, and I didn't try to figure it out because I heard footsteps in the next room. I grabbed the bird, which was still motionless, lifted the couch cover, pushed it under into the dark space with my foot, dropped the cover back down, and sat down as if nothing unusual had happened. Then, I wrapped my finger with my handkerchief, and just then, Colonel Bro entered. We exchanged greetings, and since I kept my hand in my pocket, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Everyone came, and we set out without a single cry or movement, or sign of existence from the parroquet buried under the couch.
Everyone showed up, and we left without a single sound or motion, or any indication of life from the parakeet hidden under the couch.
When we reached Enghien, one of our party seemed to have his hand bandaged up like mine, and fellow-feeling opened up a current of sympathy between us. I asked him how he had met with his accident. A door had been violently shut by the wind just as he had his hand between it and the doorpost, and his fingers had been caught. As for myself, I simply told him I had cut myself with the flint of my gun; for in those days I still used a flint-gun for shooting. This sportsman who was maimed in the same hand as I was turned out to be the celebrated Doctor Ferrus. Directly he heard my name he asked me if I was the son of General Alexandre Dumas, and, on my replying in the affirmative, he related the story of the lifting of the four muskets with four fingers, that I gave on his authority in the early portion of these Memoirs.
When we arrived in Enghien, one of the guys in our group had his hand wrapped up like mine, and that created an instant connection between us. I asked him how he got hurt. He explained that a door had slammed shut because of the wind just as he was putting his hand between it and the doorpost, so his fingers got caught. As for me, I simply said I had cut myself with the flint from my gun, since I still used a flint-gun back then. This sportsman, who was injured in the same hand as me, turned out to be the famous Doctor Ferrus. As soon as he heard my name, he asked if I was the son of General Alexandre Dumas, and when I confirmed it, he told me the story about lifting four muskets with four fingers, which I had shared on his authority in the earlier part of these Memoirs.
We had with us, too, among the shooters, a friend of Telleville Arnault—a man who was certainly one of the[Pg 216] bravest, wittiest and most original people who ever breathed—Colonel Morrisel. He wore spectacles and looked anything but a colonel. He had just fought an unsuccessful duel which made more sensation than if it had come off successfully.
We also had, among the shooters, a friend of Telleville Arnault—a man who was definitely one of the[Pg 216] bravest, funniest, and most unique people ever—Colonel Morrisel. He wore glasses and didn’t look anything like a colonel. He had just fought an unsuccessful duel that created more buzz than if he had won.
In those days, there was a café called the café Français in the rue Lafitte, which was the rallying-place of fashionable young men. The head waiter was a great billiard player named Changeur, and one night he was playing with a very young man, who found it necessary to take lessons at three francs the game, when M. le Baron de B——, accompanied by one of his friends, entered the establishment. M. le Baron de B was somewhat of a tricky character, and notorious, besides, because of two or three lucky or unlucky duels (according to the degree of philanthropy with which the reader may be endowed, and whether he think it fortunate or unfortunate to wound or kill his neighbour); he came up to the billiard-table and, without even addressing the young man, he said—
In those days, there was a café called the café Français on rue Lafitte, which was a popular hangout for stylish young men. The head waiter was an excellent billiards player named Changeur, and one night he was playing with a very young man who needed to take lessons at three francs per game. Just then, M. le Baron de B—— walked in with one of his friends. M. le Baron de B was somewhat of a shady character and infamous for a couple of duels, which could be seen as either lucky or unlucky depending on how charitable the reader feels about the act of wounding or killing someone. He approached the billiards table and, without even talking to the young man, said—
"Changeur, get us some coffee, and let us have the billiard-table."
"Changeur, get us some coffee, and let’s use the billiard table."
"Excuse me, Monsieur le Baron," said Changeur, in amazement, pointing to the young man, "but I am engaged in a game."
"Excuse me, Baron," said Changeur, surprised, pointing at the young man, "but I'm in the middle of a game."
"Well, then, you will stop the game, that's all."
"Well, then, you'll just stop the game, that's it."
"Monsieur," said the young man timidly and politely, "we have only a few points more to make; in ten minutes the billiard-table will be at your service."
"Mister," said the young man shyly and politely, "we just have a few more points to discuss; in ten minutes, the pool table will be ready for you."
"I am not asking for it in ten minutes, but at once.... Come, Changeur, come, my lad, give me your cue."
"I’m not asking for it in ten minutes, but right now.... Come on, Changeur, come on, give me your cue."
Morrisel, who was already old, grey, thin, feeble, mean-looking and poverty-stricken in appearance, was taking a cup of coffee in a corner.
Morrisel, who was already old, gray, thin, weak, unkempt, and looking impoverished, was having a cup of coffee in a corner.
"Changeur," he said, without rising, and in dulcet tones, that contrasted oddly with the words he uttered,—"Changeur, my lad, I forbid you to give up the billiard-table."
"Changeur," he said, still seated, in a sweet voice that felt strangely out of place with his words, "Changeur, my boy, I forbid you to give up the billiard table."
"But, monsieur," replied Changeur, in great embarrassment, "if indeed M. le Baron de B—— wishes me to give him my cue[Pg 217]...."
"But, sir," replied Changeur, feeling very embarrassed, "if M. le Baron de B—— really wants me to give him my cue[Pg 217]...."
"If you give your cue to M. le Baron, Changeur, I shall take it out of the hands of M. le Baron and break it across your head!"
"If you hand your cue to Mr. Baron, Changeur, I’ll take it from him and smash it over your head!"
M. le Baron de B—— saw clearly enough that Changeur was merely being used as a spark to kindle the flame. The thrust had, in fact, been aimed at him and he returned the stroke in the direction whence it came.
M. le Baron de B—— saw clearly that Changeur was just being used as a spark to ignite the flame. The attack had actually been aimed at him, and he responded to it from the direction it came.
"It seems to me, monsieur," he said, "you are very anxious to pick a quarrel with me."
"It seems to me, sir," he said, "you're really eager to start a fight with me."
"I am charmed, monsieur, that you see things so plainly!"
"I’m delighted, sir, that you see things so clearly!"
"And what is your excuse for picking a quarrel with me?"
"And what’s your excuse for starting a fight with me?"
"Why, because you have abused your position with respect to that young fellow, and all misuse of power, no matter what it is, appears to me odious."
"Why? Because you've misused your position with that young guy, and any abuse of power, no matter what kind, seems repulsive to me."
"Do you know who I am, monsieur?" said the Baron de B——, striding towards Morrisel with a threatening air.
"Do you know who I am, sir?" said Baron de B——, walking towards Morrisel with a menacing look.
"Yes, monsieur," replied the latter, calmly lifting his spectacles; "you are M. le Baron de B——. You killed M.—— in one duel and wounded M.—— in another. I know that much about you."
"Yes, sir," replied the other, calmly adjusting his glasses; "you are Mr. Baron de B——. You killed Mr.—— in one duel and injured Mr.—— in another. I know that much about you."
"And yet you insist I shall not have the billiard-table given up to me?"
"And yet you insist that I won't be given the billiard table?"
"I insist more pertinaciously than ever!"
"I insist more stubbornly than ever!"
"Very well, monsieur; but you understand that I look upon your remarks as an insult."
"Alright, sir; but you need to understand that I see your comments as an insult."
"I offer no objection, monsieur."
"I have no objection, sir."
"Therefore, we shall meet to-morrow morning at six o'clock, if you please, in the bois de Vincennes, or in the bois de Boulogne."
"So, let’s meet tomorrow morning at six o'clock, if that works for you, in the Bois de Vincennes or in the Bois de Boulogne."
"Monsieur, I am twenty-five years your senior, and I need more sleep; besides, I am a player, and I generally play all night long, therefore I do not go to bed before five and I rarely rise before noon. Then, when I get up, I have my toilet to make—a habit I have maintained too long to break through now. When my toilet is finished, my servant gets ready my déjeuner. After I have had lunch, I come here for my coffee, as you perceive; I am extremely methodical. Now,[Pg 218] all this takes me till two o'clock. Therefore, to-morrow, if that will be convenient to you, I shall be at your disposal by half-past two, but not until half-past two."
"Mister, I am twenty-five years older than you, and I need more sleep; plus, I’m a gambler, and I usually play all night long, so I don't go to bed until five and I rarely get up before noon. When I finally wake up, I have my morning routine to go through—a habit I've kept for too long to change now. Once I'm done with that, my servant prepares my breakfast. After I eat, I come here for my coffee, as you can see; I’m very organized. Now,[Pg 218] all this takes me until two o'clock. So, tomorrow, if that works for you, I’ll be available by half-past two, but not before that."
"At half-past two so be it, monsieur; here is my card."
"At 2:30, so be it, sir; here is my card."
Morrisel examined it with attention, bowed in acknowledgment, put it in his pocket, drew forth two cards bearing his address, presented one to M. le Baron de B—— and wrapped the other in a five-hundred franc note. Then he called to Changeur, M. le Baron de B—— watching what he was doing.
Morrisel looked at it closely, nodded in acknowledgment, put it in his pocket, took out two cards with his address, handed one to M. le Baron de B——, and wrapped the other around a five-hundred franc note. Then he called out to Changeur, with M. le Baron de B—— watching him.
"Changeur," he said, "here is a five-hundred franc note."
"Changeur," he said, "here's a five-hundred franc bill."
"Does Monsieur wish to settle his account?" asked Changeur.
"Does Mr. want to settle his account?" asked Changeur.
"No, no, my lad."
"No, no, buddy."
"What am I to do, then, with this five-hundred franc note?"
"What should I do with this five-hundred franc note?"
"First of all take Monsieur's measurements."
"First of all, take Monsieur's measurements."
Changeur looked at the Baron de B——, frightened out of his wits.
Changeur stared at the Baron de B——, terrified.
"Do you hear?" said Morrisel, "and when you have taken his measure you can go with it to the undertaker's."
"Do you hear?" said Morrisel, "and once you've measured him, you can take it to the funeral home."
"To the undertaker ...?"
"To the funeral home ...?"
"Yes, Changeur; and there you can order in my name—in the name of Colonel Morrisel, you quite understand?—a first-rate funeral equipage for M. le Baron de B——. You understand, it is to be of the very best!—I know it will come to more; but the five hundred francs will do on account;—you understand, Changeur? it is to be a thoroughly good funeral."
"Yes, Changeur; and you can order a top-quality funeral service in my name—in the name of Colonel Morrisel, you get that, right?—for M. le Baron de B——. It needs to be the very best!—I know it will cost more, but five hundred francs will work as a down payment;—you follow me, Changeur? It has to be a really good funeral."
M. le Baron de B—— tried to take it as a joke.
M. le Baron de B—— tried to laugh it off.
"Monsieur," he said, "I should have thought you could have left my family to make these arrangements."
"Mister," he said, "I would have thought you could have let my family handle these arrangements."
"Not so, M. le Baron; your family is ruined—so people say—and the thing would be shabbily done. Think of carrying M. le Baron de B—— to the cemetery in a second-rate hearse, or with a third-rate pall! Fie! I have killed twenty-two men[Pg 219] in duels during my life, M. le Baron, and I have always borne the cost of their burials. Rely upon me, you shall be handsomely buried. When strangers see your cortège pass by, I mean them to ask, 'Dear me! whose is that magnificent funeral?' Then, as it passes along the boulevard, Changeur will reply, 'It is that of M. le Baron de B——, the famous duellist, you know. He rudely forced a quarrel on a young fellow who could not defend himself; Colonel Morrisel happened to be present, took up cudgels for the young man and, upon my word, if he didn't kill the Baron de B—— at the first thrust! It will be an excellent example for all impertinent people and duellists ...' Au revoir, M. le Baron de B——, that is to say, until to-morrow. You know my address, send me the names of your seconds; yours is the choice of arms."
"Not so, Mr. Baron; your family is finished—so people say—and that would be a disgrace. Just think about taking Mr. Baron de B—— to the cemetery in a second-rate hearse, or with a third-rate pall! Shame! I've killed twenty-two men[Pg 219] in duels throughout my life, Mr. Baron, and I've always covered the costs of their funerals. Trust me, you will have a proper burial. When strangers see your procession pass by, I want them to ask, 'Wow! Whose magnificent funeral is that?' Then, as it goes down the boulevard, Changeur will reply, 'It's for Mr. Baron de B——, the famous duelist, you know. He rudely picked a fight with a young man who couldn't defend himself; Colonel Morrisel happened to be there, stood up for the young man, and, believe it or not, he killed Baron de B—— with the first blow! It will serve as a great lesson for all rude people and duelists...' Goodbye, Mr. Baron de B——, that is, until tomorrow. You know my address, send me the names of your seconds; you get to choose the weapons."
Then, turning towards the waiter: "And now, Changeur, my lad, you understand, a first-class turn out—the very best that can be had! Nothing shall be too good for M. le Baron de B——!"
Then, turning to the waiter: "And now, Changeur, my friend, you get it, a top-notch setup—the absolute best available! Nothing is too good for M. le Baron de B——!"
And he readjusted his spectacles, took up his umbrella and went out.
And he adjusted his glasses, grabbed his umbrella, and stepped outside.
The quarrel had made a great commotion, and next day, from noon onwards, the café Français was crowded with inquisitive people, anxious to know what had passed and, still more, what was going to happen. At one o'clock Morrisel arrived as usual, his spectacles on his nose, his umbrella in his hand. Everybody made way for him. Morrisel bowed with his accustomed politeness, went to his usual place and called for Changeur, who ran to him and hastened to serve him.
The argument had caused a lot of noise, and the next day, starting at noon, the café Français was packed with curious people eager to find out what had happened and, even more so, what would happen next. At one o'clock, Morrisel showed up as usual, his glasses perched on his nose and his umbrella in hand. Everyone stepped aside for him. Morrisel nodded politely, went to his usual spot, and called for Changeur, who rushed over to serve him.
"My coffee, Changeur," said Morrisel; and he phlegmatically melted his sugar into the last atom, and then M. le Baron de B—— entered the café.
"My coffee, Changeur," said Morrisel; and he calmly stirred his sugar into the last bit, and then M. le Baron de B—— walked into the café.
He advanced towards Morrisel, who raised his glasses, and returned his adversary's salute with a smile on his lips.
He moved closer to Morrisel, who lifted his glasses, and responded to his opponent's greeting with a smile.
"Monsieur le Comte," said the baron, "when I insulted you yesterday, I was not sober; to-day, I offer you my apologies, will you please accept them? I have made reparation, and I[Pg 220] can therefore address you thus without damage to my honour."
"Monsieur le Comte," the baron said, "when I insulted you yesterday, I wasn’t sober; today, I sincerely apologize, will you please accept it? I've made amends, and I[Pg 220] can therefore address you this way without compromising my honor."
"That is your own concern, M. le Baron," returned Morrisel.
"That's your own issue, M. le Baron," Morrisel replied.
Then he turned to Changeur: "Changeur, go and tell the undertaker that M. le Baron's funeral is indefinitely postponed."
Then he turned to Changeur: "Changeur, go and tell the undertaker that Mr. Baron's funeral is postponed indefinitely."
"It is unnecessary," said Changeur; "I took the liberty of waiting. Here is your note, Colonel."
"It’s not needed," said Changeur; "I went ahead and waited. Here’s your note, Colonel."
"Then go and ask your master for my bill, my lad."
"Then go and ask your boss for my bill, kid."
Changeur went to the desk and returned with an elaborately made out bill.
Changeur went to the desk and came back with a detailed bill.
"Ah!" said Morrisel, lowering his glasses, "nine hundred francs. Stop, Changeur, here is another five-hundred franc note; the change is for the waiter."
"Ah!" said Morrisel, taking off his glasses, "nine hundred francs. Hold on, Changeur, here’s another five-hundred franc note; keep the change for the waiter."
Then, having finished his coffee with his accustomed nonchalance, he lowered his spectacles, took up his umbrella and departed amidst the applause of the customers and onlookers. If I remember rightly, Godefroy Cavaignac wrote a charming story on this anecdote.
Then, after finishing his coffee with his usual coolness, he lowered his glasses, picked up his umbrella, and left to the applause of the customers and spectators. If I remember correctly, Godefroy Cavaignac wrote a lovely story about this anecdote.
Morrisel was also a card-player and would play as high as anybody wished. One night at a party at either Madame Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely's or at Madame Davilliers', I forget which, we heard a little discussion being carried on at a card-table on which there were not quite twenty-five louis. We went closer and asked what it was about. Morrisel held the cards; he had passed seven times, and he had won six hundred thousand francs (I purposely express the figures in letters) from M. Hainguerlot. M. Hainguerlot took the cards and wagered to win back the 600,000 francs in a single game. Morrisel was willing to wager 500,000 francs en partie liée, running the risk of retaining only 100,000 francs of the celebrated banker's, for he looked upon himself (and rightly so, too) as a very good player, for when, finally, he rose from the table on making Charlemagne, he had made for himself the sum of 30,000 livres income by this throw, which was not a bad sum for a retired colonel. When the question was argued out, each had made a concession. M. Hainguerlot[Pg 221] agreed to a stake of 500,000 francs, and Morrisel renounced his partie liée. Two witnesses were appointed for each side, as in the case of a duel. Morrisel lost. He got up with the same coolness as though it was only a question of a half-napoleon. True, he had still won 100,000 francs.
Morrisel was also a card player and would bet as high as anyone wanted. One night at a party at either Madame Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely's or at Madame Davilliers'—I can't remember which—we overheard a discussion at a card table with just under twenty-five louis. We moved closer to find out what it was about. Morrisel was holding the cards; he had passed seven times and had won six hundred thousand francs (I’m spelling out the figures intentionally) from M. Hainguerlot. M. Hainguerlot took the cards and bet to win back the 600,000 francs in a single game. Morrisel was willing to bet 500,000 francs en partie liée, risking to only keep 100,000 francs of the well-known banker’s money, as he considered himself (and rightfully so) a very good player. In fact, when he finally got up from the table after hitting Charlemagne, he had secured an income of 30,000 livres from that throw, which wasn’t a bad amount for a retired colonel. After some back-and-forth, both parties made a concession. M. Hainguerlot[Pg 221] agreed to a stake of 500,000 francs, and Morrisel gave up his partie liée. Two witnesses were appointed for each side, like in a duel. Morrisel lost. He got up with the same coolness as if it was just a matter of a half-napoleon. True, he still ended up winning 100,000 francs.
In summer, Morrisel sometimes lived at Madame Hamelin's country house at Val, near Saint-Len-Taverny. One day, at the beginning of the shooting season, he ventured out on the lands of the commune of Frépillon, where, encountering the gamekeeper, he was vigorously threatened with legal proceedings in case of a second offence. Morrisel was invited to dinner on the following Sunday at the château of Madame Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely, situated on the other side of the forbidden territory. When Sunday arrived, so that it should not be said he had skulked across the forbidden land unperceived, Morrisel took with him the beadle, a wind instrument and four chanters, formed a square of six with himself in the centre, and crossed the Frépillon territory, shooting to the accompaniment of Gregorian chants. By the time he reached Madame Régnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely, he was followed by the whole village, whose curiosity was greatly excited by this unprecedented method of going a hunting.
In the summer, Morrisel sometimes stayed at Madame Hamelin's country house at Val, near Saint-Len-Taverny. One day, at the start of the hunting season, he ventured into the lands of the commune of Frépillon, where he encountered the gamekeeper, who threatened him with legal action if he committed a second offense. Morrisel was invited to dinner the following Sunday at the château of Madame Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely, located on the other side of the prohibited area. When Sunday came, to avoid being accused of sneaking across the forbidden land unnoticed, Morrisel took the beadle with him, along with a wind instrument and four chanters, formed a square of six with himself in the center, and crossed the Frépillon territory while playing Gregorian chants. By the time he reached Madame Régnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angely, he was being followed by the entire village, whose curiosity was sparked by this unusual way of going hunting.
Poor Morrisel died from the effects of a painful disease. In spite of surgical assistance, in spite of nitrate of silver, in spite of Civiale, Pasquier and Dupuytren, it came about that, being a plentiful drinker, he could not get rid of a single drop of the liquor he had drunk when it was absorbed into his system. They prolonged his life by using means to make him perspire. Finally, one day, as he did not thoroughly understand what the doctors told him about his disease, he asked if, before he himself died, they could not procure him from any hospital the body of a person who had died of the disease of which he himself was to die. The doctors told him it was possible, and set to work to find one. Three or four days later, they told him they had found one. Morrisel bought it at the usual price—six francs, I believe—had[Pg 222] the body brought close to his bedside, placed it on a table and begged one of the doctors to make a post-mortem examination. When the autopsy was finished, Morrisel had the satisfaction of knowing the exact nature of the malady from which he was suffering, and from henceforth was content to die quietly—an act, it should be recorded, which he accomplished with wonderful courage.
Poor Morrisel died from the effects of a painful illness. Despite surgical help, despite nitrate of silver, and despite the efforts of Civiale, Pasquier, and Dupuytren, he couldn't rid his body of a single drop of the alcohol he had consumed once it was absorbed. They extended his life using methods to make him sweat. Finally, one day, as he didn't fully grasp what the doctors told him about his condition, he asked if, before he passed away, they could get him the body of someone who had died from the same illness he was facing. The doctors said it was possible and started looking for one. Three or four days later, they told him they had found a body. Morrisel bought it at the usual price—six francs, I believe—had[Pg 222] the body brought close to his bedside, placed it on a table, and asked one of the doctors to conduct an autopsy. When the examination was completed, Morrisel had the satisfaction of knowing the exact nature of the illness he was suffering from and from then on was content to die peacefully—an act, it should be noted, which he accomplished with remarkable courage.
But to return to the parrot of the rue des Martyrs. A fortnight later, on returning to Colonel Bro's for another shooting trip like the former, I was astounded to find it on its perch again. But after a few minutes' gaze its stillness struck me as unusual. I went up to it: it was stuffed!
But to go back to the parrot from rue des Martyrs. Two weeks later, when I went back to Colonel Bro's for another shooting trip like the last one, I was amazed to see it on its perch again. But after watching it for a few minutes, its stillness seemed strange to me. I went over to it: it was stuffed!
"Oh!" I said to the colonel, "your poor Jacquot is dead, is it?"
"Oh!" I said to the colonel, "your poor Jacquot has died, hasn't he?"
"Ah yes, it is," replied the colonel. "They told me a curious incident in connection with it—a story I had never believed previously, namely, that certain animals hide themselves to die, and that is why their bodies are never recovered...."
"Ah yes, it is," replied the colonel. "They told me an interesting story related to it—something I had never believed before, which is that some animals go off to hide when they’re about to die, and that’s why their bodies are never found...."
"Well?"
"What's up?"
"Well, just think of it! that unlucky parroquet went and hid itself to die right underneath the sofa cover; we thought it was lost at first; we searched all over for it, and finally we found it there, the day after our shooting party."
"Well, just think about it! That poor little parrot went and hid itself to die right under the sofa cover; we thought it was lost at first; we looked everywhere for it, and finally, we found it there the day after our shooting party."
"Did it ever bite people?" I timidly asked General Bro.
"Has it ever bitten anyone?" I asked General Bro nervously.
"It? Never!" was the colonel's reply.
"It? Never!" was the colonel's reply.
I thought of showing the colonel my finger, which was still badly marked; but I reflected that it was much better to leave the colonel in ignorance as to his parroquet's defects of character and under the illusion that it had died, as indicated, a noble death. Now that many years have passed by since that event, and probably not a single feather of the unfortunate Jacquot remains, I humbly confess my crime, and ask for forgiveness from all whom it may concern.
I considered showing the colonel my finger, which still had a bad mark on it; but I realized it was better to keep the colonel unaware of his parrot's character flaws and under the illusion that it had died a noble death, as stated. Now that many years have gone by since that incident, and probably not a single feather of the unfortunate Jacquot is left, I sincerely confess my wrongdoing and ask for forgiveness from anyone affected.
CHAPTER VIII
Barthélemy and Méry—M. Éliça Gallay—Méry the draught-player and anatomist—L'Épître à Sidi Mahmoud—The Ponthieu library—Soulé—The Villéliade—Barthélemy the printer—Méry the improvisator—The Vœux de la nouvelle année—The pastiche of Lucrèce
Barthélemy and Méry—M. Éliça Gallay—Méry the draftsman and anatomist—L'Épître à Sidi Mahmoud—The Ponthieu library—Soulé—The Villéliade—Barthélemy the printer—Méry the improviser—The Vœux de la nouvelle année—The pastiche of Lucrèce
At the beginning of the preceding chapter we spoke of poets who were prophets; now let us say a little about poets who fought for their craft. And among these, the most undaunted and persevering were without doubt MM. Barthélemy and Méry, who did the roughest kind of work as sappers, and helped in the toughest assaults in the first line of fighters. Both were Marseillais, but they were hardly acquainted with one another in 1825. M. Méry had never left Marseilles and M. Barthélemy, having left it as a child, had scarcely ever been there again.
At the start of the last chapter, we talked about poets who were like prophets; now, let’s discuss poets who fought for their art. Among them, the most fearless and persistent were definitely MM. Barthélemy and Méry, who did the toughest jobs as sappers and helped during the most challenging assaults at the front lines. Both were from Marseille, but they hardly knew each other in 1825. M. Méry had never left Marseille, while M. Barthélemy, having left as a child, had barely returned.
M. Barthélemy (whom, if we may, we will call simply Barthélemy for brevity) was educated at the college of Juilly and received there an excellent education in Greek and Latin; he had already composed at Marseilles, after the style of Mathurin Régnier, a satire which had been much talked of, though never printed, when he published an ode to Charles X. at the time of the coronation. It was lost sight of beneath the successes of more famous poetic rivals of the period, even before it became known, and Barthélemy saw his ode pass away unnoticed, although it contained some striking stanzas, among them this one addressed to Camoëns:—
M. Barthélemy (whom we'll just call Barthélemy for short) was educated at the college of Juilly, where he received a great education in Greek and Latin. He had already written a satire in the style of Mathurin Régnier while in Marseilles, which had generated a lot of buzz but was never published, when he released an ode to Charles X during the coronation. It quickly faded into the background because of the more popular poets of the time, even before it became known, and Barthélemy watched his ode go unnoticed, despite containing some memorable stanzas, including this one directed at Camoëns:—
"Et toi, chantre fameux des conquérants de l'Inde,
Fier de ton indigence et des lauriers du Pinde,
Tu nageais sur les flots de l'abîme irrité,
[Pg 224]
Et du double trépas vainqueur digne d'envie,
D'une main tu sauvais ta vie,
De l'autre tu sauvais ton immortalité!"
"Yet you, famous singer of the conquerors of India,
Proud of your poverty and the laurels of Pindar,
You swam through the raging waves of the abyss,
[Pg 224]
And from the double death, a victory worthy of envy,
With one hand, you saved your life,
With the other, you secured your immortality!"
Barthélemy had inherited a certain patrimony from his father, and he lived quietly in the hôtel Grand-Balcon 11 rue Traversière. Méry had also made his début at the age of eighteen, and paid for it by eight months' imprisonment. His début took the form of a pamphlet against M. Éliça Gallay.
Barthélemy inherited some wealth from his father and lived a quiet life at the hotel Grand-Balcon 11 rue Traversière. Méry also started his career at eighteen, which resulted in him spending eight months in prison. His debut was a pamphlet criticizing M. Éliça Gallay.
When, after twenty-five years have flown by, one stops to look back over one's past life, one is surprised to find how many men and events are completely forgotten that in their time occasioned much stir in the world, remembrance of them being obliterated as soon as equilibrium was restored. M. Éliça Gallay was Inspector of the University.
When, after twenty-five years have passed, you stop to reflect on your life, you might be surprised to realize how many people and events are completely forgotten that once made a big impact in the world, their memory fading as soon as things returned to normal. M. Éliça Gallay was the Inspector of the University.
One day he arrived at Marseilles and gave his usual discourse at the royal college. In this speech was the phrase which follows; we give the sense of it if not exactly the actual words:—
One day he arrived in Marseille and delivered his usual lecture at the royal college. In this speech was the phrase that follows; we provide the meaning of it, if not the exact wording:—
"Messieurs, we are obliged to have two scales of weights and measures. When a pupil is loyal and religious anything can be forgiven him; but if he be a Liberal the greatest severity must be exercised towards him."
"Guys, we need to have two sets of weights and measurements. When a student is loyal and religious, anything can be overlooked; but if he's a Liberal, we have to be very strict with him."
The use of these two scales of weight and measurement was much commented upon in the newspapers at the time, and it disgusted Méry to such an extent that he wrote a pamphlet, of a somewhat scathing nature, it would seem, against M. Éliça Gallay; and this pamphlet, as we have said, cost our author eight months' imprisonment. Méry had no means of livelihood in Marseilles, he hated a commercial life, he could write poetry with the greatest facility and he was an adept in the art of draughts-playing. He would not dream of a commercial life, he could not count on poetry, so he resolved to make use of the game which, played as he played it, became an art. Méry left for Paris with the intention of making a living as a draught-player. He was then[Pg 225] twenty-one, and he lodged at Madame Caldairon's, 11 rue des Petits-Augustins, with Achille Vaulabelle, author of the Deux Restaurations, and began an existence divided between the study of geology under Cuvier and perfecting himself at draughts by playing with the best amateurs at the café Manoury. So he played draughts at the café Manoury and studied geology at the Jardin des Plantes. By playing ten sous a game—never more—Méry managed for a year to make an income of ten francs per day. On the other hand, he never missed his lesson in comparative anatomy, and Cuvier had not a more assiduous pupil than he; showing him great friendliness, and predicting that he would make a name in geology. In other ways, too, matters shaped themselves wonderfully to the advantage of the future of our friend from Marseilles. Madame Caldairon, who worshipped him, wanted him to marry a young dressmaker who was very much in the fashion at that time, and whose business, one of the most flourishing in Paris, brought in from twenty-five to thirty thousand francs a year. The marriage was arranged, and Méry was gleefully looking forward to a rosy future, when his young fiancée caught a chill one cold February night in 1826, when she and Méry were obliged to walk across the pont des Arts, as they could not get a cab anywhere, either in the rue Jacob or on the Embankment. The chill developed into pneumonia, she died in three days and Méry was a widower before he had become a husband. He believed himself to be condemned to eternal lamentation; but draughts and geology are powerful consolations, and, without forgetting the poor dear girl, Méry yet found his mind free enough one day to say to Barthélemy—
The use of these two scales of weight and measurement received a lot of attention in the newspapers at the time, and it disgusted Méry so much that he wrote a rather harsh pamphlet against M. Éliça Gallay. This pamphlet, as we mentioned, landed our author eight months in prison. Méry had no way to support himself in Marseilles, he despised the commercial life, he could write poetry easily, and he was skilled at playing checkers. He wouldn’t consider a business life, and since he couldn’t rely on poetry, he decided to leverage his talent for checkers, which, when he played, became an art. Méry moved to Paris with the goal of making a living as a checkers player. He was then[Pg 225] twenty-one years old and stayed at Madame Caldairon’s, 11 rue des Petits-Augustins, with Achille Vaulabelle, the author of Deux Restaurations. He started a life split between studying geology with Cuvier and honing his skills in checkers by playing against top amateurs at the café Manoury. So, he played checkers at the café Manoury and studied geology at the Jardin des Plantes. By playing for ten sous a game—never more—Méry managed to earn about ten francs a day for a year. Meanwhile, he never missed his comparative anatomy lessons, and Cuvier had no more dedicated student than him, showing him great kindness and predicting he would make a name in geology. In other ways, things also turned out wonderfully for the future of this friend from Marseilles. Madame Caldairon, who adored him, wanted him to marry a young dressmaker who was very fashionable at that time and whose business, one of the most successful in Paris, earned between twenty-five to thirty thousand francs a year. The marriage was set, and Méry was happily anticipating a bright future when his young fiancée caught a chill one cold February night in 1826. They were forced to walk across the pont des Arts, unable to find a cab in either rue Jacob or on the Embankment. The chill turned into pneumonia, she died within three days, and Méry was a widower before he even became a husband. He thought he was destined for endless sorrow; however, checkers and geology are strong comforts, and while he didn’t forget the dear girl, Méry found his mind clear enough one day to say to Barthélemy—
"My dear fellow, a man who could write satires at the present time would have a fine chance of an opening in politics and in poetry."
"My dear friend, a guy who could write satirical pieces today would have a great opportunity in both politics and poetry."
"Have you an idea?" asked Barthélemy.
"Do you have an idea?" asked Barthélemy.
"Yes, certainly."
"Sure, definitely."
"What is it?"
"What's that?"
"An epistle to Sidi Mahmoud."
"Message to Sidi Mahmoud."
You have forgotten who Sidi Mahmoud was, have you not? Well then, I will refresh your memory.
You’ve forgotten who Sidi Mahmoud was, haven’t you? Okay, let me jog your memory.
He was the envoy sent by our friend the Bey of Tunis—who was then on not quite such amicable terms with us as he is to-day—to congratulate Charles X. on his accession to the throne. Sidi Mahmoud was received in state on 5 May at the Foreign Office, by M. le Baron de Damas, surrounded by peers, deputies and general officers. When the usher announced the ambassador, everybody rose with the exception of M. de Damas, who, representing the King of France, remained seated and covered. M. de Damas saluted the ambassador with a wave of his hand, and signed to him to be seated. The ambassador then delivered his letters and sat down, and it was left to an Arabian interpreter to translate them. Paris, having nothing special at that moment with which to occupy its attention, gave itself wholly and entirely to Sidi Mahmoud: his thirty years, his fine dark face, his white dolman embroidered in sky-blue silk and fastened with gold hooks, the two shawls that formed his turban and the cashmir robe flung over his shoulder. Méry was perfectly right; Barthélemy saw at once, as he had, that the plan was excellent. Unfortunately he had to go to London.
He was the envoy sent by our friend, the Bey of Tunis—who was not exactly on the best terms with us back then as he is now—to congratulate Charles X. on his rise to the throne. Sidi Mahmoud was formally welcomed on May 5 at the Foreign Office by M. le Baron de Damas, surrounded by peers, deputies, and general officers. When the usher announced the ambassador, everyone stood up except for M. de Damas, who, representing the King of France, stayed seated and kept his hat on. M. de Damas greeted the ambassador with a wave of his hand and gestured for him to sit down. The ambassador then presented his letters and took a seat, with an Arabian interpreter translating them. Paris, having nothing else demanding its attention at that moment, focused entirely on Sidi Mahmoud: his thirty years, his striking dark complexion, his white dolman embroidered with sky-blue silk and fastened with gold hooks, the two shawls that made up his turban, and the cashmere robe draped over his shoulder. Méry was absolutely correct; Barthélemy immediately recognized, as he had before, that the plan was excellent. Unfortunately, he had to go to London.
"Compose your epistle alone," he said to Méry, "and on my return we will talk again about the satire."
"Write your letter by yourself," he said to Méry, "and when I get back, we'll discuss the satire again."
Barthélemy left for London, and Méry composed his epistle. When the epistle was composed, the worst part of his task was not over, for the question now was how to get it published.
Barthélemy left for London, and Méry wrote his letter. Once the letter was written, the hardest part of his job was not done yet, as the next challenge was finding a way to get it published.
Méry took his epistle to Ponthieu, who declared that nobody was reading poetry then! Méry naturally retorted by pointing to the twenty editions of Casimir Delavigne, to the fifteen editions of Béranger, to the twelve editions of Lamartine, to the ten editions of Victor Hugo; at each name Méry uttered, Ponthieu said—
Méry took his letter to Ponthieu, who said that nobody was reading poetry at that time! Méry quickly replied by pointing to the twenty editions of Casimir Delavigne, the fifteen editions of Béranger, the twelve editions of Lamartine, and the ten editions of Victor Hugo; with each name Méry mentioned, Ponthieu said—
"Oh! M. Casimir Delavigne, that is a different matter! Oh! M. Béranger, that is a different matter! Oh! M. Victor Hugo, that is a different matter! Oh! M. Lamartine, that is a different matter!"
"Oh! Mr. Casimir Delavigne, that's a different story! Oh! Mr. Béranger, that's a different story! Oh! Mr. Victor Hugo, that's a different story! Oh! Mr. Lamartine, that's a different story!"
Or, to translate it into the language of a publisher—
Or, to put it in publisher terms—
"My dear sir, all those gentlemen of whom you remind me are celebrated and possess talent, while you have neither of these qualifications."
"My dear sir, all those gentlemen you mentioned are well-known and talented, while you have neither of those qualities."
Méry beat a retreat, his epistle in his hand, feeling defeated, repulsed, routed.
Méry retreated, his letter in hand, feeling defeated, repulsed, defeated.
He had heard of another printer named Bérand; but, unfortunately, this man held views, he was a supporter of the Government. Méry decided to show him his ode as a piece of poetry written in M. de Villèle's honour. The printer's business instincts would do the rest.
He had heard about another printer named Bérand; but, unfortunately, this guy had his own opinions and supported the Government. Méry decided to show him his ode as a poem written in honor of M. de Villèle. The printer's business sense would take care of the rest.
Méry had made no mistake. The printer read the epistle to Sidi Mahmoud, quite approved of it and offered to print it on condition he should repay his own costs out of the proceeds of the first copies sold. They printed two thousand copies, and the two thousand disappeared in less than a week.
Méry hadn't made any mistakes. The printer read the letter to Sidi Mahmoud, liked it, and offered to print it on the condition that he would cover his own costs from the profits of the first copies sold. They printed two thousand copies, and those two thousand were gone in less than a week.
Meanwhile, Barthélemy had returned from London. On reaching Paris, he heard of the success of the epistle, and, taking time by the forelock, he composed another epistle entitled Adieux à Sidi Mahmoud, which was almost as popular as the first. Méry and Barthélemy had at that time an intimate friend who was one of the leading powers on the Nain jaune. His name was Soulé, and he had just been sentenced to two months' imprisonment for an article on St. Domingo. Soulé had no inclination to spend his two months in prison, and, as he and Barthélemy happened to be very much alike in looks, sufficiently so for him to be able to use Barthélemy's passport, it was lent him; he set out for London, from London took passage to the United States, and he is to-day the foremost lawyer in New Orleans, where he is making an income of a hundred thousand francs per annum. Meanwhile, Méry was writing alone his epistle to M. de Villèle. These publications being in opposition to the Government, and full of satirical humour and the spirit of the hour, caught the public taste, and met with great success. Two more poets had now inscribed their names amongst those of the votaries of the poetic muse. And, as they were running on similar lines, they decided to combine and publish their works under the joint title of Villéliade. In[Pg 228] the end it ran through fifteen editions. But when the Villéliade was finished there still remained, as in the case of the Épître à Sidi Mahmoud, the great question as to what publisher would be bold enough to publish it. Publishers had three dangers to fear: fine, imprisonment or withdrawal of their licenses. The monarchy of 1826 did not treat such conduct as a trifling matter any more than does the Republic of 1852. Méry and Barthélemy went round to every publisher of their acquaintance offering their poem; one and all made as though they would accept it at first, but handed the MS. back after reading a verse or two, shook their heads and said—
Meanwhile, Barthélemy had returned from London. Upon arriving in Paris, he learned about the success of the letter and, seizing the opportunity, wrote another letter titled Adieux à Sidi Mahmoud, which became almost as popular as the first. At that time, Méry and Barthélemy had a close friend named Soulé, who was a prominent figure on the Nain jaune. He had just been sentenced to two months in prison for an article on St. Domingo. Soulé wasn't keen on spending two months behind bars, and since he and Barthélemy looked quite similar, he was able to use Barthélemy's passport, which was lent to him. He headed to London, then took a ship to the United States, and today he is the top lawyer in New Orleans, earning an annual income of a hundred thousand francs. Meanwhile, Méry was working alone on his letter to M. de Villèle. These publications, which opposed the Government and were filled with satire and current trends, resonated with the public and enjoyed great success. Two more poets had now added their names to the list of those devoted to poetry. Since they were both following similar themes, they decided to team up and publish their works together under the title Villéliade. In[Pg 228] the end, it went through fifteen editions. However, once the Villéliade was complete, there still remained, as with the Épître à Sidi Mahmoud, the significant question of which publisher would be bold enough to put it out. Publishers faced three risks: fines, imprisonment, or having their licenses revoked. The monarchy of 1826 certainly didn't treat such actions lightly, just as the Republic of 1852 did. Méry and Barthélemy visited every publisher they knew, presenting their poem; all of them initially seemed willing to accept it, but after reading a line or two, they returned the manuscript, shook their heads, and said—
"Let who will publish your poem, it certainly shall not be I!"
"Whoever wants to publish your poem can go ahead, but I definitely won't be the one!"
The two collaborators picked up their manuscript and went forth to make a fresh attempt on another publisher, with the same result. When they had exhausted the list of well-known publishing firms, they began to approach printers with whom they had had dealings. Printers were in the same situation as publishers, and were afraid of fine, imprisonment and the withdrawal of their licenses, just in the same way: they refused.
The two collaborators grabbed their manuscript and set out to try again with another publisher, but it was the same outcome. After they had gone through all the major publishing firms, they started reaching out to printers with whom they had previously worked. The printers were in the same boat as the publishers and were worried about fines, jail time, and losing their licenses, so they too turned them down.
It is sad work to be left with five or six thousand lines of poetry on one's hands. And such lines! Lines which, a month later, the whole of France was to know by heart. Méry proposed to make a last attempt with a totally unknown printer. It was a desperate remedy, but desperate remedies sometimes save a patient's life. They opened the almanack de la librairie, to find the name of a printer which, from the succession of letters in his name, its signification, or its sound, might give some hope either to the eyes or the ears of the two poets. There was a printer called Auguste Barthélemy, who lived at No. 10 rue des Grands-Augustins. The name struck the two authors as auguring good luck to them. They took up their MS. and went to M. Barthélemy's. They found a tall young man, with an intelligent face, a firm but pleasing expression and an honest, kindly air about him. They laid their difficulties before him.
It's frustrating to be stuck with five or six thousand lines of poetry. And such lines! Lines that, a month later, everyone in France would know by heart. Méry suggested making one last effort with an unknown printer. It was a desperate move, but desperate measures can sometimes save a situation. They opened the almanack de la librairie to find the name of a printer that might offer some hope, whether through the letters in his name, its meaning, or its sound. They came across a printer named Auguste Barthélemy, who lived at No. 10 rue des Grands-Augustins. The name seemed to suggest good luck for them. They gathered their manuscript and headed to M. Barthélemy’s. They met a tall young man with an intelligent face, a firm yet friendly demeanor, and a genuinely kind look about him. They explained their challenges to him.
"Your work, then, is antagonistic to the Government?" he asked.
"Is your work opposed to the Government?" he asked.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Yes, sir."
"Is it very strong?"
"Is it really strong?"
"Too strong, it would seem."
"Seems too strong."
"And there is risk in printing it?"
"And is there a risk in printing it?"
"So we are told."
"That's what we're told."
"All right I will print your work and run the risk...."
"Okay, I'll print your work and take the chance...."
The two poets both held out their hands to M. Barthélemy, who reciprocated their greeting.
The two poets extended their hands to M. Barthélemy, who returned their greeting.
Ten days later the Villéliade, for which he had advanced the cost of printing, paper, binding, etc., made its appearance, and, as we have said, ran through fifteen editions! This printer, who favoured the Opposition in the time of the Bourbons and also under Louis-Philippe, was our good and brave friend Auguste Barthélemy, since representative for Eure-et-Loir, both to the Constituante and to the Législative. He was obliged to flee the country after 2 December, and he stayed five months in Brussels; now, having returned to France and having refused to take oath as conseiller général he lives in his château of Lévéville, a league from Chartres. Let us hasten to state that it was not out of his savings as a printer that he bought this château; no, alas! his commercial loyalty, of which we have just had an instance, cost him, on the contrary, something like a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand francs! That is the history of the Villéliade. I have only to add that in the notes to the Sixth Song of the Énéide Barthélemy stated that the poem was written by Méry alone.
Ten days later, the Villéliade, for which he had paid for the printing, paper, binding, and so on, was released, and, as we mentioned, it went through fifteen editions! This printer, who supported the Opposition during the Bourbon era and also under Louis-Philippe, was our good and brave friend Auguste Barthélemy, who later became a representative for Eure-et-Loir in both the Constituante and the Législative. He had to flee the country after December 2nd and spent five months in Brussels; now, having returned to France and refusing to take the oath as conseiller général, he lives in his château in Lévéville, a league from Chartres. Let’s be clear that it wasn’t his savings as a printer that allowed him to buy this château; no, unfortunately! His commitment to ethical business practices, which we’ve just noted, actually cost him around a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand francs! That’s the story of the Villéliade. I just need to add that in the notes to the Sixth Song of the Énéide, Barthélemy stated that the poem was written solely by Méry.
I did not know Barthélemy well; I scarcely met him more than once or twice in my life; but I knew Méry very well. He has been, he is and he always will be, probably, one of my closest friends. And I can easily count the number of these friends: I have had but two or three at the most; I might, perhaps, say four. You see, therefore, that, however small my house, even supposing I had a house, it would never be filled.
I didn't know Barthélemy very well; I met him maybe once or twice in my life. But I knew Méry really well. He has been, is, and probably always will be one of my closest friends. I can easily count the number of friends I have: two or three at most; maybe I could say four. So, you can see that, no matter how small my home is—if I even had one—it would never be full.
Nothing was stranger than the physical and moral differences between Méry and Barthélemy. Barthélemy was[Pg 230] exceptionally tall, Méry of ordinary stature; Barthélemy was as cold as ice, while Méry was as hot as fire; Barthélemy was self-contained and quiet, Méry loquacious and as open as the day; Barthélemy lacked wit in conversation, while Méry poured forth a perfect cascade of smart sayings, a shower of sparks, a display of fireworks. Méry—and here I give up comparison—knew everything, or almost everything, it is possible for a man to know. He knew Greek like Plato, Rome like Vitruvius, India like Herodotus; he spoke Latin like Cicero, Italian like Dante, English like Lord Palmerston. Passionately fond of music, he was once arguing with Rossini, and he said to the composer of Moses and William Tell—
Nothing was stranger than the physical and moral differences between Méry and Barthélemy. Barthélemy was[Pg 230] exceptionally tall, while Méry was of average height; Barthélemy was as cold as ice, whereas Méry was as fiery as they come; Barthélemy was reserved and quiet, while Méry was chatty and open; Barthélemy struggled with wit in conversation, but Méry was a nonstop stream of clever remarks, a shower of sparks, a stunning display of fireworks. Méry—and here I can't compare anymore—knew everything, or almost everything, a person could know. He was fluent in Greek like Plato, familiar with Rome like Vitruvius, and knowledgeable about India like Herodotus; he spoke Latin like Cicero, Italian like Dante, and English like Lord Palmerston. Deeply passionate about music, he once found himself in an argument with Rossini, and he said to the composer of Moses and William Tell—
"Stay! you need say no more, you know nothing whatever about music!"
"Wait! You don't need to say anything else, you don't know anything at all about music!"
"True enough," replied Rossini.
"Fair enough," replied Rossini.
Even the most highly gifted of men have their good and their bad days, their moments of heaviness and of gaiety. Méry was never tired, Méry was never barren. When, by chance, he did not talk, it was not that he was resting, but simply because he was listening; it was never because he was tired, it was simply that he held his tongue. If you wanted Méry to hold forth, you had just to put a match to his wick and set him on fire, and off he would go. And if you let him have free play and did not interfere with him, no matter whether the conversation were upon ethics, or literature, or politics, or travels, on Socrates or M. Cousin, Homer or M. Viennet, Napoleon or the president, Herodotus or M. Cottu, you would have the most extraordinary improvisation you ever heard. Then—still more incredible!—added to all this, he never said anything slanderous, or bitter, or carping, about a friend! If Méry had but once held the tips of a man's fingers in his clasp, the rest of the body was sacred in his eyes. And, indeed, what is it that makes men wicked? Envy! But what is there for Méry to be envious about? He is as learned as Nodier; as much a poet as all the rest of us put together; he is as idle as Figaro, as witty as—as Méry; a very fine position, it seems to me, in the literary world. As for Méry's[Pg 231] aptitude, it became proverbial. I will give two examples of it. One evening, it was 31 December, a group of us were discussing this facile gift, and some literary Saint Thomas, whose name I forget, called it in question. Méry retorted by suggesting that he should be supplied with a certain number of bouts-rimés, which he undertook to complete instantly. We set our heads together, and by a supreme effort of imagination we put together the following rhymes:—
Even the most talented people have their good days and their bad days, their moments of sadness and joy. Méry was never tired, and he was never unproductive. When he happened to be quiet, it wasn’t because he was resting, but simply because he was listening; it wasn’t from exhaustion, it was just that he chose to be silent. If you wanted Méry to speak up, you just had to spark his interest and he would be off and running. And if you let him go and didn’t interrupt, no matter if the conversation turned to ethics, literature, politics, travel, Socrates or M. Cousin, Homer or M. Viennet, Napoleon or the president, Herodotus or M. Cottu, you would hear the most amazing improvisation you’ve ever experienced. Then—more astonishing!—even with all this, he never said anything slanderous, bitter, or critical about a friend! If Méry had once held a man’s fingertips, the rest of that person was sacred in his eyes. And really, what drives people to be wicked? Envy! But what could Méry be envious of? He is as knowledgeable as Nodier; as poetic as all the rest of us combined; as lazy as Figaro, as witty as—as Méry; a pretty great position, if you ask me, in the literary world. As for Méry's [Pg 231] talent, it became well-known. I’ll give you two examples. One evening, on December 31, a group of us were talking about this easy talent, and a literary skeptic, whose name I can’t remember, doubted it. Méry replied by suggesting he be given a certain number of bouts-rimés, which he promised to complete on the spot. We put our heads together, and with a great effort of imagination, we came up with the following rhymes:—
"Choufleur,
Trouble,
Souffleur,
Rouble.
Clairon,
Dune,
Perron,
Lune.
Fusil,
Coude,
Grésil,
Boude.
Nacarat,
Conque,
Baccarat,
Quelconque.
Argo,
Jongle,
Camargo,
Ongle."
Choufleur,
Trouble,
Souffleur,
Rouble.
Clairon,
Dune,
Perron,
Lune.
Fusil,
Coude,
Grésil,
Boude.
Nacarat,
Conque,
Baccarat,
Quelconque.
Argo,
Jongle,
Camargo,
Ongle.
In less time than it had taken us to find the rhymes Méry composed the following verses:—
In less time than it took us to find the rhymes, Méry wrote the following verses:—
VŒUX DE LA NOUVELLE ANNÉE——
NEW YEAR'S WISHES——
| "A tous nos Curtius je souhaite un | choufleur; |
| A nos législateurs, des séances sans | trouble; |
| A l'acteur en défaut, un excellent | souffleur; |
| Aux Français en Russie, un grand dédain du | rouble. |
| A Buloz, le retour de Mars et de | Clairon; |
| Aux marins, le bonheur de vivre sur la | dune; |
| A la Sainte-Chapelle, un gothique | perron; |
| A l'apôtre Journet, l'amitié de la | lune. |
| Au soldat citoyen, l'abandon du | fusil; |
| A l'écrivain public, un coussin pour son | coude; |
| A moi, l'hiver sans froid, sans neige et sans | grésil; |
| Un soleil qui jamais dans un ciel gris ne | boude. |
| Au Juif errant, un banc de velours | nacarat; |
| A l'Arabe au désert, des eaux à pleine | conque; |
| Au joueur, un essaim de neuf au | baccarat; |
| A l'homme qui s'ennuie, une douleur | quelconque. |
| A Leverrier, un point dans le signe d' | Argo; |
| Au tigre du Bengale, un Anglais dans la | jongle; |
| Aux danseuses du jour, les pieds de | Camargo; |
| A l'auteur qu'on attaque, une griffe pour | ongle!" |
Another evening, at the house of Madame de Girardin there was a heated discussion on Ponsard's Lucrèce. The Academy, spiteful and driven to bay, was, just because of its malice, obliged to simulate some show of good feeling. So, although it was not acquainted with a single word of Lucrèce, the Academy puffed it up, praised it, extolled it to the skies. The work became the adopted daughter of all those impotent beings who, having never begot offspring, are reduced to pet the children of others; it was, in short, a work which was going to compete with Marion Delorme and Lucrèce Borgia, the Maréchale d'Ancre and Chatterton, Anthony and Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle. So there was mirth at the palais Mazarin.
Another evening, at Madame de Girardin's house, there was a heated discussion about Ponsard's Lucrèce. The Academy, spiteful and cornered, felt obligated to put on a show of goodwill because of its malice. So, even though it didn't know a single word of Lucrèce, the Academy promoted it, praised it, and celebrated it to the skies. The work became like an adopted child to all those powerless individuals who, having never had kids of their own, settle for nurturing others' children; in short, it was a work set to compete with Marion Delorme and Lucrèce Borgia, La Maréchale d'Ancre and Chatterton, Anthony and Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle. So there was laughter at the Palais Mazarin.
Whilst waiting for the appearance of the chef-d'œuvre, we aired our own views on the subject. I was acquainted with and had heard Lucrèce. I knew that it was an estimable tragedy of the schoolboy type, conscientiously put together by its author, who, perhaps slightly ignorant of the Roman eras, seemed to me to have confused the Rome of the kings with that of the emperors, Sextus Tarquin with Caligula, Tully with Messalina; but, nevertheless, I maintained that the[Pg 233] work, devoid though it was of imagination and dramatic power, deserved a hearing because of its style, when Méry said—
While waiting for the chef-d'œuvre to appear, we shared our thoughts on the topic. I was familiar with and had heard of Lucrèce. I knew it was a commendable tragedy in the schoolboy style, carefully crafted by its author, who, perhaps slightly unaware of the Roman eras, seemed to have mixed up the Rome of kings with that of emperors, Sextus Tarquin with Caligula, Cicero with Messalina; but still, I argued that the[Pg 233] work, despite lacking imagination and dramatic depth, deserved a listen because of its style, when Méry said—
"I mean to write a Lucrèce, and to get it played before Ponsard's Lucrèce itself appears. It is advertised for the 25th of the month; it is now the 14th—it will not be played till the 30th. There is more than time enough to compose two thousand lines, to get them read, distributed, rehearsed and played."
"I plan to write a Lucrèce and have it performed before Ponsard's Lucrèce comes out. It's scheduled for the 25th of the month; today is the 14th—it won’t be performed until the 30th. There's more than enough time to write two thousand lines, have them read, shared, rehearsed, and performed."
"How long will it take you to complete your tragedy?" I said to Méry.
"How long will it take you to finish your tragedy?" I asked Méry.
"Why! four hundred lines an act, five acts in five days——"
"Wow! Four hundred lines per act, five acts in five days——"
"So, to-morrow night you can give us the first Act?"
"So, tomorrow night can you give us the first act?"
"To-morrow night, yes."
"Tomorrow night, yes."
We arranged to meet again the next evening, not in the least counting on the first Act of Méry's Lucrèce. Next day we were all at the appointed place, punctual to the minute. We turned ourselves into an audience to listen to his reading. A glass of water was brought to Méry. He sat down at the table, and we made a circle round about. He drew his manuscript from his pocket, coughed, just moistened his lips with the water and read the following scenes.
We planned to meet again the next evening, not at all expecting the first Act of Méry's Lucrèce. The next day, we were all at the agreed-upon spot, right on time. We positioned ourselves as an audience to listen to his reading. A glass of water was brought to Méry. He sat down at the table, and we formed a circle around him. He took his manuscript out of his pocket, coughed, barely wet his lips with the water, and read the following scenes.
He had not finished the Act because he had been interrupted, but as we entered the salle à manger he offered to finish what was wanting before the end of the evening.
He hadn't finished the Act because he got interrupted, but as we entered the salle à manger, he offered to complete what was missing before the end of the evening.
LUCRÈCE
TRAGÉDIE
TRAGEDY
SCÈNE PREMIÈRE
Scene One
La maison de l'aruspice Faustus, c'est-à-dire une vaste treille à mi-côte du mont Quirinal. A gauche, la façade d'une maison en briques rouges; devant la porte, un autel supportant un dieu pénate en argile; au pied du Quirinal, dans un fond lumineux, le Champ de Mars bordé par le Tibre
The home of the augur Faustus, situated on a large vine-covered terrace halfway up Mount Quirinal. To the left is the facade of a red brick house; in front of the door stands an altar with a clay household god; at the base of Quirinal, against a bright backdrop, is the Campus Martius bordered by the Tiber.
FAUSTUS, seul, à l'autel de ses dieux
Dieu pénate d'argile, ô mon dieu domestique!
Un jour, tu seras d'or, sous un riche portique,
[Pg 234]
Tel que Rome en prepare à nos dieux immortels
Et le sang des taureaux rougira tes autels.
Mais, aujourd'hui, reçois avec un œil propice
La prière et le don du pieux aruspice;
Ces fruits qu'une vestale a cueillis, ce matin,
Dans le verger du temple, au pied de l'Aventin,
Et ce lait pur qui vient de la haute colline
Où, la nuit, on entend une voix sibylline,
Quand le berger craintif suspend aux verts rameaux
La flûte qu'un dieu fit avec sept chalumeaux.
L'aube sur le Soracte annonce sa lumière;
Si j'apporte déjà mon offrande première,
C'est qu'une grande voix a retenti dans l'air;
C'est que la foudre, à gauche, a grondé sans éclair,
Et que, dans cette nuit sombre et mystérieuse,
A gémi l'oiseau noir aux branches de l'yeuse.
O dieu lare! dis-moi quel forfait odieux
Doit punir aujourd'hui la colère des dieux,
Afin que le flamine et la blanche vestale
Ouvrent du temple saint la porte orientale,
Et qu'au maître des dieux, dans les rayons naissants,
Montent avec le jour la prière et l'encens.
SCÈNE II
FAUSTUS, BRUTUS, en tunique de couleur brune, comme un
laboureur suburbain
BRUTUS
Que les dieux te soient doux, vieillard, et que Cybèle
Jamais dans tes jardins n'ait un sillon rebelle!
La fatigue m'oppresse; à l'étoile du soir,
Hier, je vins à la ville ...
FAUSTUS
Ici, tu peux t'asseoir.
Modeste est ma maison, étroite est son enceinte.
Mais j'y vénère encor l'hospitalité sainte,
Et j'apaise toujours la faim de l'indigent,
Comme si mon dieu lare était d'or ou d'argent.
BRUTUS
[Pg 235]Je le sais.
FAUSTUS
Quelle rive, étranger, t'a vu naître?
BRUTUS
Quand les dieux parleront, je me ferai connaître.
Ma mère est de Capène; elle m'accoutuma,
Tout enfant, à servir les grands dieux de Numa.
Du haut du Quirinal, on voit ma bergerie
Sous le bois saint aimé de la nymphe Égérie,
Et jamais le loup fauve, autour de ma maison,
Ne souilla de ses dents une molle toison.
FAUSTUS
Et quel secret dessein à la ville t'amène?
BRUTUS
La liberté!... Jadis Rome était son domaine,
Lorsque les rois pasteurs, sur le coteau voisin,
Pauvres, se couronnaient de pampre et de raisin;
Lorsque le vieux Évandre arrivait dans la plaine,
Pour présider aux jeux, sous un sayon de laine,
Et que partout le Tibre admirait sur ses bords
Des vertus au dedans et du chaume au dehors ...
Mais ces temps sont bien loin! Tout dégénère et tombe
Le puissant Romulus doit frémir dans sa tombe,
En écoutant passer sur son marbre divin
Des rois ivres d'orgueil, de luxure et de vin!
FAUSTUS
Jeune homme, la sagesse a parlé par ta bouche.
Ton regard est serein; ta voix rude me touche.
Non, tu n'es pas de ceux qui vont à nous, rampant
Sous l'herbe des jardins, comme fait le serpent;
Infâmes délateurs qui touchent un salaire
En révélant au roi la plainte populaire,
Et livrent au bourreau, sous l'arbre du chemin,
[Pg 236]Tout citoyen encor fier du nom de Romain ...
BRUTUS
Prêtre, écoute ton fils.—Tu te souviens, sans doute,
D'un nom sacré, d'un nom que le tyran redoute,
D'un nom qui flamboyait sur le front d'un mortel,
Comme un feu de Cybèle allumé sur l'autel,
De Brutus?
FAUSTUS
Sa mémoire est-elle ensevelie?
Ce nom est-il de ceux que le Romain oublie?
Il vivra tant qu'un prêtre en tunique de lin
Dira l'hymme de Rome au dieu capitolin!
Je l'ai connu! J'ai vu s'incliner, comme l'herbe,
Ce héros sous le fer de Tarquin le Superbe!..
Il est mort! Morts aussi tous ses nobles parents,
Hécatombe de gloire immolée aux tyrans!
BRUTUS
Prêtre, il lui reste un fils.
FAUSTUS
Je le sais: corps sans âme!
Noble front que le ciel a privé de sa flamme!
Ombre errante qui va demander sa raison
Au sang liquide encore au seuil de sa maison!
BRUTUS
C'est un faux bruit: sa main à la vengeance est prête;
Minerve a conservé sa raison dans sa tête.
Son père lui légua son visage, sa voix,
Sa vertu ...
FAUSTUS, s'écriant
Dieux, je veux l'embrasser!
BRUTUS
Tu le vois.
FAUSTUS
Oh!...
(Serrant Brutus dans ses bras)
Les dieux quelquefois jettent sur la paupière
Un voile, comme ils font aux images de pierre;
[Pg 237]
La vieillesse est aveugle! Oh! je te reconnais!
Je rentre dans la vie ... Oui, mon fils, je renais!
O dieu lare, pourquoi ton funèbre présage?
Oui, voilà bien son pas, son regard, son visage,
Son maintien de héros, son geste triomphant!
Brutus, mort sous mes yeux, revit en son enfant!
Mes pleurs réjouiront ma paupière ridée!...
Dis, quel heurteux distin t'a conduit?
BRUTUS
Une idée.
Le temps est précieux; le premier rayon d'or
Luit sur le fronton blanc de Jupiter Stator.
Il faut agir! Apprends que, dans Rome, j'épie
Les cyniques projets de cette race impie,
Et qu'elle nous prépare un crime de l'enfer,
Rêvé par l'Euménide en sa couche de fer.
La ville de nos dieux par le crime est gardée;
Le sénat dort; Tarquin fait le siège d'Ardée;
La justice se voile et marche d'un pas lent;
Sextus règne au palais! Sextus!... un insolent!
Entouré nuit et jour de ses amis infâmes,
Braves comme Ixion pour insulter les femmes!
Ne laissant, sous le chaume ou le lambris doré,
Dans une alcôve en deuil, qu'un lit déshonoré!
Ce matin, éveillé, l'aube luisant à peine,
J'ai vu Sextus assis sous la porte Capène.
Il parlait, l'imprudent! et ne se doutait pas
Du fantôme éternel qui brûle tous ses pas!
Donc, j'ai su qu'il attend que Rome tout entière
S'éveille, et qu'un esclave apporte sa litière.
Je ne puis en douter: un obscène souci,
Avant le grand soleil, doit le conduire ici.
FAUSTUS
Ici?
BRUTUS
Dans ta maison quel dieu jaloux amène,
Par ce sentier désert, une dame romaine?
FAUSTUS
Une seule ... elle vient aux heures du matin.
BRUTUS
Quel est son nom?
[Pg 238]
FAUSTUS
L'hymen l'unit à Collatin.
BRUTUS
Lucrèce!... Dieux, le lys de notre gynécée!
Sainte pudeur, défends ta fille menacée!
FAUSTUS
Son époux est absent, et, quand le jour a lui,
Elle vient consulter les augures pour lui.
BRUTUS
Oh! qu'aujourd'hui des dieux la puissance immortelle
L'écarte!
FAUSTUS
Un bruit de pas!...
BRUTUS
Sainte pudeur! c'est elle!...
FAUSTUS, alone at the altar of his gods
Clay household god, oh my domestic deity!
One day, you will be of gold, beneath a rich portico,
[Pg 234]
Just like Rome prepares for our immortal gods
And the blood of bulls will stain your altars.
But today, receive with a favorable eye
The prayer and gift from the pious augur;
These fruits that a Vestal gathered this morning,
In the temple orchard, at the foot of the Aventine,
And this pure milk that comes from the high hill
Where, at night, a sibylline voice is heard,
When the fearful shepherd hangs his flute on the green branches
That a god made from seven reeds.
Dawn over Soracte announces its light;
If I'm already bringing my first offering,
It's because a great voice has resonated in the air;
It's because the thunder on the left rumbled without lightning,
And that in this dark and mysterious night,
The black bird groaned on the yew branches.
Oh household god! Tell me what heinous crime
Must today punish the anger of the gods,
So that the flamen and the white Vestal
Open the eastern gate of the holy temple,
And that to the master of gods, with the rising rays,
The prayer and incense rise with the day.
SCENE II
FAUSTUS, BRUTUS, in a brown tunic, like a suburban laborer
BRUTUS
May the gods be kind to you, old man, and may Cybele
Never have a rebellious furrow in your gardens!
Fatigue weighs me down; at the evening star,
Yesterday, I came to the city...
FAUSTUS
You can sit here.
My home is modest, its space is tight.
But I still honor sacred hospitality,
And I always assuage the hunger of the needy,
As if my household god were made of gold or silver.
BRUTUS
[Pg 235]I know.
FAUSTUS
What river, stranger, witnessed your birth?
BRUTUS
When the gods speak, I will reveal myself.
My mother is from Capua; she taught me,
As a child, to serve the great gods of Numa.
From the heights of Quirinal, you can see my shepherd's hut
Under the sacred woods loved by the nymph Egeria,
And never has the wild wolf, around my house,
Soiled with its teeth a soft fleece.
FAUSTUS
And what secret plan brings you to the city?
BRUTUS
Freedom!... Once, Rome was its domain,
When the shepherd kings, on the nearby hill,
Poor, crowned themselves with vine and grapes;
When the old Evander arrived in the plain,
To preside over the games, under a woolen cloak,
And everywhere the Tiber admired along its banks
Virtue within and thatch outside...
But those times are long gone! Everything degenerates and falls
The mighty Romulus must quiver in his tomb,
Listening to pass over his divine marble
Kings drunk with pride, lust, and wine!
FAUSTUS
Young man, wisdom has spoken through your mouth.
Your gaze is serene; your rough voice moves me.
No, you are not one of those who crawl towards us,
Under the grass of the gardens, like a snake;
Infamous informers who take a wage
By revealing to the king the people's complaint,
And deliver to the executioner, under the tree by the road,
[Pg 236] Every citizen still proud of the name Roman...
BRUTUS
Priest, listen to your son.—You remember, no doubt,
A sacred name, a name that the tyrant fears,
A name that blazed upon the forehead of a mortal,
Like a fire of Cybele lit upon the altar,
Of Brutus?
FAUSTUS
Is his memory lost?
Is this name one that a Roman forgets?
He will live as long as a priest in a linen tunic
Sings the hymn of Rome to the Capitoline god!
I knew him! I saw him bow, like the grass,
This hero under the sword of Tarquin the Proud!...
He is dead! Dead too are all his noble relatives,
A slaughter of glory sacrificed to the tyrants!
BRUTUS
Priest, he has a son.
FAUSTUS
I know: a body without a soul!
Noble brow that heaven has deprived of its flame!
Wandering shadow that goes to seek its reason
From the liquid blood still at the threshold of its house!
BRUTUS
That's a false rumor: his hand is ready for vengeance;
Minerva has kept his reason in his head.
His father bequeathed to him his face, his voice,
His virtue...
FAUSTUS, exclaiming
God, I just want to hug him!
BRUTUS
You can see him.
FAUSTUS
Oh!...
(Cradling Brutus in his arms)
The gods sometimes cover the eyelids
Just like they do with stone images;
[Pg 237]
Old age is blind! Oh! I see you!
I’m stepping back into life ... Yes, my son, I am reborn!
Oh household god, why this funeral sign?
Yes, this is definitely his step, his gaze, his face,
His heroic posture, his triumphant gesture!
Brutus, dead before my eyes, lives on in his child!
My tears will brighten my wrinkled eyelids!...
Tell me, what unfortunate fate brought you here?
BRUTUS
An idea.
Time is precious; the first golden ray
Shines on the white pediment of Jupiter Stator.
We must act! Know that in Rome, I am watching
The cynical plans of this impious group,
And they are plotting a crime from hell,
Dreamed up by the Eumenids in their iron bed.
The city of our gods is protected by crime;
The senate sleeps; Tarquin is attacking Ardea;
Justice veils herself and walks slowly;
Sextus reigns in the palace! Sextus!... how insolent!
Surrounded day and night by his infamous friends,
Brave like Ixion, to insult the women!
Leaving, under the thatch or the gilded paneling,
In a grieving alcove, nothing but a dishonored bed!
This morning, awake, with the dawn barely shining,
I saw Sextus sitting under the Capena gate.
He spoke, the fool! and had no idea
Of the eternal ghost that haunts his every step!
So, I realized he was waiting for all of Rome
To wake up, and for a slave to bring his litter.
I cannot doubt it: an obscene thought,
Before the great sun, must be guiding him here.
FAUSTUS
Here?
BRUTUS
In your house, what jealous god brings,
Through this deserted path, a Roman lady?
FAUSTUS
Only one... she comes in the morning hours.
BRUTUS
What is her name?
[Pg 238]
FAUSTUS
Marriage unites her to Collatin.
BRUTUS
Lucretia!... Gods, the lily of our women's quarters!
Holy modesty, protect your threatened daughter!
FAUSTUS
Her husband is away, and when the day breaks,
She comes to consult the auguries for him.
BRUTUS
Oh! may today the immortal power of the gods
Keep her away!
FAUSTUS
Footsteps are coming!...
BRUTUS
Holy modesty! It's her!...
Now we certainly wanted our joke, but we did not wish to commit a murder; and to have played this piece at the Théâtre-Français or at the Porte-Saint-Martin, before M. Ponsard's Lucrèce, would assuredly have killed the latter. Méry, therefore, pulled himself up half-way through the first Act.
Now we definitely wanted our joke, but we didn’t want to commit a murder; and performing this piece at the Théâtre-Français or at the Porte-Saint-Martin, before M. Ponsard's Lucrèce, would surely have killed the latter. So, Méry stopped halfway through the first Act.
One last word about 1828.
One final word about 1828.
At this period, Méry lived at 29 rue du Harlay, in the same rooms with Carrel. Their evening gatherings generally consisted of Rabbe, Raffenel and Reboul.
At this time, Méry lived at 29 rue du Harlay, sharing the same rooms with Carrel. Their evening get-togethers usually included Rabbe, Raffenel, and Reboul.
Of these five friends, who were well-nigh inseparable, four were carried off cruelly in the prime of their life. Rabbe, by a terrible disease that brought him to his grave as disfigured as though his features had been gnawed by a tiger. Carrel and Reboul were killed in duels, the one at Saint-Mandé, the other at Martinique. Raffenel was blown to pieces on the Acropolis by a Turkish cannon-ball.
Of these five friends, who were almost inseparable, four were taken from life too soon. Rabbe suffered from a terrible illness that left him looking as if a tiger had chewed on his face. Carrel and Reboul died in duels, one in Saint-Mandé and the other in Martinique. Raffenel was blown to bits on the Acropolis by a Turkish cannonball.
CHAPTER IX
I pass from the Secretarial Department to the Record Office—M. Bichet—Wherein I resemble Piron—My spare time—M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison—A scene missing in Distrait—La Peyrouse—A success all to myself
I'm transitioning from the Secretarial Department to the Record Office—M. Bichet—where I find some similarities with Piron—My leisure time—M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison—A scene that's absent in Distrait—La Peyrouse—A success that is solely mine.
It was in the Luxembourg Gardens that I first made the acquaintance of Méry. I was introduced to him there. We drew together like iron and magnet; and, although I really could not say which of us was iron and which magnet, we became inseparable. I was already well forward with my drama Christine. I repeated about two or three hundred lines to him, and he encouraged me greatly. I stood in much need of this encouragement.
It was in the Luxembourg Gardens that I first met Méry. I was introduced to him there. We connected instantly, like iron and a magnet; and while I couldn't really say which of us was which, we became inseparable. I was already making good progress on my play Christine. I recited about two or three hundred lines to him, and he really encouraged me. I needed that encouragement a lot.
I had just undergone a change of position. When Oudard saw that I was incorrigible, and found out that I was working at a drama, he moved me from the Secretarial Department to the Record Offices. And this was equivalent to disgracing me. I was put there with a tiny old man of eighty years, called M. Bichet, who since 1788 had always dressed in a pair of satin breeches, variegated stockings, a black cloth coat and a waistcoat of flowered silk. This costume was finished off with ruffles and frills. His face, which was surrounded by a halo of snow-white hair ending in a little queue, was ruddy and honest and kindly in expression. He tried to receive me rudely, but did not manage to succeed. My extreme politeness to him disarmed him. He showed me my place, and loaded my table with all the accumulated arrears of work that lack of a clerk for a month had brought about. I finished the work by the end of three days. I carried it to him in his office, and asked him for something else.
I had just gotten a new position. When Oudard saw that I was stubborn and learned I was working on a play, he moved me from the Secretarial Department to the Record Offices. This felt like a demotion. I was placed with a tiny old man who was eighty, named M. Bichet, who had been wearing satin breeches, colorful stockings, a black cloth coat, and a flowered silk waistcoat since 1788. His outfit was completed with ruffles and frills. His face, framed by a halo of white hair ending in a small queue, looked healthy, honest, and kind. He tried to act unfriendly towards me, but it didn't work. My extreme politeness caught him off guard. He showed me my desk and piled my table with a mountain of backlogged work that had built up due to the absence of a clerk for a month. I finished it all in three days. I took it to him in his office and asked for more work.
"What! something else already?" he exclaimed.
"What! Something else already?" he exclaimed.
"Certainly."
"Of course."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Because I have done what you gave me."
"Because I did what you asked me to."
"Completely finished it?"
"Is it all done?"
"Completely."
Totally.
"Oh! oh! oh!" gasped M. Bichet.
"Oh my! Oh my!" gasped M. Bichet.
And he picked up my work with the air of a man who says to himself, "It must have been pretty badly scamped!"
And he picked up my work with the attitude of someone who thinks, "This must have been done pretty poorly!"
M. Bichet was mistaken: my mettle had been roused. Each report, each despatch, each copy drew from him an exclamation of delight.
M. Bichet was wrong: my determination had been stirred. Each report, each message, each copy prompted an exclamation of joy from him.
"Really," he said, "really this is very good! Excellent, monsieur, excellent!... Your writing is the same style as Piron's, monsieur."
"Seriously," he said, "this is really good! Excellent, sir, excellent!... Your writing is just like Piron's, sir."
"The deuce! That is a fine compliment for me."
"The heck! That’s a nice compliment for me."
"You know Piron's handwriting? He was a copying clerk for five years in this Record Office, monsieur."
"You know Piron's handwriting? He worked as a copying clerk for five years in this Record Office, sir."
"Oh, indeed!... So my handwriting is like his?"
"Oh, really!... So my handwriting is like his?"
"You have another point in common with him, I hear."
"You have something else in common with him, I heard."
"What is that, monsieur?"
"What is that, sir?"
"You write poetry."
"You write poetry."
"Alas!..."
"Unfortunately!..."
He came up to me and said roguishly—
He walked up to me and said playfully—
"Are the poems you compose the same style of thing as his?"
"Are the poems you write the same type of thing as his?"
"No, monsieur."
"No, sir."
"Ah! I thought not. Piron was a gay young dog!... I saw him at Madame de Montesson's.... I suppose you never knew Madame de Montesson, did you?"
"Ah! I didn’t think so. Piron was a fun-loving guy!... I saw him at Madame de Montesson's.... I guess you never knew Madame de Montesson, did you?"
"Yes, I did, monsieur; my father took me to her house when I was quite a child."
"Yeah, I did, sir; my dad took me to her house when I was really young."
"She was a charming woman, monsieur, a charming woman, and she entertained the best society of Paris."
"She was an enchanting woman, sir, an enchanting woman, and she mingled with the finest circles in Paris."
"Now, monsieur," I asked, "will you please give me some fresh work?"
"Now, sir," I asked, "can you please give me some new tasks?"
"What work?"
"What's the job?"
"Why! any work."
"Why! Any work?"
"But there is no more to do!"
"But there's nothing more to do!"
"What! nothing else to do?"
"What! Is there nothing else?"
"No, since you have finished everything."
"No, since you’ve done everything."
"But what, then, am I to do?"
"But what am I supposed to do now?"
"Whatever you like, monsieur."
"Whatever you want, sir."
"Do you mean I am to do what I like?"
"Are you saying I can do what I want?"
"Yes ... until fresh work comes, when I will put it on your desk, and you can then set to work on it."
"Yes... until new work arrives, I'll place it on your desk, and then you can get started on it."
"And in my spare moments?..."
"And in my free time?..."
"Young man, young man! at your age you ought not to waste a single moment."
"Young man, young man! At your age, you shouldn’t waste a single moment."
"I am quite of your opinion, monsieur, and you will be convinced of my industry if you will let me finish...."
"I completely agree with you, sir, and you'll see how hard I've been working if you let me finish...."
"Ah! ah!"
"Whoa! Whoa!"
"I want to know if I may work at my tragedy in my spare time?"
"I want to know if I can work on my tragedy in my spare time?"
Notice that I said tragedy instead of drama; I did not wish to frighten M. Bichet.
Notice that I said tragedy instead of drama; I didn't want to scare M. Bichet.
"Are you composing a tragedy, then?" he said.
"Are you writing a tragedy, then?" he asked.
"Hum!... I do not know whether I ought to tell you."
"Um!... I’m not sure if I should tell you."
"Why not? I see no harm in it. My old friend Pieyre has written a comedy."
"Why not? I don’t see any harm in it. My old friend Pieyre has written a comedy."
"Yes, monsieur, and a very striking one it is: l'École des Pères."
"Yes, sir, and it really is quite striking: l'École des Pères."
"You know it?"
"Do you know it?"
"I have read it."
"I've read it."
"Good.... Then, too, another old friend of mine, Parseval de Grandmaison, writes epic poetry."
"Good.... Also, another old friend of mine, Parseval de Grandmaison, writes epic poetry."
"Yes—Philippe-Auguste, for instance."
"Yes—Philippe-Auguste, for example."
"You have read it?"
"Have you read it?"
"No, I confess I have not."
"No, I admit I haven't."
"Well then, let me say that although the one writes comedies and the other epic poems, they are none the less worthy men for all that."
"Well then, let me say that even though one writes comedies and the other epic poems, they are still worthy men regardless."
"On the contrary, monsieur, they are both excellent fellows."
"On the contrary, sir, they are both great guys."
"Have you met them?"
"Have you met them yet?"
"Never."
"Never."
"Hum ... Hum...."
"Uh ... Uh...."
And M. Bichet seemed to be thinking over something to himself.
And M. Bichet appeared to be deep in thought.
"Good!..." he said, after a moment's silence.
"Good!..." he said, after a brief pause.
"Then, monsieur, you have nothing more to say to me at present?"
"Then, sir, you don’t have anything else to say to me right now?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing."
"Of course I shall be at my desk, and if you want me...."
"Of course I'll be at my desk, and if you need me...."
"Certainly; you can go."
"Sure, you can go."
I resumed my seat with delight. Except for losing Lassagne and Ernest, my disgrace resolved itself into a privilege. The office-boy warned me that if I arrived before eleven o'clock, I should not find him there, and if I stayed past four he would lock me in when he went. So, no more portfolios to make up, all my evenings to myself, and a chief who did not prevent me from writing tragedies! And, forthwith, I set to work on Christine. I cannot say how long I had been working when the office-boy came to tell me that M. Bichet wanted me in his office. I went in at once. M. Bichet was not alone this time; on his right stood a short old man, and on his left a tall old man. As they stood there, the three judges, before whom I seemed about to be arraigned, looked not unlike Minis, Æacus and Rhadamanthus. I bowed, feeling considerably surprised.
I sat down again, feeling happy. Aside from losing Lassagne and Ernest, my embarrassment turned into a blessing. The office boy informed me that if I arrived before eleven, I wouldn’t find him there, and if I stayed past four, he would lock me in when he left. So, no more portfolios to prepare, all my evenings free, and a boss who didn't stop me from writing plays! And right away, I started working on Christine. I can’t say how long I had been writing when the office boy came to tell me that M. Bichet wanted to see me in his office. I went in right away. M. Bichet wasn’t alone this time; to his right was a short old man and to his left a tall old man. As they stood there, the three judges, before whom I felt like I was about to be judged, looked a bit like Minis, Æacus, and Rhadamanthus. I bowed, feeling quite surprised.
"See, there he is," said M. Bichet. "Upon my word, his handwriting is beautiful, it is exactly like Piron's, and he has done fifteen days' work in three."
"Look, there he is," said M. Bichet. "I swear, his handwriting is gorgeous; it’s just like Piron’s, and he’s done fifteen days' worth of work in just three."
"What did you tell me monsieur did besides?" asked the tall old man.
"What did you tell me the gentleman did besides?" asked the tall old man.
"Why, he writes poetry!"
"Wow, he writes poetry!"
"Ah! yes, quite so, poetry...."
"Ah! Yes, absolutely, poetry...."
A light dawned on me.
A realization struck me.
"Have I the honour of addressing M. Parseval de Grandmaison?" I asked.
"Do I have the honor of speaking to M. Parseval de Grandmaison?" I asked.
"Yes, monsieur," he replied.
"Yes, sir," he replied.
Then, turning to the other old gentleman, he said—
Then, turning to the other elderly man, he said—
"Only think, my dear Pieyre, I am so absent-minded, that the most extraordinary thing happened to me the other day."
"Just think, my dear Pieyre, I'm so scatterbrained that the craziest thing happened to me the other day."
"What was it?"
"What was that?"
"Just imagine! I forgot my own name."
"Can you believe it? I forgot my own name."
"Bah!" exclaimed M. Bichet.
"Ugh!" exclaimed M. Bichet.
"Your own name? Not your own name?" queried M. Pieyre.
"Your name? Not your name?" asked M. Pieyre.
"Yes, my name, my very own name! It was at the marriage contract of ... what's his name ... you know, who married the daughter of so and so...?"
"Yes, my name, my very own name! It was at the wedding contract of ... what's his name ... you know, who married so-and-so's daughter...?"
"How can I assist you on such slight information as that?"
"How can I help you with such little information?"
"Oh! dear, dear! the daughter of so and so ... who is my colleague at the Academy?... who writes comedies ... who wrote ... I cannot remember what it was.... A play that Mercier had already done; you know well enough?"
"Oh! dear, dear! The daughter of so and so ... who is my coworker at the Academy?... who writes comedies ... who wrote ... I can't remember what it was.... A play that Mercier had already done; you know that, right?"
"Alexandre Duval?..."
"Alex Duval?..."
"Yes, yes; it was at the signing of the contract of what's his name ... who married his daughter ... an architect ... who wrote a work on something ... that was burned ... in the eruption of Vesuvius, where somebody or other died...."
"Yeah, yeah; it was when they signed the contract of what's-his-name ... who married his daughter ... an architect ... who wrote something ... that got destroyed ... in the eruption of Vesuvius, where someone died...."
"Oh, yes! Marois, who wrote a work on Pompeii, where Pliny died?" I hazarded timidly.
"Oh, yes! Marois, who wrote a book on Pompeii, where Pliny died?" I ventured cautiously.
"That is exactly it!... Thanks, monsieur."
"That's it! Thanks, man."
And he quietly stretched himself back in his arm-chair, after having first made me a gracious bow.
And he calmly leaned back in his armchair after giving me a polite nod.
"Well then," said M. Bichet, "come, now finish your story, my dear friend."
"Well then," said M. Bichet, "go on, finish your story, my dear friend."
"What story?"
"What's the story?"
"Why, the story you were telling."
"Why, the story you were sharing."
"Was I telling a story?"
"Was I sharing a story?"
"Of course," said M. Pieyre; "you were relating, my dear friend, that at the signing of the marriage contract of Marois, who has married the daughter of Alexandre Duval, you had forgotten your name."
"Of course," said M. Pieyre; "you were saying, my dear friend, that at the signing of the marriage contract for Marois, who married the daughter of Alexandre Duval, you forgot your name."
"Oh yes, true.... Well then, this was it. Everybody[Pg 244] signed: then I said to myself, 'Now comes my turn to sign,' and I prepared to do so. I began to think what my name was and—the deuce! I couldn't remember it any longer! I thought I should be obliged to ask my neighbour what I was called, and how humiliating that would be to me. It was on the ground floor, and the door opened out on the garden. I hurried into the garden, striking my forehead and saying to myself, 'You rascal! you rascal! what is your name?' Yes, indeed, if I had but had to remember my name to save myself from being hanged I should have been hanged, right enough. Meanwhile my turn to sign had come, and people were searching for me. Alexandre Duval caught sight of me in the garden. 'Well, this is fine,' he said; 'there is that devil of a Parseval de Grandmaison overcome by a poetic seizure, just when he ought to be signing.... Here! Parseval de Grandmaison!' 'That is it,' I exclaimed, 'that is it: Parseval de Grandmaison! Parseval de Grandmaison! Parseval de Grandmaison!' and I went up to the table and signed."
"Oh yes, true.... Well then, this was it. Everybody[Pg 244] signed: then I thought to myself, 'Now it's my turn to sign,' and I got ready to do it. I started to think about what my name was and—the heck! I couldn't remember it anymore! I thought I might have to ask my neighbor what I was called, and how humiliating that would be for me. It was on the ground floor, and the door opened out to the garden. I rushed into the garden, hitting my forehead and muttering to myself, 'You fool! you fool! what is your name?' Yes, truly, if I had to remember my name to save myself from being hanged, I would have been hanged, no doubt about it. Meanwhile, my turn to sign had come, and people were looking for me. Alexandre Duval spotted me in the garden. 'Well, this is great,' he said; 'there's that devil Parseval de Grandmaison struck by a poetic moment, just when he should be signing.... Hey! Parseval de Grandmaison!' 'That's it,' I shouted, 'that's it: Parseval de Grandmaison! Parseval de Grandmaison! Parseval de Grandmaison!' and I walked up to the table and signed."
"That is just the scene needed in the Distrait," I said, smiling.
"That's exactly the scene needed in the Distrait," I said, smiling.
"Yes, monsieur, you are quite right, it does need it; and if you wrote poetry I should say to you 'Add it.'"
"Yes, sir, you’re absolutely right, it does need it; and if you wrote poetry, I would tell you 'Add it.'"
"But," M. Bichet interpolated, "he does write poetry, that was the very reason why you had him called in."
"But," M. Bichet interrupted, "he does write poetry; that's exactly why you brought him in."
"Ah, true, true!... Well then, young man, come, recite some of your lines to us."
"Ah, true, true!... Well then, young man, come on, share some of your lines with us."
"Something out of your tragedy."
"Something from your tragedy."
"Ah! you are writing a tragedy?"
"Ah! Are you writing a tragedy?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Yes, sir."
"What is your subject?" asked M. Parseval de Grandmaison.
"What’s your subject?" asked M. Parseval de Grandmaison.
"Christine...."
"Christine..."
"A good subject! Somebody has written one on the same theme.... Very poor! ah! very poor!"
"A great topic! Someone has written one on the same theme... Very lame! Ah! Very lame!"
"Pardon me, messieurs, I would much rather recite you something other than lines out of my tragedy." The lines of my tragedy were dramatic lines, which would probably not be very much to the taste of these gentlemen. "I would far rather," I added, "recite you an ode."
"Pardon me, gentlemen, I would much rather share something other than lines from my tragedy." The lines from my tragedy were dramatic, which would likely not appeal to these gentlemen. "I would much rather," I continued, "share with you an ode."
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Parseval de Grandmaison."
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Parseval de Grandmaison.
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Pieyre.
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Pieyre.
"Oh! oh! an ode!" said M. Bichet.
"Oh! oh! a poem!" said M. Bichet.
"Well, then, now for the ode," said M. Parseval. "What is it on, young man?"
"Alright, now let's hear the ode," said M. Parseval. "What's it about, young man?"
"You may remember that, for some time past, people have been much taken up with la Peyrouse? The papers have even lately been announcing that traces of the shipwreck have been found...."
"You might recall that for a while now, people have been really interested in la Peyrouse? Recently, the newspapers have been reporting that some signs of the shipwreck have been discovered...."
"Is that so?" asked M. Bichet.
"Is that so?" M. Bichet asked.
"Yes, it is," said M. Pieyre.
"Yes, it is," M. Pieyre said.
"I knew la Peyrouse well," said M. Parseval de Grandmaison.
"I knew la Peyrouse well," said M. Parseval de Grandmaison.
"I, too," said M. Pieyre.
"I, too," said M. Pieyre.
"I did not know her," said M. Bichet, "but I knew Piron."
"I didn't know her," said M. Bichet, "but I knew Piron."
"That is not the same thing," said M. Parseval.
"That's not the same thing," M. Parseval said.
"Let us have your ode, young man," said M. Pieyre.
"Let's hear your ode, young man," said M. Pieyre.
"This is it, monsieur, since you would like to hear it."
"This is it, sir, since you want to hear it."
"Come, come, don't be afraid," said old Bichet.
"Come on, don't be scared," said old Bichet.
I rallied all my powers, and in fairly confident tones I repeated the following lines, which I think may indicate that I had made some progress:—
I gathered all my strength, and in a pretty confident voice, I repeated these lines, which I believe show that I had made some progress:—
LA PEYROUSE
Le ciel est pur, la mer est belle!
Un vaisseau, près de fuir le port,
Tourmente son ancre rebelle,
Fixée au sable, qu'elle mord.
Il est impatient d'une onde
Plus agitée et plus profonde;
Le géant voudrait respirer!
Il lui faut pour air les tempêtes;
Il lui faut les combats pour fêtes,
Et l'Océan pour s'égarer.
Silencieux et solitaire,
Un homme est debout sur le pont,
Son regard, fixé vers la terre,
Trouve un regard qui lui répond.
[Pg 246]
Sur le rivage en vain la foule,
Comme un torrent, s'amasse et roule,
Il y suit des yeux de l'amour
Celle qui, du monde exilée,
Doit désormais, triste et voilée,
Attendre l'heure du retour.[1]
Son œil se trouble sous ses larmes,
Et, pourtant, ce fils des dangers
A vu de lointaines alarmes,
A vu des mondes étrangers:
Deux fois le cercle de la terre,
Découvrant pour lui son mystère,
Des bords glacés aux bords brûlants,
Sentit, comme un fer qui déchire,
La carène de son navire
Sillonner ses robustes flancs.
Et la fortune enchanteresse
Ne l'entraînait pas sur les flots;
L'espoir de la douce paresse
Ne berçait pas ses matelots.
Dédaigneux des biens des deux mondes,
Il ne fatiguait pas les ondes
Pour aller ravir, tour à tour,
L'or que voit germer le Potose
L'émeraude à Golconde éclose,
Et les perles de Visapour.
C'est une plus noble espérance
Qui soutient ses travaux divers.
Sa parole, au nom de la France,
Court interroger l'univers.
Il faut que l'univers réponde!
Dans son immensité féconde,
Peut-être cherche-t-il encor
Quelque désert âpre et sauvage,
Quelque délicieux rivage,
Que garde un autre Adamastor.
[Pg 247]
Il le trouvera! Mais silence!
Du canon le bruit a roulé;
Au haut du mât, qui se balance,
Un pavillon s'est déroulé.
Comme un coursier dans la carrière
Traîne un nuage de poussière
Que double sa rapidité,
Le vaisseau s'élance avec grâce,
A sa suite laissant pour trace
Un large sillon argenté.
Bientôt ses mâtures puissantes
Ne sont plus qu'un léger roseau;
Ses voiles flottent, blanchissantes,
Comme les ailes d'un oiseau.
Puis, sur la mouvante surface,
C'est un nuage qui s'efface,
Un point que devinent les yeux,
Qui s'éloigne, s'éloigne encore,
Ainsi qu'une ombre s'évapore ...
Et la mer se confond aux cieux.
Alors, lentement dans la foule,
Meurt le dernier cri du départ;
Silencieuse, elle s'écoule
En s'interrogeant du regard.
Puis l'ombre, à son tour descendue,
Occupe seule l'étendue.
Rien sur la mer, rien sur le port;
Au bruit monotone de l'onde,
Pas un bruit humain qui réponde:
L'univers fatigué s'endort!
Les ans passent, et leur silence
N'est interrompu quelquefois
Que par un long cri qui s'élance,
Proféré par cent mille voix.
On a, sur un lointain rivage,
Trouvé les débris d'un naufrage ...
Vaisseaux, volez sur cet écueil!
Les vaisseaux ont revu la France
Mais les signes de l'espérance
Sont changés en signes de deuil!
[Pg 248]
Hélas!... combien de fois, trompée,
La France reprit son espoir!
Tantôt, c'est un tronçon d'épée
Qu'aux mains d'un sauvage on crut voir;
Tantôt, c'est un vieil insulaire
Séduit par l'appât du salaire,
Qui se souvient, avec effort,
Que d'étrangers d'une autre race
Jadis il aperçut la trace
Dans une île ... là-bas ... au nord.
Que fais-tu loin de ta patrie,
Qui t'aimait entre ses enfants,
Lorsque, pour ta tête chérie,
Elle a des lauriers triomphants?
Pour toi, la mer s'est-elle ouverte?
Dors-tu sur un lit d'algues vertes?
Ou, par un destin plus fatal,
Sens-tu tes pesantes journées
Rouler sur ton front des années
Qu'ignore le pays natal?
Et, pourtant, te dictant ta route,
Un roi t'a tracé ton chemin;
Mais du ciel le pouvoir, sans doute,
A heurté le pouvoir humain.
Et, tandis qu'à leur ignorance
Du retour sourit l'espérance,
Dieu, sur les tables de la loi,
A deux différentes tempêtes
A déjà voué les deux têtes
Du navigateur et du roi!..."
LA PEYROUSE
The sky is clear, the sea is beautiful!
A ship, ready to leave the port,
Struggles with its unruly anchor,
Stuck in the sand, which it bites.
It’s eager for an ocean
That’s more restless and deeper;
The giant wants to breathe!
It needs storms for air;
It craves battles for celebrations,
And the Ocean to get lost in.
Silent and alone,
A man stands on the deck,
His gaze fixed toward the land,
Finds a gaze that responds.
[Pg 246]
On the shore, the crowd gathers in vain,
Like a torrent, it surges and rolls,
He watches with eyes full of love
The one who, exiled from the world,
Must now, sad and veiled,
Wait for the moment of return.[1]
His eye clouds with tears,
Yet, this son of dangers
Has seen distant alarms,
Has seen foreign worlds:
Twice around the globe,
Discovering its mystery for him,
From icy shores to burning coasts,
He felt, like a knife that tears,
The hull of his ship
Carving its strong sides.
And fortune’s enchantment
Didn’t sweep him across the waves;
The hope of sweet laziness
Didn’t lull his sailors.
Disdainful of the riches of both worlds,
He didn’t tire the waves
To go capture, one after another,
The gold that sprouts in Potosi,
The emerald blossoming in Golconda,
And the pearls of Visapur.
It’s a nobler hope
That drives his diverse labors.
His words, in the name of France,
Race to question the universe.
The universe must respond!
In its fruitful vastness,
Perhaps he’s still searching
For some harsh and wild desert,
Some delightful shore,
Guarded by another Adamastor.
[Pg 247]
He will find it! But silence!
The sound of the cannon has rolled;
At the top of the swaying mast,
A flag has unfurled.
Like a racehorse in the course,
Dragging a cloud of dust
That doubles its speed,
The ship leaps gracefully,
Leaving behind a wide silver trail.
Soon its powerful masts
Are nothing but a light reed;
Its sails float, white,
Like the wings of a bird.
Then, on the moving surface,
It’s a cloud that vanishes,
A point that eyes can barely see,
That drifts away, drifts away further,
Just like a shadow evaporates ...
And the sea blends into the skies.
Then, slowly in the crowd,
The last cry of departure fades;
Silently, it drifts away
While questioning with its gaze.
Then, the shadow, in turn, descends,
Occupying the vastness alone.
Nothing on the sea, nothing in the port;
To the monotonous sound of the waves,
Not a human sound to respond:
The tired universe falls asleep!
The years pass, and their silence
Is only occasionally broken
By a long cry that rises,
Spoken by a hundred thousand voices.
On a distant shore,
Debris from a shipwreck has been found ...
Ships, fly over this reef!
The ships have seen France again
But the signs of hope
Have turned into signs of mourning!
[Pg 248]
Alas!... how many times, deceived,
France has brought back her hope!
At times, it's a broken sword
That some thought they saw in a savage’s hand;
At times, it's an old islander
Tempted by the lure of reward,
Who remembers, with effort,
That he once saw traces of foreigners
In an island ... over there ... to the north.
What are you doing far from your homeland,
Which loved you among its children,
When, for your beloved head,
It has triumphant laurels?
Did the sea open for you?
Do you sleep on a bed of green seaweed?
Or, by a more fatal fate,
Do you feel your heavy days
Roll over your brow with years
Unknown to your native land?
And yet, guiding your route,
A king has marked your path;
But the power from the sky, undoubtedly,
Has clashed with human power.
And while, in their ignorance,
Hope of return smiles,
God, on the tablets of the law,
Has already condemned to two different storms
The heads of the navigator and the king!..."
I had followed with the closest attention the effect produced upon my hearers. M. Parseval blinked his eyelids and simply twirled his thumbs one round the other; M. Pieyre opened his eyes very wide and smiled, his mouth also wide open. Old Bichet, as curious as I was as to the impression I was making on his two friends, seeing that this impression was favourable, shook his head delightedly, saying under his breath—
I closely watched how my audience reacted. M. Parseval blinked and just twirled his thumbs around each other; M. Pieyre's eyes went wide, and he smiled with his mouth open. Old Bichet, just as curious as I was about the impression I was making on his two friends, noticed that they seemed pleased. He shook his head happily, murmuring under his breath—
"Just like Piron! Just like Piron!
Just like Piron! Just like Piron!
When I had finished, they burst out into applause, which was followed by all sorts of encouraging advice.
When I finished, they erupted into applause, followed by all kinds of supportive suggestions.
I did not know whether I stood on my head or my heels. Imagine the feelings of Ovid, exiled among the Thracians, when he found a sun more radiant than that at Rome, and on carpets of flowers more fragrant than those of Pæstum, under trees that lent a cooler shade than those by the Tiber, listened to the applause given his Tristia and his Metamorphoses. I gave thanks to the gods who, unsolicited, had granted me this moment of peace. We shall see that it was to be of but short duration.
I had no idea if I was upside down or right side up. Think about how Ovid felt, exiled among the Thracians, when he discovered a sun brighter than the one in Rome, and found flowers more fragrant than those in Pæstum, under trees that provided a cooler shade than those by the Tiber, listening to the applause for his Tristia and Metamorphoses. I thanked the gods who, without being asked, had given me this moment of peace. But it was clear that this peace wouldn’t last long.
[1] Madame de le Peyrouse avait promis à son mari de rester voilée jusqu'à son retour; madame de la Peyrouse a tenu parole, et a gardé son voile jusqu'à la mort.
[1] Madame de le Peyrouse promised her husband to remain veiled until his return; Madame de la Peyrouse kept her word and wore her veil until her death.
CHAPTER X
The painter Lethière—Brutus unveiled by M. Ponsard—Madame Hannemann—Gohier—Andrieux—Renaud—Desgenettes—Larrey, Augereau and the Egyptian mummy—Soldiers of the new school—My dramatic education—I enter the offices of the Forestry Department—The cupboard full of empty bottles—Three days away from the office—Am summoned before M. Deviolaine
The painter Lethière—Brutus as shown by M. Ponsard—Madame Hannemann—Gohier—Andrieux—Renaud—Desgenettes—Larrey, Augereau and the Egyptian mummy—Soldiers of the modern era—My drama training—I walk into the offices of the Forestry Department—The cabinet packed with empty bottles—Three days off from work—I'm called in front of M. Deviolaine
In the meantime, as I have stated, I had become master of my evenings as I had no longer to see after the portfolio, and I took advantage of my liberty to taste a little of life. My mother recollected an old friend of my father, and we ventured to call upon him. He belonged to the good-natured order of human beings, and gave us a warm welcome. He was the famous artist Lethière, painter of Brutus Condamnant ses fils, a heroism that always seemed to me a trifle too Spartan, but which M. Ponsard's Lucrèce has since made clearer to me. M. Ponsard was the first to reveal the great conjugal mystery that the sons of Brutus were not the sons of Brutus, but only the fruit of adultery: by beheading them Brutus exhibited revenge, not his devotion to them!
In the meantime, as I mentioned, I had taken control of my evenings since I no longer needed to manage the portfolio, and I used my newfound freedom to enjoy life a bit. My mother remembered an old friend of my father's, and we decided to visit him. He was one of those kind-hearted people and welcomed us warmly. He was the famous artist Lethière, the painter of Brutus Condamnant ses fils, a depiction of heroism that always seemed a bit too Spartan to me, but which M. Ponsard's Lucrèce has helped clarify. M. Ponsard was the first to reveal the significant marital mystery that Brutus’s sons were not actually his sons, but the result of an affair: by executing them, Brutus displayed revenge, not his devotion to them!
M. Ponsard, it will be noted, deserved not only to belong to the Academy, but also to the Suscriptions and Belles-Lettres. Well, my father's old friend was the painter of the fine picture entitled Brutus Condamnant ses fils. He had painted my father's portrait, representing him just as a horse had been shot dead under him by a cannon-ball; my father had also sat to him for the model of his Philoctète, in the Chamber of Deputies. We soon made ourselves known to him, and were received with open arms. He embraced both my mother and me, and invited us to look upon his house as[Pg 251] our own, particularly on Thursdays, when places should always be laid for us at his table. We were greatly delighted with the latter offer. I have no desire to hide from my readers that we were in a position to welcome the economy effected by the gain of a dinner not at our own expense! M. Lethière possessed fine talents, a kind heart and a winning manner. There lived with him then, as ruling spirit in his household, a young woman, fair, tall and thin, who nearly always dressed in black; her name was Mademoiselle d'Hervilly, and under that name she became known in painting and literature. She afterwards became Madame Hannemann, and under that name became known in the medical profession. Her nature was cold and very hard, but she possessed plenty of will-power. I believe Madame Hannemann, now a widow, is extremely wealthy. This lady, who was of a very superior character, did the honours of M. Lethière's house and entertained his old friends, several of whom had been old friends of my father. These old friends were: M. Gohier, past President of the Directoire; Andrieux, Desgenettes, an old painter named Renaud and several others.
M. Ponsard deserved not only to be a member of the Academy but also of the Subscriptions and Belles-Lettres. My father's old friend was the artist behind the beautiful painting titled Brutus Condamnant ses fils. He had also painted my father's portrait, capturing him right after a horse had been shot from under him by a cannonball; my father had sat for him to model his Philoctète in the Chamber of Deputies. We quickly introduced ourselves to him, and he welcomed us warmly. He embraced both my mother and me and invited us to consider his home as[Pg 251] our own, especially on Thursdays, when he would always set a place for us at his table. We were thrilled by this offer. I won’t hide from my readers that we were in a position to appreciate the savings made by having dinner without it costing us anything! M. Lethière was talented, kind-hearted, and had a charming personality. Living with him then was a young woman, tall, fair, and thin, who almost always wore black; her name was Mademoiselle d'Hervilly, and she became known in both painting and literature under that name. She later became Madame Hannemann and gained recognition in the medical field. Despite her cold and tough nature, she had a strong will. I believe Madame Hannemann, now a widow, is very wealthy. This remarkable woman hosted M. Lethière's gatherings and entertained his old friends, many of whom were longtime acquaintances of my father. These old friends included M. Gohier, a former President of the Directoire; Andrieux, Desgenettes, an older painter named Renaud, and several others.
Desgenettes, who had known my father very intimately in Egypt, at once made friendly overtures to me, and introduced me to Larrey.
Desgenettes, who had known my father really well in Egypt, immediately reached out to me in a friendly way and introduced me to Larrey.
I shall have occasion several times to refer to the latter gentleman and his son, who was one of my best friends. The Siege of Anvers in 1832 gloriously enabled him to prove himself a worthy son of his father.
I will have several chances to mention the latter gentleman and his son, who was one of my closest friends. The Siege of Antwerp in 1832 gave him a glorious opportunity to show that he was a worthy son of his father.
Of all these men, Gohier struck me as the most remarkable. Contrary to the laws of perspective, there are certain persons of ordinary calibre, who having, through stress of eventful circumstance, occupied high positions, loom larger in one's view the further away they recede. Now I could not help but look upon the man who had presided over Barras, Roger-Ducos, Moulin and Sièyes as worth notice; for, for the time being, he had been first of the five kings who had governed France. But I was deceived in my estimate of his greatness:[Pg 252] M. Gohier was a solid, worthy man who knew just so much of history as one cannot help learning, who knew nothing of politics and who possessed no depth of judgment. I cannot do better than compare him with our Boulay (de la Meurthe), whom history will enroll as having been three years Vice-President of the Republic, although he may pretend to have no idea of such a thing, even on 2 December! Gohier cordially detested Bonaparte; but his hatred was neither philosophical nor political, but wholly a personal matter. He could never forgive the future First Consul for the ridiculous part he had made him play on 18 Brumaire, by inviting him to lunch with Joséphine, and in inviting himself to dine at his house, whilst he was changing the whole Government.
Of all these men, Gohier stood out to me as the most notable. Contrary to what you might expect, some typically ordinary people, when placed in significant roles due to unique circumstances, seem to grow in importance the further away you get from them. I couldn't help but pay attention to the man who had been in charge of Barras, Roger-Ducos, Moulin, and Sièyes; for a time, he was the most prominent of the five leaders who ruled France. But I misjudged his significance: M. Gohier was a decent, respectable man who knew just enough history to get by, didn’t understand politics, and lacked depth of judgment. I can only compare him to our Boulay (de la Meurthe), who will be remembered as having served three years as Vice-President of the Republic, even if he pretends to be oblivious to it, even on 2 December! Gohier genuinely hated Bonaparte; however, his animosity was neither philosophical nor political but entirely personal. He could never forgive the future First Consul for the farcical role he had him play on 18 Brumaire, by inviting him to have lunch with Joséphine and then inviting himself to dinner at Gohier's house while he was completely overhauling the Government.
I need not draw the portrait of Andrieux: everybody knows that petty, old, shrivelled man, with his petty voice and his petty eyes, the author of petty fables and petty comedies and petty stories, who died at the age of eighty, leaving behind him a petty reputation after having raised petty hopes.
I don’t need to describe Andrieux: everyone knows that small, old, wrinkled man, with his small voice and small eyes, the writer of small fables and small comedies and small stories, who died at eighty, leaving behind a small reputation after having raised small hopes.
Renaud was an old artist who had once painted a picture that was thought well of, the Jeunesse d'Achille. He had grown old in painting the nude. And in his old age he painted nothing but the Graces, naiads and nymphs, turning to the public their ... blue and rosy backs.
Renaud was an older artist who once created a painting that was highly regarded, the Jeunesse d'Achille. He had spent his life painting nudes. In his later years, he only painted the Graces, naiads, and nymphs, showing the public their ... blue and rosy backs.
Desgenettes was an old libertine of an extremely quick-witted and very cynical turn of mind, half soldier, half doctor, very fond of the real flesh-and-blood goddesses that old Renaud was so fond of copying; he would relate in season and out" the broadest and most immodest of stories, with great glee. There was much of the eighteenth century about him.
Desgenettes was an old libertine with an extremely sharp wit and a very cynical mindset, half soldier, half doctor, and very fond of the real flesh-and-blood goddesses that old Renaud liked to imitate; he would tell the broadest and most risqué stories, in any situation, with great delight. He had a lot of the eighteenth century in him.
Larrey, on the contrary, was austerely puritanic in appearance. He wore his hair quite long, trimmed after the fashion of Merovingian princes: he spoke slowly and seriously. The emperor was said to have spoken of him as the most honest man he ever knew. Apart from the influence of[Pg 253] sincere kindliness that he diffused among young people, Larrey presented a curious study to us all. He had known every celebrated personage of the Empire; and he had cut off most of the arms and legs that needed amputation; he had collected much curious information indicative of character or of the secrets of the soul, by listening to the first words of the wounded and the last words of the dying. He would sometimes relate anecdotes which, without any malicious intention, gave one an idea of the ignorance of those decorated and beplumed warriors, who were in the main lion-hearted, but also, for the most part, of dull intellect, and infinitely less brilliant in any drawing-room than on a battlefield. When Larrey returned from Egypt he brought back a curiosity that is not thought much of nowadays, in the shape of a mummy, but which at that time raised scientific curiosity to the highest pitch. When he met Augereau, he said to him—
Larrey, on the other hand, had a strictly puritanical appearance. He wore his hair quite long, styled like that of Merovingian princes; he spoke slowly and seriously. People claimed the emperor said he was the most honest man he ever knew. Besides the influence of[Pg 253] the sincere kindness he shared with young people, Larrey was a fascinating case to us all. He had known every famous figure of the Empire and had performed most of the amputations needed. He collected a lot of interesting insights about character and the secrets of the soul by listening to the first words of the wounded and the last words of the dying. Sometimes he would share anecdotes that, without any malice, highlighted the ignorance of those decorated and feathered warriors, who were mostly brave but generally dull-witted, and much less charming in any social setting than on the battlefield. When Larrey came back from Egypt, he brought a curiosity that isn't valued much today, in the form of a mummy, but at that time it sparked immense scientific interest. When he met Augereau, he said to him—
"Ah! come now and dine with me to-morrow; I will show you a mummy I have brought back from the Pyramids."
"Hey! Come and have dinner with me tomorrow; I’ll show you a mummy I brought back from the Pyramids."
"With pleasure," Augereau replied; and he went next day to dinner.
"Sure," Augereau replied, and he went to dinner the next day.
"Well," he said at dessert, "why have we not seen that mummy yet?"
"Well," he said during dessert, "why haven't we seen that mummy yet?"
"Because it is in my study," said Larrey. "Follow me, and you shall see it."
"Because it's in my office," said Larrey. "Follow me, and you'll see it."
Larrey led the way, Augereau following full of curiosity. When they reached the study, Larrey went to the box, which was leaning up against the wall, opened it, and revealed the mummy. Then Augereau approached and touched it with his finger.
Larrey took the lead, with Augereau following, filled with curiosity. When they arrived at the study, Larrey walked over to the box propped against the wall, opened it, and showed the mummy inside. Augereau then stepped closer and touched it with his finger.
"I declare," he exclaimed contemptuously, "it is dead!"
"I declare," he said with disdain, "it's dead!"
Larrey was so astonished by this exclamation that he did not even bethink himself to offer apologies to Augereau for having disturbed him to look at so uninteresting an object as a dead mummy.
Larrey was so shocked by this exclamation that he didn't even think to apologize to Augereau for bothering him to look at such an uninteresting thing as a dead mummy.
But throughout that period everybody was literary, not in themselves, or from choice, but from tradition. No one had yet forgotten that Bonaparte had signed his own proclamations[Pg 254] to the Army of Egypt, and that Napoleon had accosted M. de Fontanes every time he met him with the question—
But during that time, everyone was into literature, not because they wanted to be or by choice, but because it was just the norm. No one had forgotten that Bonaparte had personally signed his own proclamations[Pg 254] to the Army of Egypt, and that Napoleon would greet M. de Fontanes every time they ran into each other with the question—
"Well, Monsieur de Fontanes, have you found me a poet?"
"Well, Mr. de Fontanes, have you found me a poet?"
But the day and the appointed hour had come for all those poets who had escaped the notice of M. de Fontanes and Napoleon's munificent offers. They were springing up, blossoming and glowing like hawthorn in the month of May; and their names had already begun to give promise of the immense sensation they were to create in the future. Their names were Lamartine, Hugo, de Vigny, Sainte-Beuve, Méry, Soulié, Barbier, Alfred de Musset, Balzac; these were already filling, at the cost of their heart's blood, that great and unique stream of poetry from which France and Europe and the whole world were to drink during the nineteenth century.
But the day and the scheduled time had arrived for all the poets who had gone unnoticed by M. de Fontanes and Napoleon's generous offers. They were popping up, blooming, and shining like hawthorn in May; their names were already starting to hint at the massive impact they would create in the future. Their names were Lamartine, Hugo, de Vigny, Sainte-Beuve, Méry, Soulié, Barbier, Alfred de Musset, Balzac; they were already contributing, at the cost of their own struggles, to that great and unique stream of poetry from which France, Europe, and the entire world would draw in the nineteenth century.
But the movement was taking place not only amidst that pléiade which I have just named; a whole host of others was fighting, each helping forward the general cause by separate attacks, to make a breach in the walls of the old school of poetry. Dittmer and Cavé were publishing the Soirées de Neuilly; Vitet, the Barricades and the États de Blois; Mérimée the Théâtre de Clara Gazul. And note carefully that all these movements took place away from the stage whereon the real struggle took place, and apart from its manifestations. The real struggle was that in which I, and Victor Hugo (I put myself first for chronological reasons) were to take part. I was preparing for it not only by the continuation of my Christine, but still more by studying humanity as a whole, combined with individual characterisations.
But the movement was happening not just among the group I just mentioned; a whole lot of others were also contributing, each pushing the overall cause forward with separate efforts to break down the walls of the old school of poetry. Dittmer and Cavé were publishing the Soirées de Neuilly; Vitet, the Barricades and the États de Blois; Mérimée the Théâtre de Clara Gazul. And keep in mind that all these movements were happening away from the stage where the real struggle was taking place, separate from its expressions. The real struggle was the one in which I, along with Victor Hugo (I mention myself first for chronological reasons), would be involved. I was preparing for it not only by continuing my Christine, but even more by studying humanity as a whole, along with individual characteristics.
I have referred to the immense service the English actors had done me; Macready, Kean, Young had in turn completed the work begun by Kemble and Miss Smithson. I had seen Hamlet, Romeo, Shylock, Othello, Richard III. and Macbeth. I had read and devoured not only the whole of Shakespeare, but even the whole of the foreign dramatic output. I had recognised that, in the theatrical world, everything emanated from Shakespeare, just as in the external world[Pg 255] everything owes its existence to the sun; that nothing could be compared with him; for, coming before everyone else, he was yet as supreme in tragedy as Corneille, in comedy as Molière, as original as Calderon, as full of thought as Goethe, as passionate as Schiller. I realised that his works contained as many types as the works of all the others put together. I recognised, in short, that, after the Creator Himself, Shakespeare had created more than any other being. As I have stated, when I saw these English artists, actors who forgot that they were on a stage,—the life of the imagination became actual life through the power of Art; their convincing words and gestures seeming to transform them from actors into creatures of God, with their virtues and their vices, their passions and their failings,—from that moment my career was decided. I felt I had received that special call which comes to every man. I felt a confidence in my own powers that I had lacked until then, and I boldly hurled myself upon the unknown future that had hitherto held such terrors for me. But, at the same time, I did not disguise from myself the difficulties in the way of the career to which I had devoted my life; I knew that it would require deeper and more special study than any other profession; that before I could experiment successfully on living nature I must first perseveringly study the works of others. So I did not rest satisfied with a superficial study. One after the other, I took the works of men of genius, like Shakespeare, Molière, Corneille, Calderon, Goethe and Schiller, laid them out as bodies on a dissecting table, and, scalpel in hand, I spent whole nights in probing them to the heart in order to find the sources of life and the secret of the circulation of their blood. And after a while I discovered with what admirable science they galvanised nerve and muscle into life, and by what skill they modelled the differing types of flesh that were destined to cover the one unchangeable human framework of bone. For man does not invent. God has given the created world into his hands, and left him to apply it to his needs. Progress simply means the daily, monthly and everlasting conquest of man over matter. Each individual[Pg 256] as he appears on the scene takes possession of the knowledge of his fathers, works it up in different ways, and then dies after he has added one ray more to the sum of human knowledge which he bequeaths to his sons,—one star in the Milky Way! I was then not only trying to complete my dramatic work but also my dramatic education. But that is an error, one's work may be finished some day, but one's education never!
I have mentioned the incredible support the English actors gave me; Macready, Kean, and Young had each built on the work started by Kemble and Miss Smithson. I had seen Hamlet, Romeo, Shylock, Othello, Richard III., and Macbeth. I had read and absorbed not only all of Shakespeare's works but also the entire foreign dramatic output. I realized that in the theater, everything stems from Shakespeare, just as in the outside world everything depends on the sun; nothing compares to him; for, leading the way, he was as dominant in tragedy as Corneille, in comedy as Molière, as original as Calderon, as thoughtful as Goethe, and as passionate as Schiller. I understood that his works contained as many character types as all the others combined. Ultimately, I recognized that, after the Creator Himself, Shakespeare had produced more than anyone else. As I mentioned, when I witnessed these English artists, actors who forgot they were on stage—the life of imagination became real life through the power of Art; their convincing words and gestures made them feel like beings created by God, with their virtues and vices, their passions and flaws—from that moment, my career was set. I felt I had received that special calling that comes to everyone. I felt a confidence in my own abilities that I had not felt before, and I boldly plunged into the unknown future that had previously terrified me. But at the same time, I didn’t kid myself about the challenges ahead in the career I had chosen; I knew it would require deeper and more specialized study than any other profession; that before I could successfully experiment with living nature, I had to diligently study the works of others first. So, I didn’t settle for a shallow understanding. One by one, I took the works of great minds like Shakespeare, Molière, Corneille, Calderon, Goethe, and Schiller, laid them out as if on a dissecting table, and, scalpel in hand, spent whole nights probing deep to discover the sources of life and the secret of their vitality. Over time, I learned how skillfully they animated nerve and muscle, and how they crafted different types of flesh to cover the unchanging human structure of bone. For man does not create. God has given the created world to him, allowing him to use it for his needs. Progress simply means humanity’s daily, monthly, and everlasting conquest over matter. Each person who appears on stage inherits the knowledge of their ancestors, reworks it in new ways, and then passes on a little more knowledge to their descendants—one more star in the Milky Way! I was then not only trying to complete my dramatic work but also my dramatic education. But that's a mistake; while a person's work may someday be complete, their education never is!
I had just about concluded my play, after two months' peace and encouragement in my humble post in the Archives Office, when I received notice from the Secretariat that, as my position was almost a sinecure, it had been done away with, and that I must hold myself ready to enter the Forestry Department—under M. Deviolaine. So the storm that had been hanging over my head for long had burst at last. I said good-bye to old father Bichet with tears in my eyes, and to his two friends MM. Pieyre and Parseval de Grandmaison, who promised to follow my career with sympathetic interest wherever I might be. The reader knows M. Deviolaine. During the five years I had been in the Government offices I had been looked upon as a bête-noir, so I entered upon my new official work under no very favourable auspices.
I was just about done with my play, after two months of peace and support in my modest role at the Archives Office, when I got a notice from the Secretariat saying that, since my position was basically pointless, it had been eliminated, and I needed to prepare to move to the Forestry Department—under M. Deviolaine. So, the storm that had been looming over me for a long time had finally hit. I said goodbye to old father Bichet with tears in my eyes, and to his two friends, MM. Pieyre and Parseval de Grandmaison, who promised to keep an eye on my career with interest no matter where I ended up. The reader knows M. Deviolaine. During the five years I had spent in the Government offices, I had been seen as a bête-noir, so I started my new official job under pretty unfavorable circumstances.
The struggle began immediately I took up my new duties. They wanted to herd me together with five or six of my fellow-clerks in one large room, and I revolted against the proceeding. My companions were good enough to explain to me in all innocence that they found it an advantageous way of killing time—that deadly enemy to employés—to sit together, for then they could talk. Now, talk was just what I most dreaded; to them it was a pleasure, to me a torture, for chattering distracted my own ever-increasing imaginative ideas. No, instead of wanting to be in this big office, strewn thick with supernumeraries, clerks and assistants, I had my eye on a sort of recess separated by a simple partition from the office-boy's cubicle, and in which he kept the ink-bottles that were returned to him empty. I asked if I might take possession of this place. I might as well have asked for the[Pg 257] archbishopric of Cambrai, which was just vacant. A fearful clamour went up at this demand, from the office boy to the head of the department (directeur général). The office boy asked the clerks in the big room where he could put his empty bottles henceforth; the clerks in the big room asked the assistant head clerk (the one who had never heard of Byron) whether I thought myself too good to work with them; the assistant head clerk asked the chief clerk whether I had come to the Forestry Department to give or to receive orders; the chief clerk asked the head of the department if it were usual for a clerk paid fifteen hundred francs to have an office to himself, as though he were a head clerk at four thousand. The head of the department replied that it was not only absolutely contrary to administrative customs, but that no such precedent would be allowed me, and that my claim was most presumptuous! I was trying to fit myself into the unlucky recess which, for the moment, formed the sum of my ambition, when the head clerk walked haughtily from the office of the head of the department, bearing the verbal command that the rebellious employé, who had dared for one moment to entertain the ambitious hope of leaving the ordinary ranks, should at once return to his place there. He transmitted the order immediately to the assistant head clerk, who passed it on to the ordinary clerks of the large office, who transmitted it to the office boy! There was joy throughout the department: a fellow-clerk was to be humiliated and, if he did not take his humiliation in a humble spirit, he I would lose his situation! The office boy opened the door between his cubicle and mine; he had just come from making a general clearance throughout the office and had brought back all the empty bottles he could manage to unearth.
The struggle began as soon as I started my new job. They wanted to cram me in with five or six of my fellow clerks in one big room, and I completely resisted this idea. My coworkers innocently explained to me that they found it helpful to sit together to kill time—an enemy to employees—because then they could chat. But chatting was exactly what I dreaded the most; for them, it was a pleasure, but for me, it was torture, as their talking distracted me from my ever-expanding imagination. No, instead of wanting to be in this crowded office filled with extra staff, clerks, and assistants, I had my eye on a little nook separated by a simple partition from the office boy's cubicle, where he kept the empty ink bottles. I asked if I could take that spot. I might as well have asked for the [Pg 257] archbishopric of Cambrai, which had just become available. A huge uproar erupted at my request, from the office boy up to the head of the department (directeur général). The office boy asked the clerks in the big room where he could put his empty bottles from now on; the clerks in the big room asked the assistant head clerk (the one who had never heard of Byron) if I thought I was too good to work with them; the assistant head clerk asked the chief clerk if I came to the Forestry Department to give orders or take them; the chief clerk asked the head of the department if it was normal for a clerk making fifteen hundred francs to have an office to himself, like a head clerk earning four thousand. The head of the department responded that it was not only completely against administrative customs but also that no such precedent would be set for me, and that my request was very presumptuous! I was trying to squeeze myself into that unfortunate nook, which was the extent of my ambition at that point, when the head clerk walked out of the head of the department's office with the verbal command that the defiant employee, who had dared to entertain the ambitious thought of rising above the ordinary ranks, should immediately return to his place there. He relayed the order right away to the assistant head clerk, who passed it on to the regular clerks in the large office, who then communicated it to the office boy! There was joy throughout the department: a fellow clerk was about to be humiliated, and if he didn't take his humiliation well, he would lose his job! The office boy opened the door between his cubicle and mine; he had just finished clearing out the office and had brought back all the empty bottles he could find.
"But, my dear Féresse," I said, watching him uneasily, "how do you think I can manage here with all those bottles, or, rather, how are all those bottles going to fit in with me,—unless I live in one of them, after the style of le Diable boiteux?"
"But, my dear Féresse," I said, watching him anxiously, "how do you think I can handle all these bottles here, or rather, how are all these bottles going to fit in with me—unless I end up living in one of them, like le Diable boiteux?"
"That's just it!" leered Féresse, as he deposited fresh bottles by the old ones. "M. le Directeur général does not look upon it in that light: he wishes me to keep this room for myself, and does not intend a new-comer to lay down the law."
"That's exactly it!" sneered Féresse, as he placed new bottles next to the old ones. "M. le Directeur général does not see it that way: he wants me to keep this room for myself and doesn’t plan for a newcomer to dictate what happens."
I walked up to him, the blood mantling my face.
I walked up to him, blood covering my face.
"The new-comer, however insignificant he may be, is still your superior," I said; "so you should speak to him with your head uncovered. Take your cap off, you young cub!"
"The newcomer, no matter how unimportant he seems, is still your superior," I said; "so you should talk to him with your head bare. Take off your cap, you young punk!"
And, at the same moment, I gave the lad a back-hander that sent his hat flying against the wall, and took my departure. All this happened in the absence of M. Deviolaine; therefore I had not the last word in the matter. M. Deviolaine would not return for two or three days; so I decided to go home to my poor mother, and there await his return. But, before I left the office, I went and told Oudard all that had happened, who said he could not do anything in the matter, and I told M. Pieyre, who said that he could not do much. My mother was in a state of despair: it reminded her too much of my return home from Maître Lefèvre's in 1823. She rushed off to Madame Deviolaine. Madame Deviolaine was an excellent woman but narrow-minded, and she could not understand why a clerk should have any other ambition beyond that of ultimately becoming a first class clerk; why a first class clerk should desire to become anything beyond an assistant chief clerk; why an assistant chief clerk should have any other ambition than that of becoming chief clerk, and so forth. So she did not hold out any promises to my mother; for that matter, the poor woman had not much influence over her husband, as she well knew, and she but rarely tried to exercise what little she did possess. Meanwhile, I had begged Porcher to come to our house. I showed him my almost completed tragedy, and I asked him whether, in case of adverse circumstances, he would advance me a certain sum.
And at that moment, I gave the kid a slap that sent his hat flying against the wall, and I left. This all happened while M. Deviolaine was away, so I didn’t get the final say. He wouldn’t be back for two or three days, so I decided to go home to my poor mother and wait for his return there. Before leaving the office, I told Oudard everything that happened, but he said he couldn’t do anything about it. I also informed M. Pieyre, who said he couldn’t do much either. My mother was in a state of despair; it reminded her too much of my return home from Maître Lefèvre's in 1823. She rushed off to see Madame Deviolaine. Madame Deviolaine was a good woman but narrow-minded, and she couldn’t understand why a clerk would have any ambition beyond becoming a first-class clerk; why a first-class clerk would want to be anything beyond an assistant chief clerk; why an assistant chief clerk would aspire to become chief clerk, and so on. So, she didn’t make any promises to my mother; for that matter, the poor woman didn't have much influence over her husband, as she knew well, and she rarely tried to use the little influence she had. In the meantime, I had asked Porcher to come to our house. I showed him my nearly finished tragedy and asked him if he would advance me a certain sum in case things went south.
"Confound it!" Porcher replied—"a tragedy!... If it had been a vaudeville I do not say but that I would!... However, get it received and we will see."
"Dammit!" Porcher replied—"a tragedy!... If it had been a comedy show, I wouldn’t say no!... Anyway, get it accepted and we’ll see."
"Get it received!" Therein, of course, lay the whole question.
"Get it received!" That was the main issue.
My mother returned at that moment, and Porcher's answer was not of the kind to reassure her. I wrote to M. Deviolaine, and begged that my letter might be given him on his return; then I waited. We spent three days of suspense; but during those three days I stayed in bed and worked incessantly. Why did I stop in bed? That requires an explanation. Whilst I was at the Secretariat, and had to be at the office from ten in the morning until five in the evening, returning there from eight until ten o'clock, I had to traverse the distance between the faubourg Saint-Denis No. 53 to the rue Saint-Honoré No. 216, eight times a day, and I was so tired out that I could rarely work if I sat up. So I went to bed and slept, first putting my work on the table near my bed; I slept for two hours, and then at midnight my mother woke me and went to sleep in her turn. That was the reason I worked in bed. This habit of working in bed attained such hold of me that I kept it up long after I had gained freedom of action, doing all my theatrical work thus. Perhaps this revelation may satisfy those physiologists who dilated upon the kind of rude passion which has been noted in my earliest works, and with which, perhaps not unreasonably, I have been reproached. I contracted another habit, too, at that time, and that was to write my dramas in a backward style of handwriting: this habit I never lost, like the other, and to this day I have one style of handwriting for my dramas and another for my romances. During those three days I made immense progress with Christine. On the fourth day, I received a letter from M. Deviolaine, summoning me to his office. I hurried there, and this time my heart did not beat any the faster; I had faced the worst that could happen and I was prepared for anything.
My mom came back at that moment, and Porcher's response didn’t help her feel better. I wrote to M. Deviolaine and asked that my letter be given to him when he returned; then I waited. We spent three days in suspense, but during those three days I stayed in bed and worked nonstop. Why did I stay in bed? That needs some explanation. When I was at the Secretariat, I had to be in the office from ten in the morning until five in the evening, returning from eight until ten at night, and I had to travel the distance from faubourg Saint-Denis No. 53 to rue Saint-Honoré No. 216, eight times a day. I was so exhausted that I could hardly work sitting up. So, I went to bed and slept, first placing my work on the table next to my bed; I slept for two hours, and then at midnight my mom woke me up and went to sleep herself. That’s why I worked in bed. This habit of working in bed became so ingrained in me that I kept it up long after I had gained my freedom, doing all my theatrical work this way. Maybe this will satisfy those physiologists who have commented on the kind of raw passion noted in my early works, and with which I’ve been unfairly criticized. I also picked up another habit at that time, which was writing my plays in a backward style of handwriting: this habit never left me, just like the other one, and to this day I have one style of handwriting for my plays and another for my novels. During those three days, I made huge progress with Christine. On the fourth day, I received a letter from M. Deviolaine, asking me to come to his office. I rushed there, and this time my heart didn’t race any faster; I had faced the worst that could happen and was ready for anything.
"Ah! there you are, you cursed blockhead!" cried M. Deviolaine, when he saw me.
"Ah! There you are, you stupid idiot!" shouted M. Deviolaine when he saw me.
"Yes, monsieur, here I am."
"Yes, sir, here I am."
"So! so, monsieur!"
"So, sir!"
I made no reply.
I didn't respond.
"So we are too grand a lord to work with ordinary mortals?" M. Deviolaine continued.
"So we're too important to deal with regular people?" M. Deviolaine continued.
"You are mistaken ... quite the contrary. I am not a sufficiently grand lord to work with the others, that is why I want to work alone."
"You’re wrong ... actually, it’s the opposite. I’m not important enough to collaborate with the others, which is why I prefer to work on my own."
"And you ask for an office to yourself, on purpose to do nothing in it but to write your dirty plays?"
"And you want an office to yourself just so you can do nothing in it except write your sleazy scripts?"
"I ask for an office to myself so that I can have the right to think while I am working."
"I request my own office so that I can have the space to think while I work."
"And if I do not let you have an office to yourself?"
"And what if I don't give you an office to yourself?"
"I shall try to earn my living as an author. You know I have no other resource."
"I'll try to make a living as a writer. You know I have no other options."
"And if I do not immediately send you packing, you may be very sure it is for your mother's sake and not for your own."
"And if I don't kick you out right away, you can be sure it's because of your mother and not because of you."
"I am fully aware of that, and I am grateful to you on my mother's account."
"I completely understand that, and I appreciate you on my mother's behalf."
"Very well, take your office to yourself, then; but I give you warning that...."
"Alright, go ahead and take your office for yourself; but I want to warn you that...."
"You will give me double the work of any other clerk?"
"You want me to do twice the work of any other clerk?"
"Exactly so."
"That's right."
"It will be unjust, that is all; but, since I am not the stronger, I shall submit."
"It will be unfair, that's all; but since I'm not the stronger one, I'll go along with it."
"Unjust! unjust!" shrieked M. Deviolaine. "I would have you know that I have never done an unjust thing in my life."
"Unfair! Unfair!" yelled M. Deviolaine. "I want you to know that I have never done anything unfair in my life."
"It would seem there is a beginning for everything."
"It seems like there's a start to everything."
"Did you ever see—oh, did you ever see such a young rip!" continued M. Deviolaine, as he paced up and down his office,—"did you ever see! did you ever see!..."
"Have you ever seen—oh, have you ever seen such a young troublemaker!" continued M. Deviolaine, as he walked back and forth in his office—"have you ever seen! have you ever seen!..."
Then, turning to me again, he said—
Then, turning to me again, he said—
"Very well, I will not treat you unjustly; no, indeed no, you shall not have more work to do than the others; but you shall have as much, and you shall be watched to see that you get through it! M. Fossier shall receive orders from me to carry out this inspection."
"Alright, I won’t treat you unfairly; no, really, you won’t have more work than the others; you’ll have the same amount, and we’ll keep an eye on you to make sure you finish it! M. Fossier will get instructions from me to handle this oversight."
I moved my lips.
I parted my lips.
"What next! Have you something now to say against M. Fossier?"
"What’s next? Do you have something to say against M. Fossier now?"
"No, only that I think him ugly."
"No, I just think he's ugly."
"Well, what then?"
"Okay, so what now?"
"Why, I would much rather he were good-looking, on his own account first and also on my own."
"Honestly, I’d prefer if he were good-looking, both for his sake and for mine."
"But what does it matter to you whether M. Fossier be ugly or beautiful?"
"But why does it matter to you if M. Fossier is ugly or beautiful?"
"If I have to meet a face three or four times in a day I should much prefer it to be agreeable rather than disagreeable."
"If I have to see the same person three or four times in a day, I’d much rather it be someone pleasant than someone unpleasant."
"Well, I never met such a cursed young puppy in all my days! You will soon want me to choose my head clerks to suit your taste!... Get out! Go back to your office, and try to make up for lost time."
"Well, I've never encountered such a troublesome young puppy in all my life! You’ll soon want me to pick my head clerks based on your preferences!... Leave! Go back to your office, and try to make up for lost time."
"I will do so; but, first, I want to ask a promise from you, monsieur."
"I'll do that; but first, I want to ask you for a promise, sir."
"Well, upon my word, if he isn't actually going to impose his own conditions on me!"
"Well, I can't believe he's actually going to set his own terms for me!"
"You will accept this one, I am sure."
"You'll accept this one, I'm sure."
"Now, what do you wish, Monsieur le poëte?"
"Now, what do you want, Mr. Poet?"
"I should like you yourself each day to overlook the work I have done and see how I have done it."
"I would like you to review my work every day and see how I've done it."
"Well, I promise you that.... And when is the first performance to take place?"
"Well, I promise you that.... And when is the first performance happening?"
"I can hardly tell you; but I am very sure you will be present at it!"
"I can barely explain, but I'm pretty sure you’ll be there!"
"Yes, I will be there, in more senses than one; you may be quite easy on that score.... Now, go and behave yourself!"
"Yes, I’ll be there, in more ways than one; you can relax about that.... Now, go and act properly!"
And he made a threatening gesture, upon which I went out.
And he made a threatening gesture, which caused me to leave.
M. Deviolaine kept his word to me. He gave me plenty of work to do without overdoing me. But, as he had promised, M. Fossier always came and brought the work to me himself, and if, by ill luck, I was not at my desk, M. Deviolaine was instantly informed of my absence.
M. Deviolaine kept his promise to me. He gave me a lot of work without overwhelming me. But, as he had promised, M. Fossier always came and delivered the work to me personally, and if, by bad luck, I wasn't at my desk, M. Deviolaine was immediately notified of my absence.
CHAPTER XI
Conclusion of Christine—A patron, after a fashion—Nodier recommends me to Taylor—The Royal Commissary and the author of Hécube—Semi-official reading before Taylor—Official reading before the Committee—I am received with acclamation—The intoxication of success—How history is written—M. Deviolaine's incredulity—Picard's opinions concerning my play—Nodier's opinion—Second reading at the Théâtre-Français and definite acceptance
Conclusion of Christine—A kind of sponsor—Nodier advises me to contact Taylor—The Royal Commissary and the author of Hécube—Initial reading for Taylor—Formal reading for the Committee—I receive a warm welcome—The excitement of success—How history is documented—M. Deviolaine's skepticism—Picard's opinions on my play—Nodier's insights—Second reading at the Théâtre-Français and final endorsement
But none of these hindrances prevented me from finishing Christine. I had, however, scarcely written the famous last line—
But none of these obstacles stopped me from finishing Christine. I had, however, barely written the famous last line—
"Eh bien, j'en ai pitié, mon père ... Qu'on l'achève!"
"Well, I pity him, my father... Let's put him out of his misery!"
when I found myself in as embarrassing a situation as any poor girl who has just given birth to a child outside the pale of legitimate matrimony. What was I to do with this bastard child of my creation, born outside the gates of the Institute and the Academy? Was I to stifle her as I had smothered her elders? That would have been hard lines indeed! Besides, this little girl was strong, and quite capable of living; it seemed good, therefore, to acknowledge her; but first it was necessary to find a theatre to receive her, actors to clothe her and a public to adopt her!
when I found myself in as embarrassing a situation as any girl who has just given birth to a child out of wedlock. What was I supposed to do with this child I brought into the world, born outside the gates of the Institute and the Academy? Was I meant to ignore her like I had with her predecessors? That would have been incredibly tough! Plus, this little girl was strong and definitely capable of surviving; it seemed right to acknowledge her. But first, I needed to find a place to showcase her, people to support her, and an audience to accept her!
Oh! if only Talma were living! But Talma was dead and I did not know anyone at the Théâtre-Français. Perhaps it might be possible for me to manage it through M. Arnault. But he would ask to see the work on behalf of which his services were requested, and he would not have read ten lines before he would fling it as far from him as poor M. Drake had the rattlesnake that bit him at Rouen.[Pg 263] I went to look for Oudard. I told him that my play was completed and I boldly asked him for a letter of introduction to the Théâtre-Français. Oudard refused under pretence that he did not know anyone there. I had the courage to tell him that his introduction as head of the Secretariat of the Duc d'Orléans would be all-powerful.
Oh! If only Talma were alive! But Talma was gone, and I didn’t know anyone at the Théâtre-Français. Maybe I could get something done through M. Arnault. But he would want to see the work for which he was being asked to help, and it wouldn’t take more than ten lines before he’d throw it away like poor M. Drake did with the rattlesnake that bit him in Rouen.[Pg 263] I went to find Oudard. I told him that my play was finished and boldly asked him for a letter of introduction to the Théâtre-Français. Oudard refused, claiming he didn’t know anyone there. I had the nerve to tell him that his introduction as the head of the Secretariat of the Duc d'Orléans would be incredibly powerful.
He replied, after the manner of Madame Méchin, when she did not incline to promote any particular end—
He replied, like Madame Méchin does when she doesn't want to push for any specific outcome—
"I will never lend my influence in that direction."
"I will never lend my influence in that direction."
I had several times noticed a man with thick eyebrows and a long nose, in the Secretarial Department, who took his tobacco Swiss-fashion. This man periodically brought the ninety theatre tickets to all parts of the house that M. Oudard had the prerogative of giving away every month, at the rate of three per day. I did not know who this man was, but I asked. I was told that he was the prompter.
I had noticed a man with thick eyebrows and a long nose in the Secretarial Department, who smoked his tobacco in a Swiss style. This man regularly brought the ninety theater tickets to different parts of the house that M. Oudard could give away every month, at a rate of three per day. I didn't know who this man was, so I asked. I was told that he was the prompter.
I lay in wait for this prompter, took him by surprise in the corridor and begged him to tell me what steps were necessary to obtain the honour of a reading before the Committee of the Théâtre-Français. He told me I must first deposit my play with the Examiner; but he warned me that so many other works were already deposited there that I must expect to wait at least a year. As though it were possible for me to wait a year!
I lay in wait for the prompter, caught him off guard in the hallway, and asked him what I needed to do to get the chance to read my play before the Committee of the Théâtre-Français. He told me I had to first submit my play to the Examiner, but he cautioned me that there were so many other works already submitted that I should expect to wait at least a year. As if I could possibly wait a year!
"But," I asked, "is there no short cut through all these formalities?"
"But," I asked, "is there no quick way to get through all these formalities?"
"Oh dear me, yes!" he replied, "if you know Baron Taylor."
"Oh dear, yes!" he replied, "if you know Baron Taylor."
I thanked him.
I thanked him.
"There is nothing to thank me for," he said.
"There’s nothing to thank me for," he said.
And he was right; there wasn't anything to thank him for, for I did not know Baron Taylor in the slightest.
And he was right; there was nothing to thank him for, since I didn’t know Baron Taylor at all.
"Do you know Baron Taylor?" I asked Lassagne.
"Do you know Baron Taylor?" I asked Lassagne.
"No," he answered; "but Charles Nodier is his intimate friend."
"No," he replied; "but Charles Nodier is a close friend of his."
"What of that?"
"What's that about?"
"Well, did you not tell me that you once talked with Charles Nodier a whole evening at a representation of the Vampire?"
"Well, didn’t you tell me that you once spent an entire evening talking with Charles Nodier at a performance of the Vampire?"
"Certainly."
"Definitely."
"Write to Charles Nodier."
"Contact Charles Nodier."
"Bah! he will have forgotten all about me."
"Ugh! He will have completely forgotten about me."
"He never forgets anything; write to him."
"He never forgets anything; just write to him."
I wrote to Charles Nodier, recalling to his memory the Elzevirs, the rotifer, the vampires, and in the name of his well-known kindliness towards young people I entreated him to introduce me to Baron Taylor. It can be imagined with what impatience I awaited the reply. Baron Taylor himself replied, granting my request and fixing an appointment with me five or six days later. He apologised at the same time for the hour he had fixed; but his numerous engagements left him so little time that seven o'clock in the morning was the only hour at which he could see me. Although I am probably the latest riser in Paris, I was ready at the appointed hour. True, I had kept awake all the night. Taylor then lived at No. 42 rue de Bondy, fourth floor. His suite of rooms consisted of an anteroom filled with books and busts; a dining-room full of pictures and books; a drawing-room full of weapons and books; and a bedroom full of manuscripts and books. I rang at the door of the antechamber, my heart beating at a terrible rate. The good or ill natured mood of a man who knew nothing about me, who had no inducement to be kindly disposed towards me, who had received me out of pure good-nature, was to decide my future life. If my play displeased him, it would stand in the way of anything I could bring him later, and I was very nearly at the end of my courage and strength. I had rung the bell, gently enough, I admit, and no one had answered it; I rang a second time, as gently as at first; again no one took any notice of me. And yet, putting my ear close, I seemed to hear a noise indicative of something unusual taking place inside: confused sounds and snarls which now sounded like bursts of anger, and now, decreasing in pitch, seemed like a continuous monotonous bass accompaniment. I could not imagine what it could be; I was afraid to disturb Taylor at such a moment and yet it was the very hour he had himself fixed for my[Pg 265] coming. I rang louder. I heard a door open, and simultaneously the mysterious noise from inside that had greatly roused my curiosity for the last ten minutes sounded louder than ever. At last the door was opened by an old serving-woman.
I wrote to Charles Nodier, reminding him of the Elzevirs, the rotifer, the vampires, and, knowing how kind he is to young people, I asked him to introduce me to Baron Taylor. You can imagine how anxiously I awaited the reply. Baron Taylor himself responded, agreeing to my request and setting up a meeting for five or six days later. He also apologized for the early hour he chose, but he was so busy that seven in the morning was the only time he could meet. Even though I’m probably the latest riser in Paris, I was ready at the scheduled time. Admittedly, I’d been awake all night. Taylor lived at No. 42 rue de Bondy, on the fourth floor. His rooms included an anteroom filled with books and busts, a dining room packed with pictures and books, a drawing room filled with weapons and books, and a bedroom overflowing with manuscripts and books. I rang the doorbell to the antechamber, my heart racing wildly. The mood—good or bad—of a man who knew nothing about me and had no reason to be nice to me, who was meeting with me purely out of kindness, would determine my future. If he didn't like my play, it could hinder anything else I might offer him later, and I was almost completely out of courage and strength. I rang the bell gently, and no one answered; I rang again, just as softly, but still no response. Yet, pressing my ear close, I thought I heard a strange noise inside: confused sounds and growls that alternated between angry bursts and a deep, monotonous background hum. I couldn’t imagine what it could be; I was hesitant to disturb Taylor at such a moment, yet it was exactly the time he had set for my[Pg 265] visit. I rang louder. I heard a door open, and simultaneously, the mysterious noise from inside that had piqued my curiosity for the last ten minutes grew even louder. Finally, the door was opened by an elderly maid.
"Ah! monsieur," she said, with a flustered manner, "your coming will do M. le Baron an excellent turn. He is waiting anxiously for you; go in."
"Ah! sir," she said, with a flustered manner, "your arrival will be a great help to Mr. Baron. He’s waiting for you, so go on in."
"What do you mean?"
"What do you mean?"
"Go in, go in ... do not lose a minute."
"Come in, come in... don't waste a second."
I went quickly into the sitting-room, where I found Taylor caught in his bath-tub like a tiger in his den, a gentleman near him reading a tragedy called Hécube. This gentleman had forced his entrance, no matter what was said to him. He had surprised Taylor as Charlotte Corday had surprised Marat when she stabbed him in his bath; but the agony that the King's Commissary endured was more prolonged than that of the Tribune of the People. The tragedy was two thousand four hundred lines long! When the gentleman caught sight of me, he realised that his victim was to be snatched away from him; he clutched hold of the bath, exclaiming—
I quickly went into the living room, where I found Taylor stuck in his bathtub like a tiger in its den, with a gentleman next to him reading a tragedy called Hécube. This gentleman had forced his way in, regardless of what anyone said to him. He had surprised Taylor just like Charlotte Corday surprised Marat when she stabbed him in his bath; but the agony that the King's Commissary felt was much longer than that of the Tribune of the People. The tragedy was two thousand four hundred lines long! When the gentleman saw me, he realized that his victim was about to be taken from him; he grabbed onto the bathtub, exclaiming—
"There are only two more acts, monsieur,—there are only two more acts!"
"There are just two more acts left, sir—there are only two more acts!"
"Two sword-cuts, two stabs with a knife, two thrusts with a dagger! Select from among the arms round about—there are all kinds here—choose the one that will slice the best and kill me straight off!"
"Two sword cuts, two knife stabs, two dagger thrusts! Pick from the weapons around you—there are all sorts here—choose the one that will cut the best and finish me off right away!"
"Monsieur," replied the author of Hécube, "the Government appointed you commissaire du roi on purpose to listen to my play; it is your duty to listen to my play—you shall hear my play!"
"Mister," replied the author of Hécube, "the Government made you commissaire du roi specifically to listen to my play; it’s your job to listen to my play—you will hear my play!"
"Ah! that is just where the misfortune comes in!" cried Taylor, wringing his hands. "Yes, monsieur, to my sorrow I am commissaire du roil ... But you and such people as you will make me hand in my resignation; you and your like will force me to give it up and leave France. I have[Pg 266] had an offer to go to Egypt, I will accept it; I will explore the sources of the Nile as far as Nubia, right to the Mountains of the Moon,—and I will go at once and get my passport."
"Ah! that's exactly where the trouble lies!" exclaimed Taylor, wringing his hands. "Yes, sir, to my regret I am commissaire du roil ... But you and people like you will force me to resign; you and your kind will make me quit and leave France. I have[Pg 266] received an offer to go to Egypt, and I'll take it; I'll explore the sources of the Nile all the way to Nubia, right to the Mountains of the Moon—and I'm going to get my passport right away."
"You can go-to China, if you like," replied the gentleman, "but you shall not go until you have heard my play."
"You can go to China if you want," replied the gentleman, "but you won't leave until you've heard my play."
Taylor gave one long moan, like a vanquished athlete, made a sign to me to go into his bedroom and, falling back into his bath-tub, he bowed his head in resignation upon his breast. The gentleman went on. Taylor's precaution of putting a door between him and his reader and me was quite useless; I heard every word of the last two acts of Hécube. The Almighty is great and full of compassion—may He bestow peace on that author! At last, when the play was finished, the gentleman got up and, at Taylor's earnest entreaty, consented to depart. I heard the old woman double lock the door after him. The bath-water had made good use of the time spent on the reading to grow cold, and Taylor came back into his bedroom shivering. I would have sacrificed a month's pay for him to have found a warmed bed to creep into. And the reason is not far to seek; for, naturally, a man who is half frozen, after just listening to five acts, is not in a favourable mood to hear five more acts.
Taylor let out a long sigh, like a defeated athlete, signaled for me to go into his bedroom, and collapsed back into his bathtub, resting his head in resignation on his chest. The gentleman continued. Taylor's attempt to put a door between himself and his reader and me was pointless; I heard every word of the last two acts of Hécube. The Almighty is great and full of compassion—may He grant peace to that author! Finally, when the play ended, the gentleman stood up and, at Taylor's earnest request, agreed to leave. I heard the old woman double-lock the door behind him. The bathwater, having been neglected during the reading, had grown cold, and Taylor returned to his bedroom shivering. I would have given a month's pay for him to find a warm bed to crawl into. And the reason isn't hard to figure out; naturally, a man who is half-frozen after just listening to five acts isn't in the best mood to hear five more.
"Alas! monsieur," I said to him, "I have happened upon a most unsuitable time, and I fear you will not be in the least disposed to listen to me, at least with the patience I could desire."
"Unfortunately, sir," I said to him, "I've come at a really bad time, and I worry that you won’t be in the least bit inclined to hear me out, at least not with the patience I’d hope for."
"Oh, monsieur, I will not admit that, since I do not yet know your work," Taylor replied; "but you can guess what a trial it is to have to listen to-such stuff as I have just heard, every blessed day of my life."
"Oh, sir, I can't say that yet since I don't know your work," Taylor replied; "but you can imagine how challenging it is to listen to nonsense like what I just heard every single day of my life."
"Every day?"
"Every day?"
"Yes, indeed, and oftener! See, here is my agenda for to-day's Committee. We are to hear an Épaminondas."
"Yes, definitely, and even more often! Look, here’s my agenda for today’s Committee. We’re going to hear an Épaminondas."
I heaved a sigh. My poor Christine was caught between two cross-fires of classicism.
I sighed. My poor Christine was stuck in the middle of two opposing views of classicism.
"M. le Baron," I ventured to say, "would you rather I came another day?"
"M. le Baron," I hesitantly asked, "would you prefer it if I came another day?"
"Oh! certainly not," said Taylor, "now we are here...."
"Oh! definitely not," said Taylor, "now that we are here...."
"Very well," I said, "I will just read you one act, and if that tires you or bores you, you must stop me."
"Alright," I said, "I'll just read you one act, and if that tires you or bores you, you have to tell me to stop."
"All right," Taylor murmured; "you are more merciful than your confrères. And that is a good sign.... Go on, go on; I am listening."
"Okay," Taylor said softly, "you’re more compassionate than your peers. And that’s a good sign... Keep going; I’m all ears."
Tremblingly I drew my play from my pocket;—it looked a terribly big volume. Taylor cast a glance on the immense bulk with such an alarmed expression that I cried out to him—
Trembling, I pulled my script from my pocket; it looked like a huge book. Taylor glanced at the large size with such a worried look that I shouted to him—
"Oh, monsieur, do not be afraid! The manuscript is only written on one side of the paper."
"Oh, sir, don't be scared! The manuscript is only written on one side of the paper."
He breathed again. I began. I was so nervous I could not see to read; my voice shook so that I could not hear my own voice. Taylor reassured me; he was unaccustomed to such modesty! I resumed my reading, and I managed somehow to get through my first act.
He took another breath. I started. I was so nervous I could barely read; my voice trembled so much that I couldn’t even hear myself. Taylor tried to reassure me; he wasn’t used to this kind of shyness! I continued reading, and somehow I got through my first act.
"Well, monsieur, shall I go on?" I asked in a faint voice, without daring to raise my eyes.
"Well, sir, should I continue?" I asked in a soft voice, not daring to look up.
"Certainly, certainly," Taylor replied, "go on. Upon my word, it is excellent!"
"Absolutely, absolutely," Taylor responded, "keep going. I swear, it’s fantastic!"
Fresh life came to me, and I read my second act with more confidence than the first. When I had finished, Taylor himself told me to go on with the third, then the fourth, then the fifth. I felt an inexpressible desire to embrace him; but I refrained, for fear of the consequences.
Fresh life filled me, and I approached my second act with more confidence than the first. When I finished, Taylor himself told me to continue with the third, then the fourth, then the fifth. I felt an overwhelming urge to embrace him; but I held back, worried about the consequences.
When the reading was finished, Taylor leapt from his bed.
When the reading was over, Taylor jumped out of his bed.
"You must come to the Théâtre-Français with me," he said.
"You have to come to the Théâtre-Français with me," he said.
"But what must I do there?"
"But what should I do there?"
"Why, get your turn to read your play as soon as possible."
"Why, take your chance to read your play as soon as you can."
"Do you really mean it? Shall I read it to the Committee?"
"Do you really mean it? Should I read it to the Committee?"
"Not a day later than next Saturday." And Taylor called out, "Pierre!"
"Not a day later than next Saturday." And Taylor shouted, "Pierre!"
An old man-servant came in.
An old butler came in.
"Give me all my clothes, Pierre."
"Give me all my clothes, Pierre."
Then turning to me, he said, "You will excuse me?"
Then he turned to me and said, "Will you excuse me?"
"Oh, there is nothing to excuse!..." I replied.
"Oh, there's nothing to apologize for!..." I replied.
On the following Thursday (for Taylor would not wait until the Saturday, but had called a special Committee) the Committee, whether from chance or because Taylor had praised my play extravagantly, was a very large one; there were as many well-dressed men and women present as though a dance were on the way. The ladies decked out in gay hats and flowers, the gentlemen in fashionable dress, the large green carpet, the inquisitive looks which were fixed upon me, every detail down to the glass of water which Granville solemnly placed by my side—which struck me as very ludicrous—all this combined to inspire me with profound emotion.
On the next Thursday (since Taylor wouldn’t wait until Saturday and had called a special Committee), the Committee, whether by chance or because Taylor had praised my play to the skies, was quite large; there were as many well-dressed men and women present as if a dance was about to happen. The ladies were adorned in vibrant hats and flowers, the gentlemen in stylish outfits, the big green carpet, the curious looks directed at me, and every little detail down to the glass of water that Granville seriously set by my side—which I found quite amusing—all this made me feel deeply emotional.
Christine was then quite different from what it is to-day: it was a simple play, romantic in style, but founded on classical traditions. It was confined to five acts; the action took place entirely at Fontainebleau, and it conformed with the unity of time, place and action laid down by Aristotle. Stranger still! it did not contain the character of Paula, which is now the best creation in the play, and the real dramatic mainspring of the whole work. Monaldeschi betrayed Christine's ambition, but not her love. And yet I have rarely known any work to have such a successful first reading. They made me read the monologue of Sentinelli and the scene with Monaldeschi three times over. I was intoxicated with delight. My play was received with acclamation. Only, three or four of the agenda papers contained the following cautious phrase:—
Christine was quite different back then compared to how it is today: it was a straightforward play, romantic in style, but based on classical traditions. It was limited to five acts; the entire action took place at Fontainebleau, and it adhered to the unities of time, place, and action set out by Aristotle. Even stranger! It didn’t include the character of Paula, who is now the strongest creation in the play and the true dramatic driving force of the whole work. Monaldeschi revealed Christine's ambition, but not her love. Yet, I’ve rarely seen a piece receive such a successful first reading. They had me read Sentinelli's monologue and the scene with Monaldeschi three times. I was overwhelmed with joy. My play was met with cheers. However, three or four of the agenda papers included the following cautious phrase:—
"A second, reading, or the manuscript to be submitted to an author in whom the Committee has confidence."
"A second reading, or the manuscript to be submitted to an author that the Committee trusts."
The result of the deliberations of the Comédie-Française was that the tragedy of Christine was accepted; but, on account of the great innovations which it contained, they would not undertake to perform it until after another reading, or the manuscript had been submitted to another author, to be named by them.
The outcome of the discussions at the Comédie-Française was that the play Christine was approved; however, due to the significant changes it included, they decided not to stage it until after another reading or until the manuscript was reviewed by another author they would choose.
The whole thing had passed before my eyes like a mist. I had seen face to face for the first time the kings and[Pg 269] queens of the tragic and comic stage: Mademoiselle Mars, Mademoiselle Leverd, Mademoiselle Bourgoin, Madame Valmonzey, Madame Paradol and Mademoiselle Demerson, an engagingly clever soubrette, who played Molière with great freshness, and Marivaux with such finished style as I never saw in anyone else. I knew I was accepted and that was all I wished to know: the conditions I would fulfil, the difficulties I would overcome. Therefore I did not wait until the conclusion of the conference. I thanked Taylor, and I left the theatre as proud and as light-hearted as though my first mistress had said to me, "I love you." I made off for the faubourg Saint-Denis, ogling everybody I met, as much as to say, "You haven't written Christine; you haven't just come away from the Théâtre-Français; you haven't been received with acclamation, you, you, you!" And, in the joyful preoccupation of my thoughts, I did not take care to measure my steps across a gutter but stumbled into the middle of it; I took no notice of carriages, I jostled in and out among the horses. When I reached the faubourg Saint-Denis I had lost my manuscript; but that did not matter! I knew my play by heart. With one leap, I bounded into our rooms, and my mother cried out, for she never saw me back before five o'clock.
The whole thing passed before my eyes like a fog. For the first time, I had seen the kings and [Pg 269] queens of the tragic and comic stage: Mademoiselle Mars, Mademoiselle Leverd, Mademoiselle Bourgoin, Madame Valmonzey, Madame Paradol, and Mademoiselle Demerson, an impressively clever soubrette who played Molière with great freshness, and Marivaux with a polish I had never seen in anyone else. I knew I was accepted, and that was all I needed to know: the conditions I would meet, the challenges I would face. So, I didn’t wait for the conference to end. I thanked Taylor and left the theater feeling as proud and carefree as if my first love had said to me, "I love you." I headed for the faubourg Saint-Denis, checking everyone I passed, as if to say, "You haven’t written Christine; you haven’t just come from the Théâtre-Français; you haven’t been received with cheers, you, you, you!" And, lost in my happy thoughts, I didn’t think to watch my step across a gutter and ended up stumbling right into it; I didn’t pay any attention to carriages and squeezed in and out among the horses. When I reached the faubourg Saint-Denis, I had lost my manuscript, but that didn’t matter! I knew my play by heart. With one leap, I dashed into our rooms, and my mother exclaimed because she never saw me back before five o'clock.
"Received with acclamation, mother! received with acclamation!" I shouted. And I began to dance round our rooms, which allowed but little space for such exercise. My mother thought I must have gone mad; I had not told her I was going to the reading for fear of disappointment.
"Received with cheers, Mom! received with cheers!" I shouted. And I started dancing around our small rooms, which didn't leave much space for that. My mom thought I must have lost it; I hadn’t told her I was going to the reading because I didn’t want to let her down.
"And what will M. Fossier say?" my poor mother exclaimed.
"And what will M. Fossier think?" my poor mom exclaimed.
"Oh!" I replied, suiting my words to the tune of Malbrouck, "M. Fossier can say whatever he likes, and if he is not satisfied, I will send him about his business!"
"Oh!" I replied, matching my words to the tune of Malbrouck, "M. Fossier can say whatever he wants, and if he’s not happy, I’ll send him on his way!"
"Take care, my dear lad," my mother replied, shaking her head; "it will be you who will be sent packing and in good earnest, too."
"Take care, my dear boy," my mother said, shaking her head. "It will be you who gets kicked out for real."
"All right, mother; so much the better! It will give me time to attend my rehearsals."
"Okay, mom; that's even better! It will give me time to go to my rehearsals."
"And suppose your play is a failure, and you have lost your situation, what will become of us?"
"And what if your play flops and you lose your job? What will happen to us?"
"I will write another play that will succeed."
"I’m going to write another play that will be a hit."
"But in the meantime we must live."
"But in the meantime, we have to live."
"Ah yes! it's very unfortunate that one has to live; happily, in seven or eight days we shall receive something on account."
"Ah yes! It's really unfortunate that one has to live; luckily, in seven or eight days we should receive something as payment."
"Yes, but while we are waiting for that, which you have not yet got, my lad, take my advice and return to your desk, so that no one may suspect anything, and do not boast of what has happened to a single person."
"Yeah, but while we’re waiting for that, which you still don’t have, my friend, take my advice and go back to your desk, so nobody will suspect anything, and don’t tell a soul about what’s happened."
"I fancy you are in the right, mother; and although I asked the whole day off from M. Deviolaine, I will return to my desk. It is half-past two. Why, I shall yet have time to despatch my day's work."
"I think you're right, mom; and even though I asked M. Deviolaine for the whole day off, I’ll go back to my desk. It’s half-past two. Well, I still have time to finish my work for the day."
And I set forth at a run to the rue Saint-Honoré. The exercise did me good, for I needed fresh air and action; I felt stifled in our tiny rooms. I found a pile of reports ready for me; I set to my task, and by six o'clock everything was finished. But by this time Féresse's anger against me amounted to hatred: I had compelled him to stay till the stroke of six before I had finished the last lines. I had never written so fast or so well. I re-read everything twice for fear I might have interpolated some lines from Christine in the reports. But, as usual, they were innocent of poetic effusions. I gave them back to Féresse, who went with them to M. Fossier's office, growling like a bear. I then went home to my dear mother, quite spent and utterly exhausted with the great events of that day. It was 30 April 1828. I spent the evening, the night and the morning of the next day in rewriting my manuscript afresh. By ten o'clock, when I reached the Administration, I found Ferésse at the door of his office. He had been looking out for me since eight o'clock that morning, although he knew well enough that I never came before ten.
And I ran to Rue Saint-Honoré. It was good exercise because I needed fresh air and some action; I felt suffocated in our tiny rooms. When I arrived, there was a pile of reports waiting for me; I got to work, and by six o'clock, I had everything done. But by that time, Féresse's anger toward me had turned into hatred: I had made him stay until six o'clock before I finished the last lines. I had never written so quickly or so well. I read everything over twice just in case I had accidentally mixed in some lines from Christine into the reports. But, as usual, there were no poetic additions. I handed them back to Féresse, who took them to M. Fossier's office, grumbling like a bear. I then went home to my dear mother, completely drained and utterly exhausted from the day's events. It was April 30, 1828. I spent the evening, the night, and the following morning rewriting my manuscript. By ten o'clock, when I got to the Administration, I found Féresse waiting at the door of his office. He had been looking for me since eight that morning, even though he knew I never arrived before ten.
"Ah! there you are," he said. "So you have been writing a tragedy, I hear."
"Ah! there you are," he said. "So I hear you've been writing a tragedy."
"Who told you that?"
"Who said that?"
"Why, good gracious, it is in the newspaper."
"Wow, it's in the news."
"In the paper?"
"In the article?"
"Yes, read it for yourself."
"Yes, check it out yourself."
And he handed me a paper which did, indeed, contain the following lines:—
And he gave me a piece of paper that actually had these lines:—
"The Théâtre-Français to-day accepted with acclamation and unanimity a five-act tragedy in verse, by a young man who has not yet produced anything. This young man is in the administrative offices of M. le Duc d'Orléans, who made his path easy for him and who strongly recommended him to the Reading Committee."
"The Théâtre-Français today welcomed with great enthusiasm a five-act tragedy written in verse by a young man who hasn't released any work before. This young man is employed in the administrative offices of M. le Duc d'Orléans, who supported him and highly recommended him to the Reading Committee."
You see how accurately the daily press gauged the situation! it has not lost the tradition even to-day. Nevertheless, although inaccurate enough in detail, the news was fundamentally true; and it circulated from corridor to corridor and from storey to storey. It flew from office to office, by means of people coming in and going out, just as though Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans had given birth to twins. I was congratulated by all my colleagues, some with sincerity, others mockingly; only the chief of my office hid himself from view. But, since he kept me going with four times my usual amount of work, it was quite evident he had seen the paper. M. Deviolaine came in at two o'clock and at five minutes past two he sent for me. I walked into his office with my head in the air and my hands perched jauntily on my hips.
You can see how well the daily press understood the situation! It hasn’t lost that ability even today. Still, even though it was pretty inaccurate in some details, the news was basically true, and it spread from corridor to corridor and from floor to floor. It flew from office to office, thanks to people coming and going, just as if Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans had given birth to twins. My colleagues congratulated me, some genuinely, others sarcastically; only my boss kept out of sight. But, since he kept piling on four times my usual workload, it was clear he had seen the article. M. Deviolaine came in at two o'clock and five minutes later, he called for me. I walked into his office with my head held high and my hands confidently on my hips.
"Ah! there you are, you young blade!" he said.
"Ah! there you are, you young dude!" he said.
"Yes, here I am."
"Yep, here I am."
"So you asked me for a holiday yesterday in order to play pranks!"
"So you asked me for a day off yesterday so you could pull pranks!"
"Have I neglected my work?"
"Have I ignored my work?"
"That is not the question."
"That's not the question."
"Excuse me, M. Deviolaine, on the contrary it is the only question."
"Excuse me, Mr. Deviolaine, actually it’s the only question."
"But don't you see that they have been making game of you?"
"But don't you see that they have been playing you for a fool?"
"Who has?"
"Who has it?"
"The Comedians."
"Comedians."
"Nevertheless, they have accepted my play."
"Still, they have accepted my play."
"Yes, but they will not put it on the stage."
"Yes, but they won't put it on stage."
"Ah! we shall see!"
"Ah! We'll see!"
"And if they do produce your play...."
"And if they do put on your play...."
"Yes?"
"Yeah?"
"You will still need the approbation of the public."
"You will still need the approval of the public."
"Why should you imagine it will not please the public since it has pleased the Comedians?"
"Why do you think it won't please the public if it has already pleased the comedians?"
"Come now, do you want to make me believe that you, who only had an education that cost three francs a month, will be successful when such people as M. Viennet and M. Lemercier and M. Lebrun fall flat?... Go along with you!"
"Come on, do you really expect me to believe that you, who only had an education that cost three francs a month, will succeed when people like M. Viennet, M. Lemercier, and M. Lebrun have failed? ... Get out of here!"
"But instead of judging me beforehand, wouldn't it be fairer to wait?"
"But instead of judging me beforehand, wouldn't it be more fair to wait?"
"Oh yes, wait ten years, twenty years! I sincerely hope I shall be buried before your play is acted, and then I shall never see it."
"Oh yes, wait ten years, twenty years! I really hope I’ll be buried before your play is performed, and then I won’t ever have to see it."
At this juncture, Ferésse slily opened the door.
At this point, Ferésse quietly opened the door.
"Excuse me, M. Deviolaine," he said, "but there is a Comedian here (he carefully emphasised the word) asking for M. Dumas."
"Excuse me, Mr. Deviolaine," he said, "but there's a Comedian here (he carefully emphasized the word) asking for Mr. Dumas."
"A Comedian! What Comedian?" M. Deviolaine asked.
"A comedian! Which comedian?" M. Deviolaine asked.
"M. Firmin, from the Comédie-Française."
"M. Firmin, from Comédie-Française."
"Yes," I replied quietly; "he takes the part of Monaldeschi."
"Yeah," I replied softly; "he's playing the role of Monaldeschi."
"Firmin plays in your piece?"
"Is Firmin in your play?"
"Yes, he takes Monaldeschi.... Oh, it is admirably cast: Firmin plays Monaldeschi, Mademoiselle Mars Christine...."
"Yes, he takes Monaldeschi.... Oh, it is perfectly cast: Firmin plays Monaldeschi, Mademoiselle Mars as Christine...."
"Mademoiselle Mars plays in your piece?"
"Mademoiselle Mars is acting in your play?"
"Certainly."
"Definitely."
"It is not true."
"That's not true."
"Would you like her to tell it you herself?"
"Do you want her to tell you herself?"
"Do you imagine I am going to take the trouble to assure myself you are lying?"
"Do you really think I'm going to bother to make sure you're lying?"
"No; she will come here."
"No; she'll come here."
"Mademoiselle Mars will come here?"
"Is Mademoiselle Mars coming here?"
"I am sure she will have the kindness to do that for me."
"I’m sure she’ll be kind enough to do that for me."
"Mademoiselle Mars?"
"Ms. Mars?"
"Yes, you see that Firmin...."
"Yeah, you see that Firmin...."
"Stop! Go your own way! for upon my word you are enough to turn my brain!... Mademoiselle Mars ... Mademoiselle Mars put herself out for you? Think of it!... Mademoiselle Mars!" and he raised his hands to heaven in despair that such a mad idea should ever enter the head of any member of his family.
"Stop! Go your own way! Honestly, you’re driving me crazy!... Mademoiselle Mars ... Mademoiselle Mars did all that for you? Can you believe it!... Mademoiselle Mars!" He threw his hands up to the sky in despair that such a ridiculous idea could ever come into the mind of anyone in his family.
I took advantage of this theatrical display to escape. Firmin was, indeed, waiting for me. He had made use of his time in looking round the office, and he had ascertained that the windows of my office looked exactly across to those of the Comédie-Française—a circumstance that offered great facilities for my future communications. He came so that no time should be lost, to offer to take me to Picard's house, who was going to read my manuscript. Picard enjoyed the absolute confidence of the Comédie-Française and the Comédie-Française would rely implicitly on his decision. I felt an intense aversion towards Picard, who, according to my views, had retarded the development of real comedy as much as Scribe had advanced the cause of the vaudeville. It was out of the question that Picard could understand Christine from the point of view either of style or of construction. I therefore fought as long as I could against having to submit to Picard's arbitrament. But Firmin knew Picard very well and said that he had such a partiality for young people, and that his advice was so good that, rather than vex Firmin at the outset of my career, I was persuaded to go. It was arranged that, at half-past four that evening, Firmin should call for me and take me to see Picard. At half-past four we set off. Christine had been neatly re-copied. It may be guessed that since I had taken such pains over the plays of Théaulon, I took extra care of my own! The manuscript was rolled and tied up with a pretty new piece of ribbon that my mother had given me.
I took advantage of this theatrical scene to make my escape. Firmin was indeed waiting for me. He had used his time to check out the office and found out that the windows of my office faced directly across to those of the Comédie-Française—this was a great help for my future communication. He came to make sure no time was wasted in offering to take me to Picard's place, where my manuscript was going to be read. Picard had the full trust of the Comédie-Française, and they would rely entirely on his decision. I felt a strong dislike towards Picard, who, in my opinion, had held back the growth of real comedy just as much as Scribe had pushed forward vaudeville. There was no way Picard could grasp Christine in terms of either style or construction. So I resisted for as long as I could against having to submit to Picard's judgment. But Firmin knew Picard well and said he had a soft spot for young people and that his advice was so good that, rather than upset Firmin at the start of my career, I was convinced to go. It was arranged that Firmin would pick me up at half-past four that evening and take me to see Picard. At half-past four, we set off. Christine had been carefully recopied. It's clear that since I had put in so much effort with Théaulon's plays, I gave extra care to my own! The manuscript was rolled up and tied with a pretty new ribbon that my mother had given me.
Where did Picard live? Upon my word, I could not say and I will not lose any time in trying to find his address. Wherever he lived, we arrived at his house. His appearance corresponded exactly with the idea that I had formed of him:[Pg 274] he was a little, deformed man with long hands, small bright eyes, and a nose as sharp as a weasel's. He received us with that polite, bantering manner peculiar to him, which many people take for intellectual good-fellowship. We conversed for ten minutes and he pretended entire ignorance of the news he had been possessed of since morning; he laid bare the object of our visit and he asked us to leave the manuscript with him, and to return a week later. He gave us his humble advice upon this important matter, pleading for our leniency beforehand if his judgment were more inclined to the shorter classic forms of comedy, rather than to the long Romantic productions (des grandes machines romantiques). This exordium foreboded no good. We saw Picard a week later; he was expecting us, and we found him seated in the same arm-chair, with the same smile on his lips. He bade us be seated and politely inquired after our health; finally, he stretched his long fingers over his desk and rolled up my manuscript carefully, wrapped it and tied it up. Then, with a winning smile, he said to me—
Where did Picard live? Honestly, I couldn’t tell you, and I’m not going to waste time trying to find out his address. No matter where he lived, we made it to his house. He looked exactly like I imagined he would: he was a short, deformed man with long hands, small bright eyes, and a nose as sharp as a weasel’s. He greeted us with that polite, teasing demeanor unique to him, which many people mistake for friendly intellect. We chatted for ten minutes, and he pretended to have no idea about the news he had already heard that morning; he laid out the purpose of our visit and asked us to leave the manuscript with him, promising to return in a week. He offered his humble advice on this important matter, asking for our understanding in case his judgment leaned more toward the shorter classic forms of comedy, rather than the long Romantic productions (des grandes machines romantiques). This introduction was not a good sign. We saw Picard a week later; he was expecting us, and we found him sitting in the same armchair, with the same smile on his face. He invited us to sit down and politely asked how we were doing; finally, he reached out his long fingers over his desk, carefully rolled up my manuscript, wrapped it, and tied it. Then, with a charming smile, he said to me—
"My dear monsieur, have you any means of subsistence?"
"My dear sir, do you have any way to make a living?"
"Monsieur," I replied, "I am a clerk at fifteen hundred francs a year in the offices of M. le Duc d'Orléans."
"Mister," I replied, "I work as a clerk for fifteen hundred francs a year in the offices of M. le Duc d'Orléans."
"Well, then, my advice to you, my dear lad, is to return to your desk—to return to your desk!"
"Well, then, my advice to you, my dear boy, is to get back to your desk—to get back to your desk!"
After such a declaration, the conversation was, of necessity, brief. Firmin and I rose, bowed and departed. Or, rather, I departed; Firmin stayed behind a moment after me: he probably wished a further explanation. Through the half-opened door I could see Picard shrugging his shoulders with such violence that his head seemed in danger of coming off his body. The modern Molière looked extremely repulsive thus, his expression above all being remarkably malicious. Had Picard really given us a conscientious opinion? Firmin was convinced he had, but I doubted it always. It was impossible that an intellectual man, no matter how narrow his views might be, should not discern—I will not go so far as to say a remarkable work in Christine, but remarkable works belonging to the school of Christine.
After that declaration, the conversation was necessarily short. Firmin and I got up, bowed, and left. Or rather, I left first; Firmin stayed behind for a moment after me, probably wanting more explanation. Through the slightly open door, I could see Picard shrugging his shoulders so vigorously that his head looked like it might come off. The modern Molière looked really disgusting like that, his expression especially oddly malicious. Did Picard really give us an honest opinion? Firmin believed he did, but I always doubted it. It’s impossible for an intellectual man, no matter how narrow his views might be, not to recognize—I won’t say a remarkable work in Christine, but notable works associated with the style of Christine.
Next day, I went to see Taylor, carrying with me my manuscript containing Picard's annotations. These annotations consisted of crosses, bracketing and marks of exclamation, which might well be called marks of stupefaction. Certain lines especially seemed to have astounded the author of the Petite Ville and the Deux Philibert. These had been honoured by three exclamation marks.
Next day, I went to see Taylor, bringing along my manuscript with Picard's notes. These notes included crosses, brackets, and exclamation marks, which could definitely be called marks of disbelief. Certain lines, in particular, seemed to have shocked the author of the Petite Ville and Deux Philibert. These were marked with three exclamation marks.
CHRISTINE
"Vous êtes Français, vous; mais ces Italiens,
L'idiome mielleux qui détrempe leurs âmes
Semblerait fait exprès pour un peuple de femmes;
D'énergiques accents ont peine à s'y mêler.
Un homme est là; l'on croit qu'en homme il va parler;
Il parle, on se retourne, et, par un brusque échange,
A la place d'un homme, on trouve une louange."—!!!
CHRISTINE
"You’re French; but those Italians,
Their sweet-talking language seems designed for a nation of women;
Strong voices struggle to fit in.
A man is here; we expect him to speak like a man;
He talks, we turn around, and, in a sudden shift,
Instead of a man, we find just praise."—!!!
It was to the last line that the three wretched notes of exclamation had been affixed, which were intended to express many things. For the most part, Picard's criticisms were laconically brief. After the following lines came one huge note of interrogation:—
It was to the last line that the three miserable exclamation marks had been added, meant to convey many things. For the most part, Picard's criticisms were short and to the point. After the following lines came one big question mark:—
"Sur le chemin des rois, l'oubli couvre ma trace;
Mon nom, comme un vain bruit, s'affaiblit dans l'espace:
Ce n'est plus qu'un écho par l'écho répété,
Et j'assiste vivante à la postérité.
Je crus que plus longtemps—mon erreur fut profonde!—
Mon abdication bruirait dans le monde ...
Pour le remplir encore un but m'est indiqué;
Je veux reconquérir cet empire abdiqué.
Comme je la donnai, je reprends ma couronne,
Et l'on dira que j'ai le caprice du trône!"—?
"On the path of kings, forgetfulness covers my trace;
My name, like a meaningless sound, fades in the space:
It's nothing more than an echo repeated by the echo,
And I witness, alive, the future.
I thought for much longer—my mistake was deep!—
That my abdication would resonate in the world ...
Yet, to fill it again, a goal is pointed out to me;
I want to reclaim this abdicated empire.
Just as I gave it, I take back my crown,
And people will say I have the whim of the throne!"—?
a point of interrogation which seemed to say, "Perhaps the author understands this passage. I, certainly, do not."
a point of questioning that seemed to say, "Maybe the author gets this part. I definitely do not."
After the last line—
After the final line—
"Eh bien, j'en ai pitié, mon père ... Qu'on l'achève!"
"Well, I feel sorry for him, Dad... Let's put him out of his misery!"
was written the word "IMPOSSIBLE."
wrote the word "IMPOSSIBLE."
Was it the piece which was impossible or only that line? Picard had had the delicacy to leave me the benefit of the doubt. I related my adventure to Taylor and showed him Picard's notes.
Was it the part that was impossible or just that line? Picard had the grace to give me the benefit of the doubt. I shared my experience with Taylor and showed him Picard's notes.
"All right," he said; "leave the play with me and return to-morrow morning."
"Okay," he said, "leave the play with me and come back tomorrow morning."
I left the play with him, feeling very subdued in spirits. I was beginning to learn to my cost that the joys connected with the theatre are the opposite of those in nature, and belong only to early days—after that brief period one's real troubles immediately begin. I took good care to keep my engagement and was with Taylor by eight next morning. He showed me my manuscript, across which Nodier had written in his own handwriting—
I left the play with him, feeling really down. I was starting to realize that the joys of the theater are the opposite of those found in nature and only last for a little while—after that short period, the real problems start. I made sure to keep my appointment and was with Taylor by eight the next morning. He showed me my manuscript, which Nodier had written across in his own handwriting—
"Upon my soul and conscience, I declare Christine is one of the most remarkable works I have read for the last twenty years."
"Honestly, I declare Christine is one of the most impressive works I've read in the last twenty years."
"You realise," said Taylor to me, "I shall need that to back me up. You must keep yourself in readiness to re-read your play on Saturday."
"You realize," Taylor said to me, "I'll need that to support me. You have to be ready to read your play again on Saturday."
"Monsieur le Baron," I said to him, "I am in an office, and there they are all the more strict with me because I go in for literary work, which bureaucratic eyes look upon as an unpardonable crime. Could I read it on Sunday, rather than Saturday?"
"Monsieur le Baron," I said to him, "I'm at the office, and they're even stricter with me because I do literary work, which the bureaucratic types see as a serious offense. Could I read it on Sunday instead of Saturday?"
"It is contrary to all custom, but I will see what I can do."
"It goes against all norms, but I’ll see what I can do."
Three days later, I received my notice for the following Sunday. The assembly was even larger than the first time and the play was even more enthusiastically applauded, if that be possible, than it had been on the previous reading. It was put to the vote and accepted unanimously, subject to some alterations which I was to arrange after consultation with M. Samson. Fortunately, M. Samson and I did not see eye to eye; I say fortunately, since the disagreement led to my recasting the whole play, which gained, by this re-handling, the prologue, the two acts at Stockholm, the epilogue at Rome and the entire part of Paula. When we come to the proper place, we[Pg 277] will relate how these transformations came about; they left the Metamorphoses of Ovid (of which a splendid edition had just been published by M. Villenave) a very long way behind. I must say a few words about M. de Villenave, who was one of the best informed and most original men of his day; and I must say a little about his wife, his son, his daughter and his home, all of which personages and things had a great influence on this first part of my life.
Three days later, I got my notice for the following Sunday. The crowd was even bigger than the first time, and the play was received with even more enthusiasm than it had been during the previous reading. It was put to a vote and accepted unanimously, with some changes I was to work out after talking with M. Samson. Thankfully, M. Samson and I didn’t agree on everything; I say thankfully because our disagreement led me to rewrite the entire play, which resulted in a prologue, two acts in Stockholm, an epilogue in Rome, and the entire role of Paula. When we get to the right point, we[Pg 277] will explain how these changes came about; they left Ovid's Metamorphoses (which had just been beautifully published by M. Villenave) far behind. I should mention M. de Villenave, who was one of the best-informed and most original guys of his time; and I also need to say a bit about his wife, his son, his daughter, and their home, all of which greatly influenced this early part of my life.
CHAPTER XII
Cordelier-Delanoue—A sitting of the Athénée—M. Villenave—His family—The one hundred and thirty-two Nantais—Cathelineau—The hunt aux bleus—Forest—A chapter of history—Sauveur—The Royalist Committee—Souchu—The miraculous tomb—Carrier
Cordelier-Delanoue—A meeting at the Athénée—M. Villenave—His family—The 132 residents of Nantes—Cathelineau—The hunt aux bleus—Forest—A chapter of history—Sauveur—The Royalist Committee—Souchu—The miraculous tomb—Carrier
During the period of the first representations of the English actors (which coincided with my evening attendance at the offices of the Secretariat) I made the acquaintance of a young fellow named Cordelier-Delanoue. It came about very naturally. We were publishing Psyché at that time and Delanoue had sent us a poem which he called Hamlet; this we inserted in our journal, he came to thank us and Adolphe and I became friendly with him, I especially. Delanoue was the son of one of the generals of the Revolution, who had formerly known my father; this circumstance had drawn us together and our dramatic and political sympathies did the rest. One night Delanoue came to see me at the office and suggested taking me to the Athénée while the courier from the Palais-Royal went to Neuilly and back. I was ignorant about many things, so it will not be any cause for astonishment, I hope, if I admit that I had never heard of the Athénée. M. Villenave was giving a literary soirée there that evening. I did not know who M. Villenave was; and my ignorance in this respect was a little more excusable than my not knowing what the Athénée was. However, I accepted. At that time, I had not the horror of making fresh acquaintances which beset me later. I was promised something connected with literature and literary people, and a promise such as this would have urged me on to cross the razor edge which serves as a[Pg 279] bridge between the Mohammadan Paradise and this earth. I could cross such an edge now, prone though I am to giddiness, but it would be in order to fly from the very thing I then went to seek. So far as I can recollect, the meetings of the Athénée were held in a lower hall of the Palais-Royal, which had its entrance from the rue de Valois. They discussed all sorts of topics that would have been insufferable in drawing-rooms, but which at the Athénée were simply tedious. The people who discussed these tedious subjects had the right to a certain number of tickets to distribute among the members of their families, their friends and their acquaintances. They could have discussed these subjects quite well alone, but, for some inexplicable reason, they preferred to have an audience. On this particular evening the hall was full. M. Villenave was very popular in society, and, besides, these meetings had a certain celebrity. If I were condemned to be hung, I could not to save my life say what they talked of that night. It was probably some treatise on a second-rate deceased author, who served as an excuse to the writer to deliver a few raps to the living. M. Villenave conducted the meeting: he addressed it standing, by the aid of a couple of candelabras and a glass of eau sucrée near him. He was a fine-looking old man of, perhaps, at that time, some sixty-six or sixty-eight years of age. He had splendid white hair, daintily curled about his temples; black eyes that flashed with quite Southern fire; he was very tall but stooped a little from much bending over a desk; there was something distinguished-looking and graceful in his movements and manners. I had stopped modestly by the door for two reasons: first, because I was yet too unknown to imagine I had the right to put the speaker himself or anybody else out for my sake; secondly, as I had to return to my office by half-past nine, it was more convenient to be near the door than elsewhere, in order to escape incognito, as I had entered. Delanoue, who was more familiar with the company than I, left me to go and joke with them, during the short intervals when the sitting broke up to give M. Villenave time to take breath.
During the time when the first performances of English actors were happening (which overlapped with my evenings spent at the Secretariat), I met a young guy named Cordelier-Delanoue. It happened quite naturally. We were publishing Psyché at that time, and Delanoue had sent us a poem he called Hamlet; we included it in our journal, and after that, he came to thank us. Adolphe and I became friends with him, especially me. Delanoue was the son of one of the generals from the Revolution, who had previously known my father; this connection brought us together, and our shared interests in drama and politics solidified our bond. One night, Delanoue visited me at the office and suggested taking me to the Athénée while a courier from the Palais-Royal went to Neuilly and back. I was clueless about many things, so I hope it’s not surprising that I had never heard of the Athénée. M. Villenave was hosting a literary soirée that evening. I didn’t know who M. Villenave was, and my lack of knowledge in this regard was a little more forgivable than not knowing what the Athénée was. Nonetheless, I accepted. At that time, I wasn’t as averse to making new acquaintances as I would later become. I had been promised something related to literature and literary people, and a promise like that was enough to encourage me to cross the razor-thin edge that serves as a bridge between the Mohammadan Paradise and this earth. I could manage that edge now, despite being prone to dizziness, but it would be to escape the very thing I was going to seek. As best as I can remember, the Athénée meetings were held in a downstairs hall of the Palais-Royal, with an entrance from the rue de Valois. They covered all sorts of topics that would have been unbearable in drawing-rooms, but at the Athénée, they were just boring. The people discussing these dull subjects had the right to distribute a certain number of tickets to their family members, friends, and acquaintances. They could have talked about these topics perfectly well on their own, but for some unknown reason, they preferred having an audience. That night, the hall was packed. M. Villenave was quite popular in society, and these gatherings had a certain fame. If I were forced to confess, I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what they talked about that night. It was probably some lecture on a second-rate long-dead author, which served as a pretext for the speaker to take a few jabs at the living. M. Villenave led the meeting: he spoke while standing, supported by a couple of candelabras and a glass of eau sucrée nearby. He was a good-looking older man, maybe around sixty-six or sixty-eight years old at that time. He had beautiful white hair nicely curled around his temples; black eyes that sparkled with a certain Southern fire; he was very tall but had a slight stoop from spending so much time bent over a desk; there was something distinguished and graceful about his movements and mannerisms. I had modestly positioned myself by the door for two reasons: first, because I was still too unknown to think I had the right to interrupt the speaker or anyone else for my sake; second, since I needed to return to my office by half-past nine, it was more practical to be near the door for a quick escape, just as I had entered. Delanoue, being more familiar with the group than I was, left me to mingle and joke with them during the brief breaks when the meeting paused to allow M. Villenave some time to catch his breath.
The usual hour for the courier having come, I was quietly escaping to return and receive him at my office, when Delanoue ran after me and caught me up under the peristyle. He had been deputed by the Villenave family to invite me to go and take tea with them at their house, after the meeting. I owed this favour to the kind things my friend Delanoue had said about me. I then had to inquire where the Villenaves lived. No. 82 rue de Vaugirard. Oh! but 53 faubourg Saint-Denis was a fair distance from my home. Fortunately, during my five years' residence in Paris, I had learnt to know its streets pretty thoroughly, so I did not feel obliged, as on my first visit, to hire a conveyance to take me from the place du Palais-Royal to the rue des Vieux-Augustins. The invitation conveyed by Delanoue had been so courteously and warmly pressed that the least I could do was to accept it. I ran off to the office, attended to the courier and returned. During the half-hour of my absence the sitting had been concluded, and I returned to find M. Villenave in a small drawing-room that opened out of the large hall, receiving the congratulations of his friends. Delanoue introduced me to M. Villenave and to his family. The Villenave family consisted first of Madame Villenave, a very gracious little old lady, very intellectual and an experienced society entertainer, but very fond of grumbling in her home-life, for she suffered, like Anne of Austria, from a cancer which ultimately killed her; Théodore Villenave, a tall, energetic young fellow, an author, at that time, of various fugitive poems, and translator of Wallenstein, which was destined to make a great commotion behind the scenes of the Odéon for three or four years before it was put on the stage, where it had a fairly successful reception; Madame Mélanie Waldor, the wife of a captain in the infantry on service and in garrison, who only put in short and rare appearances at Paris, where those who knew him spoke of him as a brave and loyal soldier. Madame Waldor composed fugitive verses, like her brother, which she published in the daily paper; like her brother, too, she afterwards wrote a play which had a successful run under the title of the[Pg 281] École des Jeunes Filles. Last came Élisa Waldor, who at that period was only a charming little child with the head of a chérubin surrounded by lovely golden curly hair; she afterwards grew into a tall, beautiful woman, and was twice married—and happily each time, I trust.[1]
The usual time for the courier arrived, and I was quietly heading back to my office to meet him when Delanoue ran after me and caught up with me under the colonnade. He had been sent by the Villenave family to invite me to have tea with them at their house after the meeting. I owed this favor to the nice things my friend Delanoue had said about me. I then needed to ask where the Villenaves lived. No. 82 rue de Vaugirard. Oh, but 53 faubourg Saint-Denis was quite a distance from my home. Fortunately, after five years of living in Paris, I had gotten to know its streets pretty well, so I didn’t feel like I had to hire a ride from the place du Palais-Royal to the rue des Vieux-Augustins, as I might have before. The invitation from Delanoue had been so politely and warmly extended that I felt I had to accept it. I hurried to the office, took care of the courier, and returned. During the half-hour I was gone, the meeting had wrapped up, and when I got back, I found M. Villenave in a small drawing-room that opened off the large hall, receiving congratulations from his friends. Delanoue introduced me to M. Villenave and his family. The Villenave family included first Madame Villenave, a very charming little old lady, quite intellectual and experienced in hosting, but often grumbling at home, as she suffered from a cancer that eventually took her life, much like Anne of Austria; Théodore Villenave, a tall, energetic young man, who was then an author of various short poems and a translator of Wallenstein, which was destined to cause quite a stir behind the scenes of the Odéon for three or four years before it was finally staged, where it received a fairly successful reception; Madame Mélanie Waldor, the wife of a captain in the infantry who was serving at the garrison and rarely appeared in Paris, where those who knew him spoke of him as a brave and loyal soldier. Madame Waldor wrote short verses, like her brother, which she published in the daily paper; like him, she later wrote a play that had a successful run titled École des Jeunes Filles. Lastly, there was Élisa Waldor, who at that time was just a lovely little girl with a cherubic face and beautiful golden curly hair; she later grew into a tall, beautiful woman and was married twice—and hopefully happily both times.[1]
The family returned home on foot, in patriarchal fashion, accompanied by five or six friends, who, like myself, were on their way to the rue de Vaugirard, to take tea and nibble cake together there. As I was the stranger, I was allotted the position of honour—namely, to give my arm to Madame Waldor. As the distance was very long, it was a good opportunity of becoming acquainted. But, as we had never seen each other or spoken together before, the long walk would have been embarrassing to us both, had not Delanoue joined us and made a third in the conversation between the place du Palais-Royal and the rue de Vaugirard. He thereby rendered us both a great service, for which both of us were profoundly grateful to him.
The family walked home, following a traditional style, with five or six friends, including me, who were headed to rue de Vaugirard for tea and snacks. As the newcomer, I got the honor of linking arms with Madame Waldor. Since the walk was quite long, it was a perfect chance to get to know each other. However, because we had never met or spoken before, the long walk might have been awkward for both of us if Delanoue hadn't joined us, making it easier to chat between the place du Palais-Royal and rue de Vaugirard. He really helped us out, and we were both very thankful to him.
What a strange thing these chance meetings are! How astonished I should have been had anyone told me that this family, whose very existence I had not known a couple of hours before, and who were complete strangers to me, would become for the next two or three years almost as close to me as my own, and that I should traverse the road that then [Pg 282]seemed to me so long between the rue du faubourg-Saint-Denis and the rue de Vaugirard twice every day in future!
What a weird thing these chance encounters are! I would have been so surprised if someone had told me that this family, whose existence I didn’t even know about just a couple of hours ago, and who were total strangers to me, would become almost as close to me as my own family for the next two or three years. I couldn't have imagined that I would end up walking the distance that then [Pg 282]felt so long between rue du faubourg-Saint-Denis and rue de Vaugirard twice a day from then on!
But I was in haste to reach our destination, to have a talk with M. Villenave. I do not remember how it was, or on what occasion, but a pamphlet he had written fell into my hands—a little work he had published in 1794, entitled Relation des noyades de cent trente-deux Nantais (Story of the drowning of a hundred and thirty-two people of Nantes). Directly I saw M. Villenave I remembered this pamphlet, and as soon as I thought of the pamphlet I resolved to lead the conversation to Carrier, and Nantes and the hundred and thirty-two Nantais. It was not a difficult matter to set M. Villenave talking; only, his conversation was very much like a sermon. When he talked, one had to let him go on, not interrupt him, and listen to him with reverent attention. He had, indeed, happened to be at Nantes in 1793, at the same time as Jean-Baptiste Carrier, of bloody memory. God forbid we should make the faintest excuses for that terrible proconsul and the horrors he perpetrated! But it must be admitted that the Vendeans had themselves set him an abominable example. Wars conducted by priests are apt to be barbarous wars, and it is known—or rather, it is not known, that at the beginning the insurrection was entirely in the hands of priests; the nobles did not involve themselves in it until later, and, when they did take part in it, the method of butchery became rather more humane: it changed to shooting. The first person to play a part in that bloody squabble was a sacristan named Cathelineau. Machiavelli says that, "When it was decided to. assassinate Julian de Medicis in the church of Sainte-Marie-des-Fleurs, they chose ecclesiastics to do the work of assassination, because they were less likely to be impressed by the sanctity of the place."
But I was eager to reach our destination to have a conversation with M. Villenave. I don’t remember how it happened or on what occasion, but a pamphlet he wrote came into my hands—a little piece he published in 1794, called Relation des noyades de cent trente-deux Nantais (Story of the drowning of a hundred and thirty-two people of Nantes). As soon as I saw M. Villenave, I remembered this pamphlet, and once I thought of it, I decided to steer the conversation toward Carrier, Nantes, and the hundred and thirty-two Nantais. It wasn’t hard to get M. Villenave talking; the only issue was that his conversation was very sermon-like. When he spoke, you had to let him continue, not interrupt him, and listen with respectful attention. He had, in fact, been in Nantes in 1793 at the same time as Jean-Baptiste Carrier, known for his brutality. God forbid we should ever make excuses for that horrible proconsul and the atrocities he committed! But it has to be acknowledged that the Vendeans set a terrible example themselves. Wars led by priests tend to be brutal, and it’s known—or rather, it’s not known—that in the beginning, the insurrection was completely in the hands of priests; the nobles didn’t get involved until later, and when they did, their methods of killing became a bit more humane: it shifted to shooting. The first person to get involved in that bloody conflict was a sacristan named Cathelineau. Machiavelli says that “When it was decided to assassinate Julian de Medicis in the church of Sainte-Marie-des-Fleurs, they chose ecclesiastics to carry out the assassination because they were less likely to be affected by the sanctity of the place.”
It is a strange but indisputable fact that when men of peace and love and charity turn into executioners, they become the most refined in cruelty of all; witness the in-pace (dungeons) of convents, witness the cells of the Inquisition, witness the[Pg 283] massacres of Alby, witness the auto-da-fés of Madrid, witness Joan of Arc, witness Urbain Grandier.
It’s a strange but undeniable fact that when people of peace, love, and charity become executioners, they can be the most sophisticated in their cruelty; just look at the in-pace (dungeons) of convents, the cells of the Inquisition, the[Pg 283] massacres at Albi, the auto-da-fés in Madrid, Joan of Arc, and Urbain Grandier.
This Cathelineau was what the country people between Angers and Saint-Laurent would term a sturdy lad (gars). Only three months elapsed between the day of his first shot and the day when he was killed, but these three months sufficed to make his name renowned in history. He was neither tall, nor had he refined manners; he was but five feet four inches high; but he had well-set shoulders and the hips were splendidly poised, and he possessed the fine cool prudent courage of the men of the West. We have mentioned that he was a sacristan, but he was many other things beside; he was mason, carrier, linen-merchant, a married man and the father of twelve or fourteen children. He had hardly gained a hearing before he set up a superior council comprised chiefly of priests: they troubled themselves but little over the nobles. The head of this council was the famous Bernier, curé d'Angers. Cathelineau was the man for him; the simple peasant discovered a quicker method of starting an insurrection than the pope with his bulls or the priests with their sermons. He advised the curés to shroud the crucifixes in black crèpe and to carry them thus in their processions. At the sight of their Christ in mourning, the peasants could no longer contain themselves; women tore their hair, men beat their breasts and all swore to kill the Republicans, root and branch, since they had grieved the Saviour. It should be added that nothing could be less knightly and less patriotic than the proclamations of these brave folk:—
This Cathelineau was what the local people between Angers and Saint-Laurent would call a tough guy (gars). Only three months passed between the day of his first shot and the day he was killed, but those three months were enough to make his name famous in history. He wasn't tall, nor did he have polished manners; he stood just five feet four inches tall. However, he had strong shoulders and was well-proportioned, with the calm and practical courage typical of the men from the West. We noted that he was a sacristan, but he was also many other things; he was a mason, a carrier, a linen merchant, a married man, and the father of twelve or fourteen children. He hardly took a breath before he established a superior council mainly made up of priests, who paid little attention to the nobles. The head of this council was the well-known Bernier, curé d'Angers. Cathelineau was just the person for him; the simple peasant discovered a faster way to start a rebellion than the pope with his bulls or the priests with their sermons. He suggested that the curés cover the crucifixes in black crepe and carry them in their processions like that. Upon seeing their Christ in mourning, the peasants could no longer hold back; women tore their hair, men beat their chests, and everyone vowed to kill the Republicans, root and branch, because they had upset the Savior. It should be noted that nothing could be less chivalrous and less patriotic than the proclamations of these brave folks:—
"Down with conscription! Down with the militia! Let us dwell in our own countryside. People tell us the enemy may descend on us and threaten our homes. Well and good, let them first trespass on our soil, we shall be ready to meet them there!"
"Forget the draft! Forget the militia! Let's just stay in our own rural areas. People say the enemy might come after us and threaten our homes. Fine, let them set foot on our land first; we'll be ready to confront them there!"
And those who talked thus were well aware that the enemy would have devastated, pillaged and burned all France and demolished Paris before it ventured between their[Pg 284] hedges and among their furze bushes and in their sunken pathways.
And those who spoke this way knew that the enemy would have destroyed, looted, and burned all of France and wrecked Paris before they dared to come between their[Pg 284] hedges, among their gorse bushes, and down their sunken paths.
It was equivalent to saying, "What does it matter to us what may happen to Alsace and Lorraine, Champagne and Burgundy, the Dauphiné and Provence?... What does it matter to us if they extinguish Paris, the light of the world?... Time enough to seize our guns when we see the Cossack leap his horse over our hedges!"
It was like saying, "Why should we care about what happens to Alsace and Lorraine, Champagne and Burgundy, the Dauphiné and Provence?... Why should we care if they destroy Paris, the light of the world?... We’ll have plenty of time to grab our guns when we see the Cossack jump his horse over our fences!"
Now the most picturesque of writers would find great difficulty in giving a patriotic turn to such assertions as these. Personally, I much prefer the volunteers who ran in front of the Prussians as far as Valmy, to these peasants who waited quietly behind their hedgerows; and all the more so since I am not at all convinced that they were not really waiting for them on purpose to ally themselves to them. Why should they not compound with the Prussians? they entered into plenty of negotiations with the English! The war, then, began between patriots and royalists, between citizens and peasants. There were constitutional towns, manufacturing ones,—as, for example, Chollet, where very beautiful handkerchiefs are made,—which contained numbers of workpeople who did not wish for Prussians in France or for friends of the Prussians. One day they heard that the people of Bressuire had risen in revolt; they armed themselves with pikes and rushed off to attack them. So the town of Chollet was especially marked out for hatred by the peasants.
Now even the most poetic writers would find it hard to put a patriotic spin on claims like these. Personally, I much prefer the volunteers who charged ahead of the Prussians all the way to Valmy, as opposed to these peasants who waited quietly behind their hedgerows; especially since I’m not at all convinced they weren’t actually waiting for them on purpose to join forces. Why wouldn’t they negotiate with the Prussians? They did plenty of deals with the English! The war then began between patriots and royalists, between citizens and peasants. There were constitutional towns, manufacturing ones—like Chollet, known for its beautiful handkerchiefs—that housed many workers who didn’t want the Prussians in France or their supporters. One day, they heard that the people of Bressuire had risen in revolt; they armed themselves with pikes and rushed off to confront them. Consequently, the town of Chollet became especially hated by the peasants.
On 4 March, they attacked it in their turn. A commanding officer belonging to the National Guard trusted himself among a group of royalists; he went among them to endeavour to reconcile the two parties; soon, cries of pain issued from this group, the members of which had closed round him and were slashing at his legs with his own sword.
On March 4, they launched their own attack. A commanding officer from the National Guard placed his trust in a group of royalists; he approached them in an attempt to bring the two sides together. Soon, cries of pain came from this group, whose members had surrounded him and were hacking at his legs with his own sword.
On the 10th, came the turn of Machecoul; here, there was less to do than at Chollet. Machecoul was a small town, exposed on every side and easy to capture. They first learnt the danger they were in on a Sunday; the tocsin was rung and all the peasantry of the surrounding country made for the town.[Pg 285] Two hundred patriots rallied and bravely advanced against the assailants—two hundred against two thousand!—the mass opened, surrounded the little band and made but one mouthful of it. Machecoul had a constitutional curé, and the priests who had not taken the oath to the constitution bore a grudge against those who had: they protested that the latter "spoilt the profession"; they seized the poor man as he came to say mass, and they killed him; but there was a preconcerted plan among them to kill him by inches by blows on the face. The torture lasted a long time: life is sometimes very tenacious, especially in the hands of skilful executioners, who do not incline to chase it too quickly out of the body. But everything has an end: the curé died a martyr, and, when he was dead, they consulted an old huntsman, a clever bugle blower, and organised a hunt, searching from house to house to track down their quarry. When they unearthed a patriot they blew the vue, at the sound of which every man, woman and child ran out (in this kind of warfare, women and children are even worse than men). When the patriot was beaten down, the hallali was bugled, then came the curée, which lasted a long time: it was carried out, usually, by women, with the help of scissors and nails, and by children, with the aid of stones. Machecoul lies on an eminence between two departments; it was judged to be a good place for establishing a court of justice; and they massacred there for forty-two days, from 10 March to 22 April.
On the 10th, it was Machecoul's turn; there was less to do here than in Chollet. Machecoul was a small town, exposed on all sides and easy to capture. They first realized the danger they were in on a Sunday; the alarm bell rang, and all the locals from the surrounding area rushed to the town.[Pg 285] Two hundred patriots gathered and bravely faced the attackers—two hundred against two thousand!—the mob closed in, surrounding the small group and overwhelming them. Machecoul had a constitutional priest, and the priests who refused to take the oath to the constitution resented those who did: they complained that the latter "ruined the profession"; they captured the poor man as he came to say mass and killed him; but there was a coordinated plan among them to torture him slowly with blows to the face. The torture went on for a long time: life can sometimes cling on tenaciously, especially in the hands of skilled torturers who don’t rush to take it away. But everything comes to an end: the priest died a martyr, and after he died, they consulted an old huntsman, a skilled bugler, and organized a hunt, searching house to house to track down their prey. When they found a patriot, they blew the vue, at which sound every man, woman, and child rushed out (in this kind of warfare, women and children are often worse than men). When the patriot was brought down, the hallali was sounded, followed by the prolonged curée: it was usually carried out by women, using scissors and nails, and by children, using stones. Machecoul sits on a rise between two regions; it was seen as a good place to set up a court of justice; and they continued to massacre there for forty-two days, from March 10 to April 22.
The reader knows how the insurrection spread from the Lower Vendée to the Higher. It was brought about by an affair at Saint-Florent: an émigré had sent his servant, a Vendean named Forest into Vendée to preach resistance, and opposition to the military system. They tried to stop him, but he would not be denied a hearing; he openly preached revolt in the streets. A gendarme came to him; he drew a pistol from his pocket, fired at the gendarme and killed him. That pistol-shot woke those who were yet slumbering, And, mark well, when this unlucky shot was fired, the tocsin was already ringing in six hundred parishes;[Pg 286] then it was carried by the wind in all directions; nothing could be heard but the ringing of bells, as though flocks of invisible birds were flying over their brazen tongues. The vibration of those deadly knells, which were answering one another from village to village, grew in volume, clashing in the air, charging the atmosphere like a thunderstorm, with electric currents of hatred and of revenge.
The reader knows how the uprising spread from the Lower Vendée to the Upper Vendée. It all started with an incident in Saint-Florent: an émigré sent his servant, a Vendean named Forest, into Vendée to promote resistance and oppose the military system. They tried to stop him, but he insisted on being heard; he openly preached revolt in the streets. A gendarme approached him; he pulled a pistol from his pocket, shot the gendarme, and killed him. That gunshot woke those who were still asleep. And, importantly, when that unfortunate shot was fired, the alarm bells were already ringing in six hundred parishes;[Pg 286] then the sound carried on the wind in all directions; all you could hear was the ringing of bells, as if flocks of invisible birds were flying over their metal tongues. The sound of those deadly bells, echoing from village to village, grew louder, clashing in the air, charging the atmosphere like a thunderstorm, filled with electric currents of hatred and revenge.
Meantime, what was Cathelineau, the prime mover of all this, busy about? We will hear Michelet's version:—
Meantime, what was Cathelineau, the driving force behind all this, up to? Let’s hear Michelet's take:—
"He had heard of the fight at Saint-Florent and the firing of guns clearly enough; nor could he be unaware by the 12th of the frightful massacre of the 10th, which had compromised the Vendean coast in the revolt past all drawing back. Even if he had not heard anything, the tocsin would have roused him hard enough: the whole country seemed in an uproar, the very earth trembled. He began to think things were growing serious, and whether from the foresight of the father of a family which he was shortly to leave, or whether from military prudence, in the matter of laying in stores of food, he began to heat his ovens and to make bread. First came his nephew, with the story of the affray at Saint-Florent. Cathelineau continued to knead his dough. Then the neighbours began dropping in—a tailor, a weaver, a shoemaker, a hatter.
"He had heard about the fight at Saint-Florent and the gunfire; by the 12th, he couldn't avoid knowing about the horrific massacre on the 10th, which had pushed the Vendean coast into rebellion without any way to turn back. Even if he hadn’t heard anything, the alarm bells would have woken him up: the whole area seemed to be in chaos, the ground itself shook. He started to think things were getting serious, and whether it was the instinct of a father about to leave his family or just common sense, he began preparing by heating his ovens and baking bread. First, his nephew came with news of the fight at Saint-Florent. Cathelineau kept kneading his dough. Then the neighbors started to arrive—a tailor, a weaver, a shoemaker, a hat maker."
"'Well, neighbour, what shall we do?'
"'Well, neighbor, what should we do?'"
"Quite twenty-seven of them had assembled there, bent on following his counsel implicitly. He pointed out first that a crisis had come: the leaven had done its work, the fermentation was sufficiently advanced; it was time to stop kneading, wipe his hands and shoulder his gun. Twenty-seven went forth; at the end of the village they numbered five hundred. It was the whole of the population, all worthy men, sturdy, strong, steadfastly brave and honest, the very pick of the Vendean armies, intrepid leaders almost always to be found in the front ranks, facing the Republican cannon."
"Twenty-seven of them had gathered there, ready to follow his advice without hesitation. He realized that a crisis had come: the influence had taken hold, the excitement was rising; it was time to stop working, wash his hands, and grab his gun. Twenty-seven set out; by the edge of the village, they had grown to five hundred. It was the entire population, all honorable men—strong, tough, consistently brave and honest, the very best of the Vendean armies, fearless leaders who were almost always at the front lines, facing the Republican cannons."
By the time they reached Chollet, they were fifteen thousand. They had seized a piece of cannon at Jallais, which they christened the Missionnaire; and a second, at some other place, which was dubbed Marie-Jeanne. All along the route priests[Pg 287] joined their ranks, exhorting, preaching, singing mass to them. They started on the 12th, as we have seen; after the 14th, a large band joined forces with them, headed by a man who was to share the command with Cathelineau, and, later, to succeed him. This was Stofflet, another rough but brave peasant, a gamekeeper on M. Maulevrier's estate, whose grandson, poor lad, the last descendant of the race, was killed out hunting, at the age of sixteen. When the Vendean army reached Chollet it sent in a flag of truce—a strange envoy he was, too, and he gives us a good idea of the times, the place and the circumstances: his head and his feet were bare; he carried in his hand a crucifix crowned with thorns, bound round with a huge rosary; his eyes were lifted to heaven, as those of a mystic or martyr, and he cried out between his sobs—
By the time they arrived in Chollet, their numbers had grown to fifteen thousand. They had captured a cannon at Jallais, which they named the Missionnaire, and another at a different location, which they called Marie-Jeanne. Along the way, priests[Pg 287] joined them, encouraging, preaching, and holding mass for them. They set off on the 12th, as we've mentioned; after the 14th, a larger group came together with them, led by a man who would co-command alongside Cathelineau and later take over from him. This was Stofflet, another tough but courageous peasant, a gamekeeper on M. Maulevrier's estate, whose grandson, sadly, the last of his line, was killed while hunting at the age of sixteen. When the Vendean army reached Chollet, they sent in a flag of truce—an unusual envoy indeed, and he gives us a clear idea of the times, place, and circumstances: his head and feet were bare; he held a crucifix adorned with thorns in one hand, wrapped with a large rosary; his eyes were lifted to heaven, as if he were a mystic or martyr, and he cried out between his sobs—
"Surrender, my dear friends, or you will all be put to fire and sword!"
"Surrender, my dear friends, or you'll all face fire and sword!"
This summons was made in the name of commanding officer Stofflet and almoner Barbotin.
This summons was issued in the name of commanding officer Stofflet and chaplain Barbotin.
The whole of the garrison of Chollet comprised three hundred patriots armed with muskets, and five hundred armed with pikes; they attempted to offer resistance to fifteen thousand men; but, of course, resistance was utterly impossible; M. de Beauveau, the head of the Republicans, fell in the first attack. The patriots retired into a part of the castle which commanded the square, and from whence they could fire upon the Vendeans as they entered the square; this was all the easier as there was a Calvary in the square before which every peasant knelt and prayed, heedless of the firing, not returning to the fight until his prayers were finished and the sign of the cross made. These good folk—let us lay stress on the word and call them brave folk—for they did not understand the enormity of the crimes they were committing, since their priests had ordered them!—did not plunder, but they killed not merely during battle, which was a necessity, but even afterwards, and they killed cruelly, as we shall see.
The entire garrison of Chollet consisted of three hundred patriots armed with muskets and five hundred armed with pikes; they tried to resist fifteen thousand men, but obviously, resistance was completely impossible. M. de Beauveau, the leader of the Republicans, was killed in the first attack. The patriots retreated to part of the castle that overlooked the square, allowing them to shoot at the Vendeans as they entered the square. This was made easier by a Calvary in the square, in front of which every peasant knelt and prayed, oblivious to the gunfire, not returning to the fight until their prayers were complete and they had made the sign of the cross. These good people—let’s emphasize that they were brave folks—did not grasp the seriousness of the crimes they were committing, as their priests had commanded them! They did not loot, but they killed not just during battle, which was necessary, but even afterwards, and they killed mercilessly, as we will see.
We will again refer to Michelet for an account of how[Pg 288] they killed; if I related it to you in my own words you would say I was romancing. He, it is known, did not lie; he was, indeed, driven from his chair because he told the truth not only about the past but also about the future. Michelet says:—
We will again turn to Michelet for an account of how[Pg 288] they killed; if I recounted it in my own words, you would think I was exaggerating. He, as we know, didn't lie; he was, in fact, pushed from his seat because he spoke the truth not just about the past but also about the future. Michelet says:—
"Directly a prisoner was confessed, the peasants no longer hesitated to kill him, as his spiritual salvation was made secure; several escaped death by refusing confession, and by saying that they were not yet in a state of grace; one of them was spared because he was a Protestant and could not confess. They were afraid to send him into damnation. History has dealt very severely with the unfortunate patriots who slaughtered the Vendeans; many of them displayed heroic courage and died like martyrs. Those who were cut into pieces could be counted by hundreds. I will give one instance, among many, of a boy of sixteen who, over the dead body of his father, shouted 'Vive la nation!' until he was pierced through by a score of bayonettes. The most celebrated of these martyrs was Sauveur, a municipal officer of Roche-Bernard, rather let us say of Roche-Sauveur, for it should preserve his name. This town, which is a thoroughfare between Nantes and Vannes, was attacked on the 16th by an immense gathering of nearly six thousand peasants; there were hardly any armed men in the town and it was compelled to surrender. The maddened crowd began at once by butchering twenty-two persons on the square, on the pretext of a gun going off suddenly in the air; they rushed upon the town hall and discovered the procureur syndic, Sauveur, a fearless magistrate who had stuck to his post. He was seized and dragged off; they put him into a dungeon whence, next day, he was taken out to be barbarously massacred. They sampled all kinds of weapons on him, principally pistols: they fired at him with small shot, trying to make him cry, 'Vive le roi!' but he would only shout, 'Vive la république!' Infuriated, they fired at his mouth with gunpowder and dragged him before the Calvary to beg for mercy; he lifted his eyes to heaven in adoration, but still he cried, 'Vive la nation!' Next they shot his left eye out and kicked him on a few paces; mangled and bleeding, he stood with hands clasped looking upward.
"Once a prisoner confessed, the peasants no longer hesitated to kill him, believing his spiritual salvation was assured; several escaped death by refusing to confess and claiming they weren’t in a state of grace; one was spared because he was Protestant and couldn’t confess. They feared sending him to damnation. History has been very harsh on the unfortunate patriots who killed the Vendeans; many of them showed heroic courage and died like martyrs. Those who were dismembered numbered in the hundreds. I'll share just one example among many, of a sixteen-year-old boy who, over his father's dead body, shouted 'Vive la nation!' until he was pierced by a barrage of bayonets. The most well-known of these martyrs was Sauveur, a municipal officer from Roche-Bernard, or rather, Roche-Sauveur, as it should honor his name. This town, which is a key route between Nantes and Vannes, was attacked on the 16th by a massive crowd of nearly six thousand peasants; there were hardly any armed men in the town, and it was forced to surrender. The crazed mob immediately began by butchering twenty-two people in the square, all triggered by the sudden firing of a gun into the air. They stormed the town hall and found the procureur syndic, Sauveur, a brave magistrate who had stayed at his post. He was captured and dragged away; they locked him in a dungeon and took him out the next day to be brutally killed. They tried all kinds of weapons on him, mainly pistols: they shot him with small pellets, trying to make him shout, 'Vive le roi!' but he only yelled, 'Vive la république!' Enraged, they forced gunpowder into his mouth and brought him before the Calvary to plead for mercy; he looked up to heaven in devotion, but still cried, 'Vive la nation!' Next, they shot out his left eye and kicked him a few paces; mangled and bleeding, he stood with his hands clasped, looking upward."
"'Commend thy spirit to God!' yelled his assassins.
"'Commend your spirit to God!' yelled his assassins.
"They shot him down; he fell, but rose again, clasping tightly his magisterial medal and still kissing it. Again he was fired upon; he fell on one knee, dragged himself to the edge of a trench with stoical calmness, without a single groan or cry of anger or of despair! His fortitude drove the frenzied mob to madness, for his only words were—
"They shot him down; he fell, but got back up, holding tightly to his medal of honor and still kissing it. He was fired at again; he dropped to one knee, pulling himself to the edge of a trench with steady composure, without a single groan or shout of anger or despair! His courage pushed the frenzied mob into a frenzy, for his only words were—
"'Finish me off, my friends,' and 'Vive la République! Do not keep me lingering on, friends; 'Vive la nation!'
"'Finish me off, my friends,' and 'Long live the Republic! Don't let me suffer any longer, friends; 'Long live the nation!'"
"He made his confession of faith to the end, and they silenced him with blows from the butt ends of their rifles!"
"He held onto his beliefs until the end, and they silenced him with hits from the backs of their rifles!"
What do you think of that, you Royalist gentlemen? Surely the 2nd and 3rd of September could not show you anything better than that? Wait a bit, this is not all; and what we are about to tell, be it clearly understood, is not written for the purpose of reviving hatred, but to make people detest civil warfare. If I once again borrow Michelet's words, it is not only because they are more eloquent than mine, but so that there may be two of us to cry "Shame!" Listen, and you will see how true are his words:—
What do you think of that, you Royalist guys? Surely nothing better than that could be shown to you on September 2nd and 3rd, right? Hold on, this isn’t everything; and what we’re about to share, just so it’s clear, isn’t meant to stir up hatred, but to get people to dislike civil war. If I borrow Michelet’s words again, it’s not just because they’re more powerful than mine, but so there are two of us shouting "Shame!" Listen, and you’ll see how true his words are:—
"One essential difference that we have noticed between the violence of the revolutionist and that of the fanatic, urged on by the fury of priests is, that the former, in killing, desire nothing but to be rid of their enemy; the latter, inspired with the feelings of ferocity of the times of the Inquisition, have less desire to kill than to cause suffering, to make the poor finite victim expiate in infinite misery, in protracted agony, by way of avenging God! To read the gentle idyllic accounts of Royalist writers, one might think that these insurgents were saints; that, in the main, they only exacted vengeance and entered upon reprisals when forced thereto by the cruelties of the Republicans. Let them tell us what were the reprisals which caused the people of Pontivy, on the 12th or 13th of March, led by a refractory curé, to murder seventeen of the National Guard in the public square! Were they reprisals which were exercised at Machecoul, for six weeks, under the organised authority of the Royalist Committee? One Souchu, a tax-gatherer, who presided, filled and emptied the town prisons four times. The mob had, as we have seen, at first killed from sheer sport out of brutal delight. Souchu put a stop to that, and took care that the executions[Pg 290] should be long drawn-out and painful. As executioners, he specially preferred children, because their clumsy hands caused more protracted suffering. Seasoned men such as sailors and soldiers could not witness these deeds without indignation, and wanted to prevent them, so the Royalist Committee did its murders by night: they did not shoot any longer, but slaughtered their victims and then hastily covered up the dying with earth. According to authentic reports made at the Convention, 542 persons perished in one month and by what ghastly deaths! When they could find practically no more men to slay they proceeded to women. Many were Republicans and not sufficiently complaisant to the priests who had a spite against them. A frightful miracle took place: in one of the churches there was a tomb of some noted saint or other; they consulted it; a priest said mass over the tomb and laid hands on it. Behold, the stone moved.
"One major difference we've seen between the violence of revolutionaries and that of fanatics incited by priests is that the former, when they kill, only want to eliminate their enemies; the latter, driven by the harsh mindsets from the Inquisition era, care less about killing and more about inflicting suffering, forcing their unfortunate victims to endure endless misery and prolonged agony as a way to avenge God! If you read the gentle, idealized stories from Royalist writers, you'd think these insurgents were saints, mainly seeking revenge and only resorting to retaliation when pushed by the cruelty of Republicans. But what about the retaliatory actions that led the people of Pontivy, on March 12th or 13th, led by a rebellious priest, to murder seventeen members of the National Guard in the public square? Were these reprisals carried out in Machecoul for six weeks under the organized authority of the Royalist Committee? One tax collector named Souchu, who was in charge, filled and emptied the town's prisons four times. As we've seen, the mob initially killed just for fun, out of brutal enjoyment. Souchu put a stop to that and ensured that the executions[Pg 290] were prolonged and painful. He preferred to use children as executioners because their inexperienced hands caused more extended suffering. Skilled men like sailors and soldiers couldn't witness these acts without feeling outraged and wanted to put an end to them, so the Royalist Committee conducted their murders at night: they no longer shot their victims but slaughtered them and then swiftly buried the dying. According to credible reports submitted to the Convention, 542 people died in a month in horrific ways! When they had nearly run out of men to kill, they turned to women. Many of these women were Republicans and didn't show enough respect to the priests who harbored grudges against them. A terrifying miracle happened: in one of the churches, there was a tomb of a famous saint; they consulted it; a priest held mass over the tomb and placed his hands on it. Suddenly, the stone moved."
"'I can feel it rising up!' exclaimed the priest.
"'I can feel it rising up!' the priest exclaimed."
"And why did it rise up? To demand a sacrifice pleasing to God, namely, that women should no longer be spared but slaughtered! Happily, indeed, the Republicans, the National Guard from Nantes, arrived.
"And why did it rise up? To demand a sacrifice that would please God, specifically, that women should no longer be spared but killed! Luckily, the Republicans, the National Guard from Nantes, arrived."
"'Alas!' the townspeople said to them, coming to them weeping and wringing their hands, 'you come too late! You can but save the walls, the town itself is exterminated!...'
"'Oh no!' the townspeople cried to them, approaching in tears and wringing their hands, 'you've come too late! You can only save the walls; the town itself is gone!...'"
"And they pointed to the place where men had been buried alive. Horrified, they beheld a shrivelled hand which in the fearful anguish of suffocation had seized hold of and twisted the withered grasses...."
"And they pointed to the spot where men had been buried alive. Horrified, they saw a shriveled hand that, in the terrible agony of suffocation, had grabbed and twisted the dried grasses...."
Is it any good to speak about Carrier after all this? What would it serve to tell of his bateaux à Soupapes;[2] of his bagnades républicaines; of his mariages révolutionnaires [men and women bound hands and feet together and thrown into the Loire]; of his déportations verticales.[3] It would only be to set crime against crime, which would prove nothing beyond the wickedness of man. Besides, Carrier has atoned for his crimes. I am well aware that though this may have been enough to satisfy the requirements of justice as far as the man himself[Pg 291] was concerned, it has not been sufficient to satisfy history. It was in vain for Carrier to struggle with all his might and main against the accusation, which came upon him like a shock; in vain for him to exclaim, with sombre eyes, outstretched arms and strident voice, to his old colleagues, now become his judges—
Is it worth discussing Carrier after all this? What purpose would it serve to talk about his bateaux à Soupapes; [2] his bagnades républicaines; his mariages révolutionnaires [men and women tied together and thrown into the Loire]; or his déportations verticales.[3] It would only be comparing crime to crime, which wouldn't prove anything beyond the evil of humanity. Besides, Carrier has paid for his crimes. I know that while this might have been enough to satisfy the demands of justice for him personally[Pg 291], it has not been enough for history. It was pointless for Carrier to fight with all his strength against the accusations that hit him like a shock; pointless for him to cry out, with dark eyes, outstretched arms, and a loud voice, to his former colleagues, who had now become his judges—
"I do not understand you! You must be mad! Why blame me to-day for doing what you gave me orders to do yesterday? In accusing me, the Convention accuses itself.... My condemnation, look to it, is your condemnation also; you will find yourselves caught in the same proscription with me: if I am guilty, so is every man here ... every one, every one, every one! down to the very bell on the president's table!"
"I don't understand you! You must be crazy! Why are you blaming me today for doing what you told me to do yesterday? By accusing me, the Convention is accusing itself.... My punishment, just so you know, is your punishment too; you'll find yourselves in the same situation as me: if I'm guilty, then so is every man here ... everyone, everyone, everyone! right down to the bell on the president's table!"
But all his cries were useless. And herein lies the horror of revolutions; they reach a pitch at which the same terror that drove them into action drives them into reaction, and in which the guillotine, sated with drinking the blood of the accused, is callously and indifferently willing to drink the blood of judges and executioners! This reaction, which set in two days later, saved the lives of André Chénier and M. Villenave, together with a hundred and thirty-one of the Nantais, his companions.
But all his cries were pointless. And this is the chilling reality of revolutions; they escalate to a point where the same fear that pushed them into action turns into a force that drives them back, and where the guillotine, having quenched its thirst on the blood of the accused, coldly and indifferently prepares to drink the blood of judges and executioners! This backlash, which began two days later, spared the lives of André Chénier and M. Villenave, along with one hundred thirty-one of their companions from Nantes.
[1] Alas! since these lines were penned death has intervened in the life and happiness of this poor lady, for I read in the papers one day at Brussels, in words as cold as the steel of the Middle Ages which used to be placed in the hands of a skeleton:—
[1] Unfortunately! since these lines were written, death has cut short the life and happiness of this unfortunate lady, for I came across the news in the papers one day in Brussels, in words as cold as the steel from the Middle Ages that used to be held by a skeleton:—
"Madame Bataillard, daughter of Madame Mélanie Waldor, has just died after a long and painful illness. The funeral will take place to-morrow. Any friends who may not have received an invitation to be present are invited to attend at the cemetery at eleven o'clock."
"Madame Bataillard, daughter of Madame Mélanie Waldor, has just died after a long and painful illness. The funeral will be held tomorrow. Any friends who haven’t received an invitation are welcome to join at the cemetery at eleven o'clock."
Unhappily, the notice came too late for me. Amongst all her many friends I certainly held her in the most affectionate remembrance, and I was denied the consolation either of seeing her before she died or of following her to her grave. The merry child, the beautiful young girl, the serious and intelligent wife, who should have died long after us, since we saw her grow up, has gone before us, and we still wait here!
Unluckily, the news came too late for me. Out of all her many friends, I definitely cherished her the most, and I missed the comfort of being able to see her before she passed away or of attending her funeral. The cheerful child, the lovely young woman, the thoughtful and smart wife, who should have lived long after us, having grown up in front of us, has left us, and we are still here waiting!
[3] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—See note 2.
CHAPTER XIII
M. Villenave's house—The master's despotic rule—The savant's coquetry—Description of the sanctuary of the man of science—I am admitted, thanks to an autograph of Buonaparte—The crevice in the wall—The eight thousand folios—The pastel by Latour—Voyages of discovery for an Elzevir or a Faust—The fall of the portrait and the death of the original
Mr. Villenave's house—The master's strict authority—The scholar's romance—A look into the scientist's sanctuary—I get in, thanks to an autograph from Buonaparte—The wall's crack—The eight thousand books—The pastel by Latour—Searches for an Elzevir or a Faust—The portrait falls and the original fades away.
I meant to talk of M. Villenave, and behold I have been talking about Cathelineau, Stofflet, Sauveur and Carrier. What a strange thing imagination is! the wayward inhabitant of one's house, thought to be a slave therein, but in reality its queen!
I intended to talk about M. Villenave, and instead I ended up discussing Cathelineau, Stofflet, Sauveur, and Carrier. What a strange thing imagination is! The unpredictable resident of one’s mind, thought to be its servant, but in reality, its ruler!
I left off saying that we were going to take tea at M. Villenave's house.
I stopped after mentioning that we were going to have tea at M. Villenave's place.
Every bird makes its own nest, whether of twigs or of different kinds of feathers; and each man makes his own home—when he possesses one at all—indicative of his character, his temperament and his idiosyncrasy. And so M. Villenave's house had its own characteristics, reflecting the taste of its occupant. It was built of stones which had once been white, but which time had coloured grey, and which were fast turning into black. It did not open out on the road; it was a severe and gloomy-looking house which did not lend itself to any such frivolous doings; a wall, ten feet high, faced the street, like a kind of outwork, ornamented at the top by a formidable fringe of jagged glass. This wall had in it two gates, a large one and a small one. Unless carriages wanted to enter, the large one was always kept shut, its hinges rusty, its lock broken; the small door, next to the porter's lodge, opened upon and gave access to the garden—a[Pg 293] garden trodden hard into paths without flower-borders, possessing vines without grapes, and leafless trees that did not afford any shade. If, by any chance, a flower pushed its way up in some corner, it was a wild flower that had mistaken that damp enclosure for waste ground and had sprung up there unawares—a bindweed, a daisy or a buttercup. One day the poor flower would hear a cry of surprise and see a pretty, rosy-cheeked child, with curly golden hair, running to it in breathless haste and with eager feet, her eyes fixed on it, and then furtively grasp it as carefully as though it were a butterfly; when she had picked it, she would run with joyful surprise to her mother, crying—
Every bird builds its own nest, whether from twigs or various feathers; similarly, each person creates their own home—if they have one—reflecting their character, temperament, and quirks. M. Villenave's house had its own distinct features, showcasing its owner's taste. It was made of stones that used to be white but had turned grey with age and were now becoming black. It didn’t have an entrance facing the road; instead, it was a stark and gloomy residence that didn’t cater to any lighthearted activities. A ten-foot-high wall confronted the street, acting as a kind of fortress, topped with a menacing arrangement of jagged glass. This wall had two gates, a large one and a small one. Unless carriages were entering, the large gate was always kept closed, its hinges rusted and its lock broken. The small door, next to the porter’s lodge, opened into the garden—a[Pg 293] garden that had been trampled into paths without flower beds, featuring vines that bore no grapes, and leafless trees that offered no shade. If, by chance, a flower managed to bloom in some corner, it was a wildflower that mistakenly thought this damp area was abandoned ground and sprouted there unbidden—a bindweed, a daisy, or a buttercup. One day, the lonely flower would hear a cry of surprise and see a sweet, rosy-cheeked child with curly golden hair rushing toward it, her eyes locked on it, and then she would gently grab it as if it were a butterfly; after picking it, she would dash off in joyful excitement to her mother, shouting—
"See, mamma! a flower!..."
"Look, Mom! A flower!..."
The garden, which may have been fifteen mètres square, was bounded on the side of the house by a pathway of paving-stones, leading to a corridor tiled with square red bricks, a staircase at the end completing the vista. But before you reached this staircase, you first passed four doors. The one on the left belonged to the dining-room, the window of which looked out upon the tidiest part of the garden; on the right, opposite it, was a small room, not much used, where a table and three or four old arm-chairs were left to grow damp. In several places the wall paper was bulging out and falling off, without anybody taking any notice of it, and was becoming pitted with green and white damp spots. Then, on the left again, came the kitchen door, and, on the right, the larder and pantry. This dark and damp ground-floor was like a catacomb, and was only descended into at meal-times. The real dwelling-rooms, where we were entertained, were on the first floor. This floor contained a small and a large drawing-room, and the bedrooms belonging to Madame Villenave and Madame Waldor. We will leave the small drawing-room and the two bedrooms and give our whole attention to the large salon, which, after the attics (let us hasten to mention these here, before we have the right of entering them), was the strangest room in the house. Its shape was a long rectangle, having, at each of its angles,[Pg 294] a console table supporting a bust. One of these busts was that of the master of the house. Between the two busts, at the bottom end, on a marble-topped table opposite the fireplace, was the most important piece of art and archæology in the room: this was the bronze urn that had once contained the heart of Bayard. A little bas-relief encircled the urn depicting the "chevalier sans peur et sans reproche" leaning against a tree and kissing his sword handle. Next came four large pictures—three of them portraits and the fourth a landscape. Let us begin with the landscape—honour to whom honour is due—the landscape was by Claude Lorraine. One of the portraits represented Anne Boleyn and was signed by Holbein. I forget by whom the two other paintings were: one was of Madame de Montespan and the other either Madame de Sévigné or de Grignan, I am not sure which. The walls were covered with one of those indefinite papers that leave no impression on the memory; the furniture was upholstered in Utrecht velvet; large couches with thin white arms, like the arms of a hunchback, invited friends of the family to be comfortable; while there were chairs and arm-chairs for more formal visitors. That storey had both its king and its vice-queen: the king was M. Villenave, the vice-queen was Madame Waldor. We purposely say "vice-queen," because immediately M. Villenave entered his salon he became the master of it, the king—more than king, the despot! M. Villenave was inclined to be tyrannical in character, and exercised this tyranny over strangers as well as over his own family. Like those petty princes of Italy whose principles people are obliged to adopt as soon as they have crossed the borders of their limited territories, so with M. Villenave, when you had stepped across the threshold of his salon, he would not allow you to hold a different opinion from his own on any subject. You became part of the being of the man, who had seen everything and studied everything, and, in fact, knew everything. Although this tyrannical spirit was tempered by the courtesy appertaining to the master of the house, it none the less had a depressing[Pg 295] effect on the company generally. Although in the presence of M. Villenave the conversation was, as they used to express it, bien menée—i.e. skilfully managed—yet it was always less amusing, more fettered and less brilliant than when he was not present. It was just like the difference between a minuet and the game of puss-in-the-corner. It was exactly the reverse at Nodier's social evenings: Nodier liked people to make themselves as much at home as he was.
The garden, which was about fifteen square meters, was bordered on the house side by a pathway of paving stones that led to a corridor with square red tiles, with a staircase at the end completing the view. But before reaching this staircase, you first passed four doors. The one on the left was the dining room, whose window overlooked the tidiest part of the garden; on the right, opposite, was a small room that wasn’t used much, containing a table and three or four old armchairs that were left to get damp. In several places, the wallpaper was bulging and peeling off, and no one paid any attention to it, becoming marked with green and white damp spots. Then, on the left again, was the kitchen door, and on the right, the larder and pantry. This dark and damp ground floor felt like a catacomb and was only used at mealtimes. The real living areas, where we socialized, were on the first floor. This floor included a small drawing-room and a large one, as well as the bedrooms belonging to Madame Villenave and Madame Waldor. We will bypass the small drawing-room and the two bedrooms and focus entirely on the large salon, which, after the attics (let’s quickly mention those before we get the right to enter), was the most unusual room in the house. Its shape was a long rectangle, with console tables at each corner supporting busts. One of these busts was of the master of the house. Between the two busts, at the bottom end, on a marble-topped table opposite the fireplace, was the most significant piece of art and archaeology in the room: a bronze urn that once held the heart of Bayard. A small bas-relief encircled the urn, depicting the "chevalier sans peur et sans reproche" leaning against a tree and kissing the handle of his sword. Next were four large paintings—three portraits and one landscape. Let’s start with the landscape—honor where it’s due—the landscape was by Claude Lorraine. One of the portraits depicted Anne Boleyn and was signed by Holbein. I can’t remember the artists of the other two paintings: one was of Madame de Montespan, and the other was either Madame de Sévigné or de Grignan, I’m not sure which. The walls were covered with one of those forgettable wallpapers that leave no impression; the furniture was upholstered in Utrecht velvet; large sofas with thin white arms, resembling the arms of a hunchback, invited family friends to get comfortable, while there were chairs and armchairs for more formal guests. That floor had both its king and vice-queen: the king was M. Villenave, and the vice-queen was Madame Waldor. We intentionally say "vice-queen" because as soon as M. Villenave entered his salon, he became the master of it, the king—more than a king, a despot! M. Villenave had a tendency toward tyranny and exerted this over strangers as well as his own family. Like those petty princes of Italy whose ideas you had to adopt once you crossed their borders, with M. Villenave, as soon as you stepped into his salon, he wouldn’t allow you to have a different opinion from his on any topic. You became part of the essence of this man, who had seen everything, studied everything, and knew everything. Although this tyrannical nature was softened by the courtesy expected of a host, it still had a depressing effect on the company overall. Even though conversations were, as they used to say, bien menée—meaning skillfully managed—when M. Villenave was present, they were always less entertaining, more constrained, and less vibrant than when he was not there. It was just like the difference between a minuet and the game of puss-in-the-corner. The situation was exactly the opposite at Nodier's social gatherings: Nodier preferred people to feel as at home as he did.
This recalls to my mind that I have not mentioned Nodier since I described him as helping me to gain entrance to the Théâtre-Français. Excellent and beloved Nodier!—one of my dearest friends! He shall not lose, you may be sure, by the postponement.
This reminds me that I haven't mentioned Nodier since I talked about how he helped me get into the Théâtre-Français. Great and beloved Nodier!—one of my closest friends! He won't be forgotten, you can count on that, because of the delay.
Happily, M. Villenave very rarely appeared in the salon, except on the Athénée nights. He spent the rest of his time on the second floor, only appearing among his family for dinner; then, after a few minutes' chat, after lecturing his son and scolding his wife, he would stretch himself out in an armchair, have his curls attended to by his daughter and return to his own apartments. The quarter of an hour during which the teeth of the comb gently scratched his head was the happiest time of the day to M. Villenave, the only rest he allowed himself from his unending absorption in scribbling.
Happily, M. Villenave rarely showed up in the salon, except on Athénée nights. He spent the rest of his time on the second floor, only coming down to join his family for dinner; then, after a brief chat, lecturing his son and scolding his wife, he'd settle into an armchair, let his daughter tend to his curls, and return to his own rooms. The fifteen minutes of having the comb gently scratch his scalp was the happiest time of the day for M. Villenave, the only break he allowed himself from his constant scribbling.
"But why did he curl his hair?" someone asks.
"But why did he curl his hair?" someone asks.
That was the question I myself put.
That was the question I asked myself.
Madame Waldor declared that it was purely an excuse for having his head scratched. M. Villenave must have been a parrot in one of the metamorphoses that preceded his life as a human being. Madame Villenave, who had known her husband longer than her daughter had, and who therefore could claim to know him better, averred that it was from vanity. And, indeed, M. Villenave, who was a good-looking old man, must have been splendidly handsome as a young man. His strongly marked features were wonderfully set off in their frame of flowing white hair, which showed up the fiery light of his fine black eyes. In fact, although M. Villenave was a learned man, he was also vain—a combination of virtue and[Pg 296] fault rarely found together—but he was only vain about his head. As for the rest of his appearance, with the exception of his cravat, which was invariably white, he left it to his tailor and his bootmaker, or rather, to his daughter's care, who looked after these matters for her father. Whether his coat were blue or black, his trousers wide or narrow, the toes of his boots round or square, so long as M. Villenave's hair was well dressed, it was all he cared about. We have mentioned that when his daughter had combed and curled his locks, M. Villenave went upstairs to his own rooms—or home> as the English say. Good gracious! what a curious place it was, too!
Madame Waldor said it was just an excuse for wanting his head scratched. M. Villenave must have been a parrot in one of the transformations before he became human. Madame Villenave, who had known her husband longer than her daughter had, and could therefore claim to know him better, insisted it was due to vanity. And indeed, M. Villenave, who was a handsome old man, must have been incredibly attractive when he was younger. His distinctive features were beautifully framed by his flowing white hair, which highlighted the fiery light of his fine black eyes. In fact, even though M. Villenave was a knowledgeable man, he was also vain—a rare mix of virtue and[Pg 296] flaw—but he was only vain about his hair. As for the rest of his appearance, except for his cravat, which was always white, he left that to his tailor and bootmaker, or rather, to his daughter, who took care of these things for him. Whether his coat was blue or black, his trousers wide or narrow, the toes of his boots round or square, as long as M. Villenave's hair looked good, that was all he cared about. We mentioned that when his daughter had combed and styled his hair, M. Villenave would go upstairs to his own rooms—or home as the English say. Good gracious! What a strange place it was, too!
Follow me, reader, if these minute details after the fashion of Balzac amuse you, and if you believe nature takes as much pains over the making of a hyssop as over the making of a cedar-tree. Besides, we may perhaps be able to unearth some curious anecdote from out the medley, concerning a charming pastel by Latour. But we have not got there yet; we shall come to it in the end, just as at last we have come to M. Villenave's sanctum.
Follow me, reader, if these small details in the style of Balzac entertain you, and if you think nature puts in as much effort creating a hyssop as it does a cedar tree. Besides, we might be able to uncover a fascinating story from the mix, related to a lovely pastel by Latour. But we’re not there yet; we’ll get to it in due time, just as we have finally arrived at M. Villenave's sanctuary.
We have divided up the ground floor into dining-room, kitchen, pantry; and on the first floor into the small and large salons and the bedrooms; there was nothing like that on the second floor. The second floor had five rooms, five rooms full of nothing else but books and boxes. These five rooms must have contained forty thousand volumes and four thousand boxes, piled up on the floor and on tables. The anteroom alone was a vast library. It had two entrances: that on the right led to M. Villenave's bedroom—a chamber to which we shall return. That on the left opened into a large room, which, in its turn, led into a much smaller one. These two rooms, be it understood, were nothing but two libraries. The four walls of them were tapestried with books upheld on a substratum of boxes. This was odd enough in itself, as will readily be imagined, but it was not the most original thing that caught one's notice. The most ingenious arrangement was a square construction which stood in the middle of the room like an enormous block and formed a second library within[Pg 297] the first, leaving only space for a pathway round the room, bordered with books on left and right, just wide enough to allow a single person to move freely; a second person would have blocked the traffic. Moreover, only M. Villenave's most intimate friends ever presumed to be allowed the privilege of admission to this sanctum sanctorum. The substratum of boxes contained autographs. The age of Louis XIV. alone needed five hundred boxes! Herein were contained the result of fifty years of daily labour, concentrated on this one object; hour after hour taken up by this one passion. It was, in a word, the gentle and ardent passion of a born collector, into which he put his mind and happiness and joy and life!
We divided the ground floor into a dining room, kitchen, and pantry; and the first floor into small and large living rooms and the bedrooms; there was nothing like that on the second floor. The second floor had five rooms, all filled with nothing but books and boxes. These five rooms must have contained forty thousand volumes and four thousand boxes, stacked on the floor and on tables. The anteroom alone was a massive library. It had two entrances: the one on the right led to M. Villenave's bedroom—a room we will revisit. The one on the left opened into a large room, which then led into a much smaller one. These two rooms were simply two libraries. The walls were covered with books supported by a base of boxes. This was strange enough in itself, as you can imagine, but it wasn't the most unusual thing that caught your eye. The most clever arrangement was a square structure in the middle of the room, like a huge block, creating a second library within[Pg 297] the first, leaving just enough room for a pathway around the room, lined with books on both sides, wide enough for only one person to pass; having a second person would block the way. Moreover, only M. Villenave's closest friends were ever allowed the privilege of entering this sanctum sanctorum. The base of boxes had autographs. The era of Louis XIV alone required five hundred boxes! This represented fifty years of daily work, focused solely on this one endeavor; hours upon hours consumed by this one passion. It was, in short, the gentle and fervent passion of a natural collector, into which he poured his thoughts, happiness, joy, and life!
There were to be found a portion of the papers of Louis XVI., discovered in the iron chest; there was the correspondence of Malesherbes, two hundred autographs of Rousseau, and four hundred of Voltaire together with autographs of all the kings of France, from Charlemagne down to our own time; there were drawings by Raphael and Jules Romain, by Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Lebrun, Lesueur, Greuze, Vanloo, Watteau, Boucher, Vien, David, Girodet, etc.
There were some documents belonging to Louis XVI found in the iron chest; included were letters from Malesherbes, two hundred autographs of Rousseau, and four hundred of Voltaire, along with autographs of all the kings of France, from Charlemagne to the present day; there were also drawings by Raphael and Jules Romain, as well as by Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Lebrun, Lesueur, Greuze, Vanloo, Watteau, Boucher, Vien, David, Girodet, etc.
M. Villenave would not have parted with the contents of those two rooms for a hundred thousand crowns.
M. Villenave wouldn't have given up the contents of those two rooms for a hundred thousand crowns.
I There now only remain the bedroom and the black cabinet behind M. Villenave's alcove, which was reached by a corridor, about which we shall have occasion to say a few words. Only those who saw that bedroom, wherein the bed was the least conspicuous piece of furniture, can conceive any idea of what the bedroom of a bibliomaniac is like. It was in this room that M. Villenave received his friends. After four or five months' intimacy in the household, I had the honour of being received in it. An old servant, called, I believe, Françoise, conducted me to it. I had promised M. Villenave an autograph—not that of Napoleon, of which he possessed five or six, or that of Bonaparte, of which he had three or four—but one of Buonaparte.
I There are just the bedroom and the black cabinet behind M. Villenave's alcove left, which you get to by a corridor, and we’ll talk about that a bit. Only those who have seen that bedroom, where the bed was the least eye-catching piece of furniture, can really understand what a bibliomaniac's bedroom is like. It was in this room that M. Villenave welcomed his friends. After spending four or five months getting to know the family, I had the honor of being invited in. An old servant, I believe her name was Françoise, showed me to the room. I had promised M. Villenave an autograph—not that of Napoleon, of which he had five or six, or that of Bonaparte, of which he had three or four—but one of Buonaparte.
He had given orders that I was to be shown upstairs as soon as I arrived.
He instructed that I should be taken upstairs as soon as I got here.
Françoise half opened the door.
Françoise cracked the door.
"M. Dumas is here," she said.
"M. Dumas is here," she said.
Generally, when anyone was announced, even were he an intimate friend who had come unexpectedly, M. Villenave would utter a loud cry, scold Françoise and fling up his arms in despair; then, finally, when he had indulged his fit of despair, and moaned and sighed his fill, he would say—
Generally, whenever someone was announced, even if it was a close friend who had shown up unexpectedly, M. Villenave would let out a loud cry, scold Françoise, and throw his arms up in despair. After he had vented his frustration and sighed as much as he wanted, he would say—
"Very well, Françoise, as he is there, show him in."
"Sure thing, Françoise, since he's here, let him in."
Then the intruder would be let in.
Then the intruder would be allowed in.
My reception was quite otherwise. M. Villenave had hardly caught my name before he exclaimed—
My reception was totally different. M. Villenave barely heard my name before he shouted—
"Show him in! show him in!"
"Let him in! Let him in!"
In I went.
In I went.
"Ah! here you are," he said. "Well, I wager you have not been able to find it!"
"Ah! There you are," he said. "Well, I bet you haven't been able to find it!"
"What?"
"Excuse me?"
"That famous autograph you promised me yesterday."
"That famous autograph you said you'd get me yesterday."
"Yes, indeed ... I have found it."
"Yes, I found it."
"And have you brought it?"
"Did you bring it?"
"To be sure I have!..."
"Of course I have!..."
"Really?"
"Seriously?"
"Here it is!"
"Here it is!"
"Quick, let me see it!"
"Quick, let me check it!"
I handed it to him. M. Villenave rushed up to the window.
I passed it to him. M. Villenave hurried over to the window.
"Yes, it is genuine," he said; "there is the u!... Oh! there is his very own u, there is no doubt about it. Let us see: '29 vendémiaire, year IV,' that is it!... Stop, stop!" He went to a box. "See, here is one of frimaire in the same year, signed 'Bonaparte, 12 frimaire'; so it must have been between 29 vendémiaire and 12 frimaire that he dropped his u; this determines a great historic question!"
"Yes, it’s real," he said; "there’s the u!... Oh! there’s his very own u, no doubt about it. Let’s see: '29 vendémiaire, year IV,' that’s it!... Wait, wait!" He went to a box. "Look, here’s one from frimaire in the same year, signed 'Bonaparte, 12 frimaire'; so it must have been between 29 vendémiaire and 12 frimaire that he dropped his u; this settles an important historical question!"
While this monologue was being carried on, I had been glancing round the bedchamber thoroughly, and I had noticed that the only piece of furniture that was not encumbered with books was the arm-chair from which he had just risen. After M. Villenave had carefully examined the[Pg 299] autograph, he put it into a white wrapper, wrote on the wrapper, placed it in a box, put the box in its place and flung himself back into his arm-chair, with a sigh of joy.
While this monologue was going on, I had been looking around the bedroom thoroughly, and I noticed that the only furniture not piled with books was the armchair he had just left. After M. Villenave carefully examined the[Pg 299]autograph, he put it in a white wrapper, wrote on the wrapper, placed it in a box, put the box in its spot, and flung himself back into his armchair with a sigh of joy.
"Ah! now, sit down," he said.
"Ah! Now, have a seat," he said.
"I should like nothing better," I replied; "but what do you mean me to sit on?"
"I wouldn't want anything more," I replied; "but what do you want me to sit on?"
"Why, on the couch."
"Why, on the couch?"
"Oh yes, on the couch!"
"Oh yeah, on the couch!"
"What about it?"
"What’s up with that?"
"Well, just look at the couch for yourself."
"Well, just take a look at the couch yourself."
"Upon my word, you are right; it is full of books. Never mind, pull up an arm-chair."
"Honestly, you’re right; it’s packed with books. No worries, grab an armchair."
"With great pleasure. But the arm-chairs ...?"
"Absolutely. But what about the armchairs...?"
"The arm-chairs?"
"The armchairs?"
"Are littered just like the couch."
"Are scattered just like the couch."
"Ah! I have so many books.... Have you noticed the great crack in the walls of the house?"
"Wow! I have so many books.... Have you seen the big crack in the walls of the house?"
"No."
"No."
"It is visible enough, nevertheless.... Well, my dear monsieur, it is the books! The books are pulling down the house."
"It’s quite clear, though... Well, my dear sir, it’s the books! The books are causing the house to collapse."
"The books? How?"
"The books? How?"
"Yes, twelve hundred folios, monsieur, twelve hundred splendid and rare folios; I even believe there are quite unknown ones among them, so rare are they! I put all those in the garret and I was intending to put more there, for there was room for another twelve hundred; when, suddenly, the house trembled, uttered a groan and cracked."
"Yes, twelve hundred folios, sir, twelve hundred amazing and rare folios; I believe there might even be some unknown ones among them, they're that rare! I put all of those in the attic and was planning to put more there since there was room for another twelve hundred; when suddenly, the house shook, gave a groan, and cracked."
"Why, you must have thought it was an earthquake?"
"Why, you must have thought it was an earthquake?"
"Exactly!... but when we found the damage was limited we sent for an architect. The architect examined the house from the cellar to the second floor and declared that the accident could only have been caused by too heavy a weight. And, consequently, he asked to be allowed to look at the attics. Alas! this was what I dreaded. Oh! if it had only been a question of myself, I would never have given him the key; but one has to sacrifice oneself for the general good.... He visited the attics, discovered the folios, reckoned that the[Pg 300] weight must come to eight thousand pounds, and declared that they must be sold or he would not answer for the consequences.... And they were sold, monsieur!"
"Exactly!... but when we realized the damage was limited, we called in an architect. The architect examined the house from the basement to the second floor and concluded that the accident could only have been caused by too much weight. He then requested to check the attics. Unfortunately, this was what I feared. Oh! If it had only been about me, I would never have given him the key; but one has to make sacrifices for the greater good.... He visited the attics, found the folios, estimated that the[Pg 300] weight must be around eight thousand pounds, and stated that they had to be sold or he wouldn’t guarantee what would happen.... And they were sold, sir!"
"At a loss?"
"Feeling lost?"
"No.... Alas! I made a profit of five or six thousand francs on them, because, you know, books increase in value from having been in the possession of a bibliophile; but the poor folios were lost to me—hounded from beneath the roof that had sheltered them.... I shall never come across such a collection again. But pray take a chair."
"No.... Unfortunately! I made a profit of five or six thousand francs on them because, you know, books gain value when they've been owned by a bibliophile; but the poor folios were taken from me—driven out from the roof that had protected them.... I'll never find such a collection again. But please, have a seat."
The chairs were in a similar condition to the easy-chairs and couches—not one was unoccupied. I decided to change the conversation.
The chairs were in the same state as the armchairs and couches—none were free. I decided to switch up the conversation.
"Oh!" I said to M. Villenave, approaching towards his recess, at the back of which an open door leading to the corridor permitted me to see what was there. "Oh! monsieur, what a beautiful pastel you have down there!"
"Oh!" I said to M. Villenave, moving closer to his alcove, where an open door leading to the hallway let me see what was inside. "Oh! sir, what a beautiful pastel you have there!"
"Yes, yes," replied M. Villenave, with that old-fashioned courtly air that I have only met with in two or three old men who were as vain as he. "Yes, that is the portrait of an old friend of mine—I say old, because I am no longer young, and she, if I remember correctly, was five or six years older than I. We became acquainted in the year 1784; you see that is not yesterday. We have not seen each other again since 1802, but that has not prevented us from writing to one another every week, or from looking forward to the weekly letters with exactly the same pleasure.... Yes, you are right, the pastel is charming, but if you had known the original you would have thought her still more charming!"
"Yes, yes," replied M. Villenave, with that old-fashioned, polite demeanor that I've only seen in a couple of older men who were as vain as he was. "Yes, that’s a portrait of an old friend of mine—I say old because I'm no longer young, and she, if I remember correctly, was five or six years older than I am. We met in 1784; you see, that wasn't yesterday. We haven’t seen each other since 1802, but that hasn’t stopped us from writing to each other every week or from looking forward to those weekly letters with the same excitement.... Yes, you're right, the pastel is lovely, but if you had known the original, you would have thought she was even more charming!"
And a sweet reflection of youth, like a ray of sunlight, passed over the handsome face of the old man, making it look forty years younger.
And a sweet reminder of youth, like a ray of sunlight, swept across the handsome face of the old man, making him appear forty years younger.
Alas! I only entered that sacred tabernacle of the intellect twice: I have described what happened on my first visit, and I will immediately tell what happened at the second. But I ought previously to answer the question as to how M. Villenave managed to collect all these valuable[Pg 301] treasures since he had not a large fortune. It was by patience and perseverance, as la Fontaine would say. This collection had been the work of his whole life. Just as Ghiberti began the gates of the Baptistery at Florence when he was a young man and finished them as an old one, so M. Villenave had given up fifty years to this task. He never burnt a single paper or destroyed a letter. I wrote two or three times to M. Villenave to ask for information; well, my unworthy epistles were put into their wrappers, classified and labelled. Why was I thus honoured? Who can tell? Perhaps he thought even I might some day become a great celebrity. It will readily be imagined that, if he preserved such letters as mine, he would religiously preserve other things. Notices of meetings of learned societies, invitations to marriage ceremonies, funeral cards, all were kept, classified and put in their place. I cannot say what M. Villenave's collection did not contain; I saw amongst it a collection of half-burnt volumes which had been snatched out of the fire of the Bastille on 14 July.
Unfortunately! I only entered that sacred place of knowledge twice: I described what happened during my first visit, and I will soon share what occurred during the second. But first, I should address how Mr. Villenave was able to gather all these valuable[Pg 301] treasures despite not having a large fortune. It was through patience and perseverance, as La Fontaine would say. This collection was the result of his entire life’s work. Just like Ghiberti started the gates of the Baptistery in Florence when he was young and finished them as an old man, Mr. Villenave dedicated fifty years to this project. He never burned a single paper or destroyed a letter. I wrote to Mr. Villenave a couple of times to ask for information; surprisingly, my humble letters were kept in their wrappers, organized and labeled. Why was I honored in this way? Who knows? Maybe he thought I might one day become a notable figure. It’s easy to guess that if he preserved letters like mine, he would also carefully keep other things. Notices of meetings of academic societies, wedding invitations, funeral cards—everything was saved, organized, and filed. I can’t say what Mr. Villenave's collection did not include; I saw among it a collection of half-burnt books that had been pulled from the fire at the Bastille on July 14.
M. Villenave employed two aides-de-camp, or, rather, bloodhounds: one named Fontaine, himself the author of a book called the Manuel des Autographes; the other an employé in the War Office. Twice a week they went a hunting; they rummaged the shops of the grocers, who, accustomed to these visits, would put aside all the papers that they thought might be rare or curiosities. From amongst these papers the two visitors would make a selection, paying the grocers fifteen sous a pound, M. Villenave paying them at the rate of thirty sous. There also were what might be described as royal hunting-days; on these days M. Villenave hunted in person; every grocer in Paris knew him, and came up to him with his hands full of papers, far more precious to him than roses and lilies.
M. Villenave had two aides-de-camp, or rather, bloodhounds: one was named Fontaine, the author of a book called the Manuel des Autographes; the other worked at the War Office. Twice a week, they went hunting. They searched through the grocers' shops, which, used to their visits, would set aside any papers they thought might be rare or interesting. From these papers, the two visitors would pick out a selection, paying the grocers fifteen sous per pound, with M. Villenave paying them thirty sous. There were also what could be called royal hunting days; on those days, M. Villenave would hunt personally. Every grocer in Paris knew him and approached him with their hands full of papers, far more valuable to them than roses and lilies.
The reader should have seen M. Villenave when he sallied forth to take his leisure, or, rather, when he went out to accomplish the principal work of his life. He was no vain, becurled dandy on these days, neither did he wear the white cravat or the blue coat with gold buttons; no, he did not wish to look too well-to-do in the presence of the old second-hand[Pg 302] booksellers amongst whom he was going to glean; on these days he wore a rather dirty old hat, a black cravat cut away by his beard and an unbrushed coat. Then the indefatigable bibliomaniac proceeded along the quays. Here, with both hands in his trousers' pockets, his big body bent down, his fine intelligent head lit up with desire, he would send his piercing glances right into the depths of the assemblage of wares, looking incessantly for some unknown treasure, a text of Faust or an Elzevir. Sometimes the hunter would return home empty-handed; then he would be sullen, and silent at dinner, and would grumble that his daughter was pulling his hair while she was curling it; after this he would pick up his candlestick and go upstairs to his room without wishing anyone good-night. On the other hand, if a hunting-day proved to be productive, and M. Villenave returned with a precious volume or a scarce edition, then he would come in with his face radiant with smiles; he would toss Élisa up and down in his arms; he would joke with his son, kiss his daughter, pay his wife compliments on the dinner; and, when dinner was over, he would thank his hairdresser, purring like a contented cat. M. Villenave had but one cause for disquiet: where was the fresh acquisition to be put? The books were squeezed into their shelves so tightly that you could not get a paper knife in between. He would walk from one side to another, turning round, tacking, complaining, lifting up his long arms to the heavens in despair, finally deciding to put the book on a couch or on one of the arm-chairs or chairs, saying with a sigh—
The reader should have seen M. Villenave when he went out to enjoy some leisure time, or rather, when he set out to do the main work of his life. He wasn’t a vain, well-groomed dandy on those days, nor did he wear the white cravat or the blue coat with gold buttons; no, he didn’t want to appear too wealthy in front of the old second-hand[Pg 302] booksellers among whom he was going to search. On those days, he wore a somewhat dirty old hat, a black cravat that had been frayed by his beard, and an unbrushed coat. Then the tireless book lover made his way along the quays. With both hands in his pants pockets, his big body hunched over, and his sharp, intelligent head filled with desire, he would shoot his piercing gaze deep into the array of goods, constantly searching for some hidden treasure, a text of Faust or an Elzevir. Sometimes the hunter would come home empty-handed; then he would be grumpy and quiet at dinner, complaining that his daughter was tugging at his hair while styling it; after that, he would grab his candlestick and head up to his room without saying goodnight to anyone. On the other hand, if a hunting day turned out well, and M. Villenave came back with a valuable book or a rare edition, he would enter with a radiant smile; he would toss Élisa up and down in his arms, joke with his son, kiss his daughter, and compliment his wife on the dinner; and, when dinner was over, he would praise his hairdresser, purring like a satisfied cat. M. Villenave had just one worry: where would he put the latest acquisition? The books were packed into their shelves so tightly that you couldn’t fit a paper knife in between. He would pace back and forth, turning around, maneuvering, complaining, raising his long arms to the heavens in despair, finally deciding to place the book on a couch or on one of the armchairs, saying with a sigh—
"We must find a place for it later."
"We need to find a spot for it later."
That place would never be found, and the book would remain on the couch, the arm-chair or the chair, where it had been placed, a fresh obstacle in the way of any visitor who had to find a seat.
That place would never be discovered, and the book would stay on the couch, the armchair, or the chair, where it had been left, a new obstacle for any visitor who needed to find a place to sit.
I was too well aware of M. Villenave's dislike to be disturbed, to have ventured on a second visit to his sanctum, until, when recasting Christine afresh, I wished to consult the autograph writing of the daughter of Gustavus-Adolphus; I[Pg 303] wanted to acquaint myself with certain oddities in her character that might possibly, I thought, be reflected in her writing. So I made up my mind to venture to disturb M. Villenave in those intellectual regions wherein he soared far above common humanity. It was in the month of March 1829, about five o'clock in the afternoon, when I rang the bell and the gate was opened. I asked for M. Villenave and was shown in. I had not gone many steps towards the house before Françoise called me back.
I was too aware of M. Villenave's annoyance at being disturbed to risk a second visit to his private space, until I was working on Christine again and wanted to check the original handwriting of the daughter of Gustavus-Adolphus. I wanted to learn about certain quirks in her personality that might show up in her writing. So, I decided to go ahead and interrupt M. Villenave in those intellectual areas where he was far above ordinary people. It was March 1829, around five o'clock in the afternoon, when I rang the bell and the gate was opened. I asked for M. Villenave and was let in. I hadn’t taken many steps toward the house before Françoise called me back.
"Monsieur!" she said, "monsieur!"
"Sir!" she said, "sir!"
"What is it, Françoise?"
"What's up, Françoise?"
"Does Monsieur want to go up to M. Villenave's rooms?"
"Does the gentleman want to go up to Mr. Villenave's place?"
"Yes, Françoise."
"Yes, Françoise."
"I thought Monsieur was visiting the ladies as usual."
"I thought the gentleman was visiting the ladies as usual."
"You are wrong, Françoise."
"You're wrong, Françoise."
"Then Monsieur will be good enough to spare my poor legs going up two flights of stairs and give M. Villenave this letter for him that has just come."
"Then could you please save my poor legs from climbing two flights of stairs and deliver this letter to M. Villenave for me? It just arrived."
"Willingly, Françoise."
"Sure thing, Françoise."
Françoise gave me the letter, and I took it and went upstairs. I knocked when I reached the door, but there was no answer. I knocked a little louder. Again no answer. I began to feel uncomfortable; the key was in the door, and the presence of that key invariably indicated the presence of M. Villenave in his room. Surely some accident must have happened to him. I knocked a third time, meaning to enter if I was not answered. There was no response, and I entered. M. Villenave was asleep in his arm-chair. The noise I made in entering and, perhaps, the draught that I caused, disturbed some magnetic influences, and M. Villenave uttered a cry, awoke and jumped up.
Françoise handed me the letter, and I took it and went upstairs. I knocked when I got to the door, but there was no answer. I knocked a bit louder. Still no response. I started to feel uneasy; the key was in the door, and that usually meant M. Villenave was in his room. Surely something must have happened to him. I knocked again, planning to go in if I didn’t get a reply. There was no answer, so I walked in. M. Villenave was asleep in his armchair. The noise I made when I entered and maybe the draft I created disturbed some magnetic forces, and M. Villenave let out a cry, woke up, and jumped up.
"Ah! pardon me," I exclaimed. "I beg a thousand pardons! I have disturbed you."
"Ah! my apologies," I said. "I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you."
"Who are you? What is your business?" asked M. Villenave quickly.
"Who are you? What do you want?" M. Villenave asked quickly.
"Why, upon my word, do you not recognise me?... Alexandre Dumas."
"Why, I can’t believe you don’t recognize me?... Alexandre Dumas."
"Oh!" said M. Villenave, with a gasp.
"Oh!" said M. Villenave, gasping.
"Really, monsieur," I said, "I am very sorry. I will withdraw."
"Honestly, sir," I said, "I'm really sorry. I'll step back."
"No, no; on the contrary, come in," said M. Villenave, as he passed his hand across his forehead; "you will render me a service."
"No, no; on the contrary, come in," said M. Villenave, wiping his forehead. "You will do me a favor."
I went in.
I entered.
"Take a seat," he said, from customary habit.
"Have a seat," he said, as was his usual habit.
Eight or ten folios lay tossed about on the floor; I formed a pile of them and sat down on the top.
Eight or ten sheets were scattered on the floor; I made a stack of them and sat down on top.
"Yes," continued M. Villenave, "it was a very singular thing.... I fell asleep, the dusk came on and, in the meantime, my fire went out. You awoke me and found me in the dark, so I could not account for the noise inside my room; it was, no doubt, the draught from the passage that touched my face, but, in waking, I seemed to see something white, like a shroud, dancing before my eyes.... Curious, was it not?" went on M. Villenave, with a shiver, as though he felt cold through and through. "But here you are, so much the better!" And he held out his hand to me.
"Yeah," M. Villenave continued, "it was really strange.... I fell asleep, the evening settled in, and my fire went out. You woke me up and found me in the dark, so I couldn't explain the noise in my room; it was probably just the draft from the hallway brushing against my face, but when I woke up, I thought I saw something white, like a shroud, dancing in front of my eyes.... Odd, right?" M. Villenave went on, shivering as if he felt a chill all the way through. "But here you are, that's great!" And he reached out his hand to me.
I responded to his courtesy, transferring to my left hand the letter I had brought him in my right.
I replied to his politeness by switching the letter I had brought him from my right hand to my left.
"What have you there?" asked M. Villenave.
"What do you have there?" asked M. Villenave.
"Ah! pardon, I was forgetting ... it is a letter which Françoise gave me for you and that is the reason I disturbed you."
"Ah! Sorry, I almost forgot ... it's a letter that Françoise gave me for you, and that's why I interrupted you."
"Thanks ... Stop a minute, would you please feel about for a match? I am really quite bewildered still, and if I were superstitious I should believe I had had a presentiment."
"Thanks ... Hang on a minute, could you please feel around for a match? I’m really feeling pretty confused still, and if I were superstitious, I’d think I had a premonition."
He took the match I held out to him and lit it in the red embers on the hearth. Directly the match caught fire, we could distinguish objects in the room by its flickering light, faint though it was.
He took the match I handed him and lit it in the red embers on the hearth. As soon as the match ignited, we could make out objects in the room by its flickering light, even though it was dim.
"Oh! good gracious!" I exclaimed suddenly, "what has happened to your beautiful pastel?"
"Oh my gosh!" I suddenly exclaimed, "what happened to your beautiful pastel?"
"As you see, the glass and the frame are broken; I am waiting to send it to the glazier's and picture-framer's ... it was a most incomprehensible thing!"
"As you can see, the glass and the frame are broken; I'm waiting to send it to the glass shop and the picture framer's... it was such an incomprehensible thing!"
"What was?"
"What was that?"
"The way it fell."
"The way it dropped."
"Did the nail come out, or the ring break?"
"Did the nail come off, or did the ring break?"
"Neither the one nor the other. The day before yesterday I was working all evening; when it reached a quarter to twelve, I was tired, but I still had to correct a proof of a handy little edition of my Ovid. I decided to combine rest and work by going to bed and correcting the proofs when I was in bed. So I lay down: I put my candle on the table by the bedside, and the light from it shone on the portrait of my poor friend; my glance followed the candlelight and I said good-night to the picture as usual.... A half-open window let in a little breeze which blew the flame of my candle about so that it seemed to me as though the portrait returned my good-night by bending its head as I had done! You will understand that I looked upon this movement as visionary and foolish; but, whether folly or a vision, my mind persisted in dwelling upon the movement, and the more I pondered over it, the more real the incident seemed; my eyes would stray from my Ovid, and fix themselves on that one point, the picture; my wandering thoughts would fly back, in spite of myself, to the days of my youth; and these early days passed before me one by one.... Ah me! I think I have told you that the original of that pastel occupied a good deal of my attention in those early days! So there I was, going at full tilt over old recollections of twenty-five years back; I addressed the copy as though the original could hear me, and my memory answered for her; it seemed as though the lips in the pastel moved; I thought the colours of the painting began to fade, and the expression on the face grew sad and unhappy.... Something like a smile of farewell passed over her lips; a tear came into her eyes ready to moisten the glass. Midnight began to strike; and, in spite of myself, I shivered—why, I could not tell! The wind blew, and, at the last stroke of midnight, while the clock was still vibrating, the half-open window opened wide violently, I heard a sigh like a groan, the eyes[Pg 306] of the portrait closed, and the picture fell without either the nail that held it or the cord being broken; and my candle went out. I tried to light it again, but there was no fire in the grate, there were no matches on the chimneypiece; it was midnight, everybody in the house was asleep; so there was no way of obtaining a light. I shut my window again and I went back to bed.... Although I was not afraid, I felt much moved, I was sad, I had a great desire to weep; I thought I heard something pass through my room like the rustle of a silk dress.... I heard this noise three times so distinctly that I asked, 'Is there anyone there?' Finally, I fell asleep, very late, and the first thing I looked at when I woke again was my poor pastel, which I found in the state in which you now see it."
"Neither one nor the other. The day before yesterday, I was working all evening; when it got to a quarter to twelve, I was tired, but I still had to correct a proof of a handy little edition of my Ovid. I decided to mix rest and work by going to bed and correcting the proofs while I was in bed. So I lay down: I put my candle on the bedside table, and its light shone on the portrait of my poor friend; my gaze followed the candlelight, and I said good-night to the picture as usual.... A half-open window let in a little breeze that flickered the candle flame, making it seem like the portrait was nodding back at me in response to my good-night! You can understand that I considered this movement to be just a silly vision; but whether it was foolish or a vision, my mind kept dwelling on the movement, and the more I thought about it, the more real it felt; my eyes would wander from my Ovid to that one point, the picture; my wandering thoughts would trace back, despite myself, to my youth; and those early days played out before me one by one.... Ah! I think I mentioned that the original of that pastel occupied a lot of my thoughts back then! So there I was, diving head-first into old memories from twenty-five years ago; I spoke to the copy as if the original could hear me, and my memories answered for her; it felt like the lips in the pastel were moving; I thought the colors of the painting began to fade, and the expression on her face grew sad and unhappy.... It seemed like a farewell smile passed over her lips; a tear appeared in her eyes, ready to moisten the glass. Midnight began to strike; and, despite myself, I shivered—why, I couldn't tell! The wind blew, and at the final stroke of midnight, while the clock was still sounding, the half-open window flung wide open violently, and I heard a sigh like a groan, the eyes[Pg 306] of the portrait closed, and the picture fell without either the nail or the cord being broken, and my candle went out. I tried to relight it, but there was no fire in the grate, and there were no matches on the mantel; it was midnight, and everyone in the house was asleep; so I couldn't find a light. I shut my window again and went back to bed.... Even though I wasn't afraid, I felt very moved, I was sad, and I had a strong urge to cry; I thought I heard something pass through my room like the rustle of a silk dress.... I heard this sound three times so distinctly that I asked, 'Is anyone there?' Finally, I fell asleep very late, and the first thing I looked at when I woke up was my poor pastel, which I found in the same state you see it in now."
"That is indeed a strange story!" I said. "And have you received your weekly letter as usual?"
"That's definitely a weird story!" I said. "And have you gotten your weekly letter like usual?"
"No, and that is what makes me uneasy; that is why I gave Françoise orders to bring or send up any letters that might come for me the moment they arrive."
"No, and that’s what makes me tense; that’s why I told Françoise to bring or send up any letters that come for me as soon as they arrive."
"Well," said I, "perhaps the one I have just brought you...."
"Well," I said, "maybe the one I just brought you...."
"That is not her style of folding:—still, never mind, as it comes from Angers...."
"That's not her way of folding; still, it doesn't matter since it comes from Angers...."
Then, turning it over to break the envelope he exclaimed, "Ah! my God! it is sealed in black! Poor soul, some misfortune has befallen her!"
Then, turning it over to break the seal, he exclaimed, "Oh my God! It’s sealed in black! Poor thing, something bad has happened to her!"
And M. Villenave grew pale as he unsealed the letter; it enclosed a second one.
And M. Villenave turned pale as he opened the letter; it contained a second one.
His eyes filled with tears as he read the first lines of the first letter.
His eyes welled up with tears as he read the opening lines of the first letter.
"Look," he said, and he held it out to me, "read it"; and, while he silently and sadly opened the second letter, I took the first and read:—
"Look," he said, holding it out to me, "read this"; and, while he quietly and sadly opened the second letter, I took the first and read:—
"MONSIEUR,—It is with personal grief, increased by realising what you too will feel, that I have to inform you that Madame——died on Sunday last, at the last stroke of midnight. The day before, while she was writing to you, she was seized by[Pg 307] an indisposition which we thought at first was only slight, but it grew worse, until she died. I have the sad duty of sending to you the letter she had begun to write to you, unfinished as it is. This letter will assure you that her affection for you remained unchanged to the end.
"SIR,—I am very sorry to inform you, and I know you will feel the same, that Madame——passed away last Sunday at midnight. The day before, while she was writing to you, she suddenly became ill with a condition we initially thought was minor, but it quickly got worse until she died. I have the sad duty of sending you the letter she started writing to you, even though it remains unfinished. This letter will confirm that her love for you remained strong until the very end."
"I remain, Monsieur, in great grief, as you will readily believe, your very humble and very obedient servant,
"I remain, Sir, in deep sorrow, as you can easily believe, your very humble and obedient servant,
"THÉRÈSE MIRAUD"
"THÉRÈSE MIRAUD"
"So you see," resumed M. Villenave, "it was at the last stroke of midnight that the portrait fell, and it was at the last stroke of midnight that she died."
"So you see," M. Villenave continued, "it was at the very last stroke of midnight that the portrait fell, and it was at the very last stroke of midnight that she died."
I felt that his grief needed a solitude peopled only by past recollections and uninterrupted by any poor attempts I could offer at consolation. I picked up my hat, pressed his hand and left.
I felt that his sadness required a space filled only with past memories and undisturbed by any inadequate attempts I could make at comfort. I grabbed my hat, shook his hand, and walked away.
This incident recalled to me the apparition of my father, on the very night of his death, which woke me up when I was a little child, and I put to myself the question that is so often asked and never answered, "What are the mysterious bonds which bind the dead to the living?" Later, when I lost my mother, whom I loved more than anyone else in the world, and who, on her side, loved me beyond all telling, I remembered these two visions and, kneeling down by the bed on which she had just expired, with my lips on her hand, I implored her, if anything of her had survived, to appear to me just once again; then, when night came, I lay down in a lonely room and waited with a beating heart, hoping to see the beloved vision. I counted in vain nearly all the hours of that night, and not the slightest sound or apparition came to solace my sorrowful watch. After that, I doubted all such experiences, whether my own or others'; for my mother's love for me, and mine for her, were so great that I knew if she had been able to rise once more from her resting-place to bid me a last farewell she would surely have done it. But perhaps it is only children and old people who are privileged—children because they are nearer the cradle, old people because they are nearer the grave.
This incident reminded me of the vision of my father on the very night he died, which woke me up when I was a little kid, and I asked myself the question that’s often posed but never answered, "What are the mysterious ties that connect the dead to the living?" Later, when I lost my mother, whom I loved more than anyone else in the world, and who loved me beyond words, I recalled these two experiences and, kneeling by the bed where she had just passed away, with my lips on her hand, I begged her, if anything of her had survived, to show herself to me just one last time; then, when night came, I lay down in a quiet room and waited with my heart racing, hoping to see my beloved vision. I counted nearly all the hours of that night in vain, and not a single sound or sight came to ease my sorrowful vigil. After that, I doubted all such experiences, whether my own or those of others; for my mother’s love for me, and mine for her, were so immense that I knew if she could have come back just once to say goodbye, she would have done it. But maybe it’s only children and the elderly who get this privilege—children because they are closer to the cradle, and old people because they are closer to the grave.
CHAPTER XIV
First representation of Soulié's Roméo et Juliette—Anaïs and Lockroy—Why French actresses cannot act Juliet—The studies of the Conservatoire—A second Christine at the Théâtre-Français—M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey—Conspiracy against me—I give up my turn to have my play produced—How I found the subject of Henri III.—My opinion of that play
First performance of Soulié's Roméo et Juliette—Anaïs and Lockroy—Why French actresses can’t play Juliet—The training at the Conservatoire—A second Christine at the Théâtre-Français—M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey—Plot against me—I give up my opportunity to have my play produced—How I found the inspiration for Henri III.—My thoughts on that play
Meantime, we had reached the beginning of June 1828, and I was informed by Soulié that the Odéon had accepted his Roméo, were rehearsing it and were nearly ready to perform it. We had not seen each other since the night when we had agreed each to write our own version of Christine. But he had not forgotten me, and I received two gallery stall tickets for the first night. As my mother had often heard me talk of Soulié, and as she knew that Soulié was one of my friends, it was by way of preparing her for the first representation of my work that I took her to see the first representation of Soulié's. Poor mother! It was a great treat to her to go out with me. Alas! I had neglected her sadly for months past. We become so accustomed to those guardian angels, our mothers, that we never dream, as we leave them to pursue all the foolish fancies of youth, that a moment will come—a terrible and unanticipated moment—when they, in their turn, will leave us! Then only do we recollect, with tears in our eyes and remorse at our hearts, those many thoughtless and cruel absences and we exclaim, "Good God! why did I so often leave her for this and that, now to be separated from her by you for ever?"
In the meantime, it was the beginning of June 1828, and Soulié told me that the Odéon had accepted his Roméo, were rehearsing it, and were almost ready to perform it. We hadn’t seen each other since the night we agreed to each write our own version of Christine. But he hadn’t forgotten me, and I received two gallery tickets for the opening night. Since my mother had often heard me talk about Soulié, and she knew he was one of my friends, I took her to see the first performance of Soulié's to prepare her for the first showing of my work. Poor mom! It was such a treat for her to go out with me. Unfortunately, I had neglected her a lot in the past few months. We get so used to those guardian angels, our moms, that we never think, as we leave them to chase all the silly dreams of youth, that a moment will come—a terrible and unexpected moment—when they, in turn, will leave us! Only then do we remember, with tears in our eyes and guilt in our hearts, those many thoughtless and hurtful absences, and we exclaim, "Good God! Why did I so often leave her for this or that, now to be separated from her forever?"
We made our way to the Odéon. A first representation was a great affair in those days—especially when the play to[Pg 309] be acted for the first time was by a man belonging to the new school. Nevertheless, this play of Soulié was not epoch-making: had it been produced before the visit of the English company to Paris, it would have been looked upon as extremely advanced, but, coming after their representations, it was by no means up to date. There was no fear, indeed, of its being an out-and-out failure, but there was no chance, either, of its being a grand success. Observe, too, that it was to be played on the same stage, and, probably, with the same mise-en-scène that had accompanied Kemble's and Miss Smithson's acting of Shakespeare's chef d'œuvre. Anaïs and Lockroy were entrusted with the principal parts. It was almost Lockroy's first appearance. He was handsome, young, romantic and daring—an actor of whom great things were expected, especially in this particular kind of rôle. But it was otherwise with regard to Anaïs. In comedy she was admirable and delightful, unfailing in taste, in wit, in delicacy of style and of interpretation; but in drama and tragedy she was entirely inadequate. And she was to appear on those same boards, before that same audience, in the same part of Juliet which Miss Smithson had presented with wonderful skill, and with all the qualities that go to the making of a great tragedienne! Besides, there was not a single woman in Paris in those days who could act Juliet, nor, we may add, have we anyone who could do it now. What is the reason for our lack of that charming type, the woman who combines gaiety of spirit with dramatic and poetic faculties? Why have we never produced, and probably never shall until some far distant future, anyone who will recall to both eyes and memory the personalities of Miss Smithson and Miss Faucett? Why was Mademoiselle Mars unequal to the part of Desdemona, and Madame Dorval herself unequal to Juliet? Because the dramatic education of our actresses is only conducted on the lines of three masters, without doubt of great merit, but whose genius does not include, as Shakespeare's did, that happy mixture of natural, dramatic and poetic expression to be found in most of the works of the English poet. Moreover,[Pg 310] at the Conservatoire, pupils are only prepared for a single branch of the art, either tragedy or comedy, never for tragedy and comedy combined. Why, again? Because in the masters studied—Molière, Corneille and Racine—these two styles are never found intermingled. It is a fatal mistake to exclude comedy from the education of the tragedienne, and tragedy from the training of the comedienne; it makes the tragedienne heavy in comedy, the comedienne affected in tragedy. Our seventeenth and eighteenth century theatres knew nothing beyond the realism of Molière's women, the boorishness of Corneille's women; the rage or the gentleness of the women of Racine; the Agnès and Célimène of Molière; Corneille's Émilie and Rodogune; Racine's Hermione and Aricie. You will search in vain among them all for anything which resembles the nurse, balcony and tomb scenes, all of which centre round the single character of Juliet. To attain to the standard of the English actors it would be necessary either not to be trained at the Conservatoire—which I, for one, should look upon as a distinct advantage—or that the Conservatoire should allow, combined with the study of the French masters, the study of foreign masters or contemporary authors, whose dramatic works contain the threefold elements of nature, dramatic art and poetic feeling. It would be a very simple matter to arrange; it would, I am quite well aware, annoy MM. Samson and Provost; but what would it matter to an intelligent Minister of the Interior to meet opposition of that kind? It would, of course, rouse MM. Viennet, Lebrun and Jouy; but M. Viennet is no longer a member of the Chamber of Deputies, and M. Lebrun is no longer a member of the Chamber of Peers; M. Jouy no longer belongs to the editorial staff of the Constitutionnel; so what would their remonstrances matter to a Minister of the Interior who does not care whether he belong to the Academy or not? At first blush it would seem to be very easy indeed to discover a clear-headed Minister of the Interior who thinks lightly of belonging to the Academy; ah, well! we are mistaken. We have been trying to find such a man for the last thirty years![Pg 311] We have seen two revolutions without finding such a minister, and we may have to live through two more revolutions before he appears. I have no desire to see two other revolutions before I die, but I should much like to find the minister.
We headed over to the Odéon. Back then, the first performance of a play was a big deal—especially when it was being staged for the first time by a playwright from the new school. However, this play by Soulié was not groundbreaking: if it had premiered before the English company's visit to Paris, it would have been considered very progressive, but since it came after their performances, it didn’t feel current at all. There was no real chance of it being a complete failure, but it also wasn’t likely to be a remarkable success. Also, keep in mind that it was being performed on the same stage, and probably with the same set that had accompanied Kemble's and Miss Smithson's performances of Shakespeare's masterpiece. Anaïs and Lockroy were given the leading roles. It was almost Lockroy's first appearance. He was handsome, young, romantic, and bold—an actor who had high hopes riding on him, especially for this type of role. But Anaïs was a different story. She was fantastic and charming in comedy, always on point with her taste, wit, and style; however, in drama and tragedy, she fell short. She was set to take the stage, in front of that same audience, playing Juliet, a role that Miss Smithson had portrayed with incredible skill and all the qualities that define a great tragedienne! Besides, there wasn’t a single woman in Paris at that time who could portray Juliet, and honestly, we don’t have anyone who could do it now. What explains our lack of that charming type, a woman who blends cheerfulness with dramatic and poetic talent? Why have we never produced—and probably never will, at least not for a long while—someone who brings to mind both Miss Smithson and Miss Faucett? Why was Mademoiselle Mars not up to playing Desdemona, and Madame Dorval unable to embody Juliet? Because the dramatic training of our actresses only follows the approaches of three talented masters, whose genius doesn’t encompass, as Shakespeare's does, that delightful mix of natural, dramatic, and poetic expression found in many works of the English poet. Moreover, at the Conservatoire, students only train in one area of the craft, either tragedy or comedy, but never both together. Why is that? Because in the masters studied—Molière, Corneille, and Racine—these two styles are never mixed. It’s a serious error to exclude comedy from the training of a tragedienne, and tragedy from the education of a comedienne; it results in the tragedienne being stiff in comedy, and the comedienne appearing artificial in tragedy. Our theaters in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries knew nothing beyond the realism of Molière's women, the clumsiness of Corneille's women; the passion or gentleness of Racine's women; the Agnès and Célimène of Molière; Corneille's Émilie and Rodogune; Racine's Hermione and Aricie. You would search in vain among them all for anything that resembles the nurse, balcony, and tomb scenes, all centered around the single character of Juliet. To reach the level of English actors, it would be necessary either to not train at the Conservatoire—which I would view as a definite advantage—or for the Conservatoire to allow, alongside studying French masters, the study of foreign masters or contemporary authors whose dramatic works feature the combination of naturalness, dramatic art, and poetic feeling. It would be very easy to set up; I know it would annoy MM. Samson and Provost; but would it matter to an astute Minister of the Interior to face that kind of opposition? It would, of course, anger MM. Viennet, Lebrun, and Jouy; but M. Viennet is no longer a member of the Chamber of Deputies, and M. Lebrun is no longer a member of the Chamber of Peers; M. Jouy no longer works for the editorial staff of the Constitutionnel; so what would their complaints matter to a Minister of the Interior who isn’t concerned about being part of the Academy? At first glance, it seems quite easy to find a clear-headed Minister of the Interior who doesn't care about belonging to the Academy; oh, well! We are mistaken. We have been looking for such a man for the last thirty years! [Pg 311] We have witnessed two revolutions without finding such a minister, and we may have to endure two more revolutions before he shows up. I have no desire to see two more revolutions before I die, but I would very much like to find that minister.
The upshot of all this is that Anaïs, although a charming comedienne (she was probably trained at the Conservatoire), made an inadequate Juliette; and Lockroy, who had studied his part from Kemble and Macready and, above all, had thought about it himself, did marvels in the part of Romeo. One of these marvellous things was a stroke of genius. When he sees Juliette rise from her tomb and walk, he retreats backward, keeping his eyes fixed on her, for fear lest she whom he takes for a ghost should vanish, and feels in the funeral couch she has just left, refraining from uttering his cry of joy until he has assured himself that the bed is empty. The play obtained the literary success it deserved—a success that culminated in the last act, which was almost entirely borrowed from Shakespeare.
The bottom line is that Anaïs, while a charming comedian (she probably trained at the Conservatoire), was not a great Juliette; and Lockroy, who had studied his role with Kemble and Macready and, most importantly, had put his own thought into it, did amazing work as Romeo. One of those amazing moments was a stroke of genius. When he sees Juliette rise from her tomb and walk, he steps back, keeping his eyes on her, afraid that the ghost he thinks he sees might disappear, and feels the funeral couch she just left, holding back his cry of joy until he’s sure the bed is empty. The play achieved the literary success it deserved—success that peaked in the last act, which was almost entirely taken from Shakespeare.
I do not think I ever felt so much moved at any of my own representations as I was at this representation of Soulié; I never suffered more than during these first four acts, when I felt that the piece dragged along lifeless and dull, realising that this dulness and lack of life arose from the excessive good taste of the poet, who had thought it necessary to improve on Shakespeare. However, it was quite original enough to satisfy the public, and the public was content; but I am very sure that Soulié himself was not.
I don’t think I’ve ever been as moved by any of my own performances as I was by this performance of Soulié’s; I never suffered more than during these first four acts, when I felt that the play dragged on lifeless and boring, realizing that this dullness and lack of energy came from the excessive good taste of the poet, who thought it necessary to improve on Shakespeare. Still, it was original enough to please the audience, and they were happy; but I’m certain that Soulié himself wasn’t.
Meanwhile, the influence of Picard's criticism on Christine was making itself felt at the Comédie-Française. Mademoiselle Mars, who was at first fired with enthusiasm over the part of Christine, cooled in her study of it; for, incomplete as it then was, she felt it beneath her powers; Firmin, inspired comedian though he was, lacked a sense of composition and was beginning to feel uneasy over the part of Monaldeschi; finally, Ligier, who was to have acted the part of Sentinelli, left the Comédie-Française and went to the Odéon. Something still more serious had happened. The Committee of the Théâtre-Français had received a second play entitled Christine.
Meanwhile, the impact of Picard's criticism on Christine was being felt at the Comédie-Française. Mademoiselle Mars, who had initially been excited about the role of Christine, lost her enthusiasm during her preparations; although it was still incomplete, she found it beneath her capabilities. Firmin, though a talented comedian, struggled with the structure of the play and was starting to feel uncertain about his role as Monaldeschi. Lastly, Ligier, who was supposed to play Sentinelli, left the Comédie-Française for the Odéon. An even more serious issue arose when the Committee of the Théâtre-Français received a second play titled Christine.
This second Christine had been written by a M. Brault, formerly a prefect and a friend of M. Decazes, who supported him with all his might. The principal rôle in this new tragedy, namely, that of Christine, had been deputed to Madame Valmonzey. In case you do not know anything about Madame Valmonzey, I will tell you who she was. Madame Valmonzey was not a good actress, but she was a very good-looking woman, the mistress of M. Évariste Dumoulin, editor of the Constitutionnel. It may, perhaps, be asked why I mention this fact. I reply that it is because I must. Heaven forbid I should rake up a scandal needlessly and needlessly speak ill of the dead; but I am writing the history of art and the history of literature and the history of the theatre, and in order that this history may be history the truth must be told.
This second Christine was written by M. Brault, a former prefect and a close friend of M. Decazes, who supported him wholeheartedly. The main role in this new tragedy, that of Christine, was assigned to Madame Valmonzey. In case you’re not familiar with who Madame Valmonzey was, let me fill you in. She wasn’t a great actress, but she was very attractive and was in a relationship with M. Évariste Dumoulin, the editor of the Constitutionnel. You might wonder why I mention this fact. The answer is that I have to. I certainly don’t want to bring up a scandal unnecessarily or speak ill of the deceased; however, I’m writing the history of art, literature, and theatre, and for it to be truthful history, the facts must be presented honestly.
This was what happened on the receipt of a second Christine at the Théâtre-Français and in consequence of the amours of M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey. M. Évariste Dumoulin let it be known that if they did not perform the play of his friend M. Brault before that of M. Alexandre Dumas he would ruin the Théâtre-Français by means of his journal. This declaration of war greatly frightened the Théâtre-Français; nevertheless, as it was a serious and unprecedented thing that M. Évariste Dumoulin demanded of the Committee, they replied that they were quite ready to play M. Brault's Christine, but that, in order to do so, my consent to cede my turn to him would first have to be obtained. M. Brault, moreover, was ill of an incurable disease, from which he died some time after, and it would be a comfort to the poor dying man to see his play acted before he died. This was the way the request was put to me by his son, in a most polite and affable letter, and by the Duc de Decazes in the most friendly terms, making me also offers of help. On their side, the Comedians of the Théâtre-Français guaranteed, after a Committee meeting, to play my piece after they had performed M. Brault's, upon the first request I should make them to do so.
This is what happened when a second Christine was received at the Théâtre-Français, due to the romance between M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey. M. Évariste Dumoulin announced that if they didn’t perform his friend M. Brault's play before M. Alexandre Dumas's, he would ruin the Théâtre-Français through his newspaper. This declaration of war really scared the Théâtre-Français; however, since M. Évariste Dumoulin was asking for something serious and unprecedented, they responded that they were willing to stage M. Brault's Christine if I consented to give up my turn for him. M. Brault, who was suffering from an incurable illness, passed away sometime after, and it would bring comfort to the poor dying man to see his play performed before he died. His son made this request to me in a very polite and friendly letter, and the Duc de Decazes approached me with the same warm intentions, offering help as well. The Comedians at the Théâtre-Français also assured, after a Committee meeting, that they would stage my piece after they performed M. Brault's, whenever I asked them to do so.
I have always been easily moved by appeals of this kind. But this postponement was a serious matter to my mother and to[Pg 313] me, for we were literally looking to the production of this play for the wherewithal to live. The bonuses of which I had told my mother had been distributed, but my share was fifty francs less than those my fellow-clerks received—a warning that I must behave myself better. Furthermore, I was under M. Deviolaine, who had predicted that my piece would never be played, and who pretty well leapt for joy when he saw that his prophecy was likely to be fulfilled. Finally, this promise to play my piece as soon as I should ask for it was illusory, for after the first Christine had been performed I could hardly ask the Comedians to play a second until at least a year had passed by. But, as a matter of fact, I could not do anything save yield, for I was surrounded on all sides by solicitations, even among the Villenave family, and besides, my own instinct fell into line with these solicitations. So I gave way and yielded place to M. Brault.
I’ve always been easily swayed by requests like this. But this delay was serious for my mom and for[Pg 313] me, because we were literally counting on the production of this play to make a living. The bonuses I mentioned to my mom had been handed out, but my share was fifty francs less than what my colleagues got—a clear sign that I needed to shape up. Plus, I was under M. Deviolaine, who had predicted that my piece would never be performed, and he practically jumped for joy when it seemed like his prophecy was coming true. In the end, the promise to perform my piece as soon as I asked was empty, because after the first Christine had been staged, I could barely ask the Comedians to perform a second one until at least a year had gone by. But in reality, I couldn’t do anything but give in, as I was bombarded with requests from all sides, even from the Villenave family, and on top of that, my own instincts aligned with those requests. So I stepped aside and let M. Brault take my place.
No reward attended my sacrifice. The very next day, the papers announced that the Committee of the Théâtre-Français, having discerned more chances in M. Brault's play than in mine, had decided that M. Brault's piece should be performed, while mine was to be indefinitely postponed. I could have objected publicly, produced the letter of M. Brault's son and revealed the engagement entered into by the Comédie-Française. I did nothing of the kind, and from that day to this, I have never taken any notice of the petty intrigues of the papers; I can boast with pride, and without fear of contradiction, that I have never soiled my hands either to gain my own ends or to injure other people. Of course, neither M. Brault, the poor dying poet, nor his son, nor M. Decazes, had any hand in all these intriguing announcements. I even believe that M. Brault's son had the decency to write and tell the true version of the facts, and to thank me publicly, as he had thanked me privately. But although I treated these hardships with disdain, they had their annoyances. My mother never read the papers, but the Deviolaine family read them, and everybody in the offices read them, and charitable souls took care to say to my mother—
No reward came from my sacrifice. The very next day, the newspapers announced that the Committee of the Théâtre-Français, having seen more potential in M. Brault's play than in mine, decided that M. Brault's piece would be performed while mine was postponed indefinitely. I could have publicly objected, produced the letter from M. Brault's son, and revealed the agreement made with the Comédie-Française. I did nothing like that, and since that day, I have ignored the petty schemes of the newspapers; I can proudly say, without fear of contradiction, that I have never sullied my hands to benefit myself or harm others. Of course, neither M. Brault, the poor dying poet, nor his son, nor M. Decazes was involved in all these scheming announcements. I even believe that M. Brault's son had the decency to write and share the true version of events, thanking me publicly as he had privately. But even though I treated these difficulties with disdain, they still had their annoyances. My mother never read the papers, but the Deviolaine family did, everyone in the offices read them, and well-meaning people made sure to tell my mother—
"Upon my word, your son is getting himself talked about!"
"Honestly, your son is really starting to make a name for himself!"
"What about?" my mother would ask, trembling with fright.
"What’s wrong?" my mom would ask, shaking with fear.
And then they hastened to inform her, and saddened her poor heart, for I was her all in all, and she was far more anxious about me than I was about myself.
And then they rushed to tell her, which made her heartache because I meant everything to her, and she worried about me way more than I worried about myself.
The rehearsals of M. Brault's Christine were pushed on as fast as mine had been delayed—though everybody knows what rapidity means at the Théâtre-Français; M. Brault had ample time in which to die before the representation of his play, which had only an indifferent success. As to Madame Valmonzey, she did not even achieve any success. All the same, my piece was delayed indefinitely.
The rehearsals for M. Brault's Christine were sped up as quickly as mine had been postponed—though everyone knows how slow things can move at the Théâtre-Français; M. Brault had plenty of time to pass before his play premiered, which ended up having only a mediocre success. As for Madame Valmonzey, she didn't achieve any success at all. Still, my show was postponed indefinitely.
Soulié had finished his Christine and got it accepted at the Odéon, with Mademoiselle Georges and Ligier to play the principal parts. And what was happening to me all this time?...
Soulié had finished his Christine and got it accepted at the Odéon, with Mademoiselle Georges and Ligier set to play the main roles. And what was happening to me all this time?...
One of those chances which fate deals out only to those marked out by destiny gave me the subject of Henri III. by just such another accident as had led me to Christine. The only cupboard I had in my office—the office, it will be remembered, that I ardently coveted—I had to share with Féresse: I put my paper in it, he put his bottles there. One day, whether by inadvertence or to play a trick on me, or to show his superior rights over mine, he took away the key of this cupboard when going an errand. During his absence I used up all the paper lying about in my office, and, as I still had three or four reports to copy out, I went to get some more paper. A volume of Anquetil lay open, on a desk: I mechanically cast my eyes on it, and at page 95 I read the following lines:—
One of those chances that fate only offers to those chosen by destiny gave me the topic of Henri III., just like the incident that had led me to Christine. The only cabinet I had in my office—the office I desperately wanted—I had to share with Féresse: I stored my paper in it, and he kept his bottles there. One day, whether by mistake, to mess with me, or to assert his claim over mine, he took the key to this cabinet when he went on an errand. While he was gone, I used up all the paper lying around in my office, and since I still had three or four reports to copy, I went to get more paper. A volume of Anquetil was open on a desk: I absentmindedly glanced at it, and on page 95, I read the following lines:—
"Although attached to the king, and by rank an enemy of the Duc de Guise, Saint-Mégrin was none the less in love with the duchess, Catherine de Clèves, and it was said that she returned his love. The author of this anecdote gives us to understand that the husband was indifferent on the subject of his wife's actual or supposed infidelity. He opposed the entreaties of his relations that he should avenge himself, and[Pg 315] only punished the indiscretion or the crime of the duchess by a joke. One day he entered her room early in the morning, holding a potion in one hand and a dagger in the other; after rudely awaking his wife and reproaching her, he said in tones of fury—
"Even though he was close to the king and technically an enemy of the Duc de Guise, Saint-Mégrin was still in love with the duchess, Catherine de Clèves, and it was rumored that she loved him back. The person telling this story suggests that her husband didn’t really care about his wife's actual or alleged cheating. He ignored his family’s pleas for revenge and instead only reacted to the duchess's indiscretion or betrayal with a joke. One morning, he walked into her room, holding a potion in one hand and a dagger in the other; after waking her up abruptly and scolding her, he yelled in a fit of rage—
"Decide, madame, whether to die by dagger or poison!'
“Decide, ma’am, whether to die by knife or poison!”
"In vain did she ask his forgiveness; he compelled her to make her choice. She drank the concoction and flung herself on her knees, recommending her soul to God and expecting nothing short of death. She spent an hour in fear; and then the duke came back with a serene countenance, and told her that what she had taken for poison was an excellent soup. Doubtless this lesson made her more circumspect afterwards."
“She begged for his forgiveness in vain; he forced her to choose. She drank the mixture and fell to her knees, commending her soul to God and expecting nothing less than death. She spent an hour in fear; then the duke returned with a calm expression and told her that what she had taken for poison was actually a delicious soup. This experience surely made her more careful in the future."
I gained access to the Biographie; the Biographie referred me to the Mémoires de l'Estoile. I did not know what the Mémoires de l'Estoile were; I asked M. Villenave, who lent me them. The Mémoires de l'Estoile, volume i. page 35, contain these lines—:
I got access to the Biographie; the Biographie directed me to the Mémoires de l'Estoile. I didn’t know what the Mémoires de l'Estoile were, so I asked M. Villenave, who lent me a copy. The Mémoires de l'Estoile, volume i, page 35, contains these lines—:
"Saint-Mégrin, a young gentleman of Bordeaux, handsome, wealthy and good-hearted, was one of the curled darlings kept by the king. One night when coming away, at eleven o'clock, from the Louvre, where the king was, in the rue du Louvre, near the rue Saint-Honoré, he was set upon by some twenty to thirty unknown men, with pistols, swords and cutlasses, who left him on the pavement for dead; he died, indeed, the next day, and it was a wonder how he could have lived so long, for he had received thirty-four or thirty-five mortal wounds. The king ordered his dead body to be carried to Boisy, near the Bastille, where Quélus, his companion, had died, and buried at Saint-Paul with as much pomp and solemnity as his companions Maugiron and Quélus had been buried there before him. No inquiries were made concerning the assassination, His Majesty having been warned that it had been done through the instrumentality of the Duc de Guise, because of the reports of intimacy between the young mignon and the duke's wife, and that the blow had been dealt by one who bore the beard and features of his brother the Duc du Maine. When the King of Navarre heard the news, he said—
"Saint-Mégrin, a young gentleman from Bordeaux, was good-looking, wealthy, and kind-hearted. He was one of the king's favored young men. One night, around eleven o'clock, as he was leaving the Louvre, where the king was, he was attacked by about twenty to thirty unknown men armed with pistols, swords, and cutlasses, and they left him for dead on the pavement. He actually died the next day, which was surprising considering he had survived for so long after receiving thirty-four or thirty-five fatal wounds. The king ordered his body to be taken to Boisy, near the Bastille, where his friend Quélus had died, and buried at Saint-Paul with as much ceremony and respect as his friends Maugiron and Quélus had received before him. No investigations were initiated regarding the assassination, as His Majesty had been informed that it was orchestrated by the Duc de Guise because of rumors about the closeness between the young mignon and the duke's wife, and that the attack was carried out by someone resembling his brother, the Duc du Maine. When the King of Navarre heard the news, he said—"
"'I am glad to hear that my cousin the Duc de Guise has[Pg 316] not suffered himself to be cuckolded by a mignon de couchette such as Saint-Mégrin; I wish all the other gilded youths about court who hang round the princesses ogling them and making love to them could receive the same treatment'...."
"'I’m glad to hear that my cousin, the Duc de Guise, has[Pg 316] not allowed himself to be cheated on by a mignon de couchette like Saint-Mégrin; I wish all the other flashy young guys at court who surround the princesses, flirting with them and trying to win their affection, could be treated the same way'...."
Farther on, in the Mémoires de l'Estoile, came this passage, concerning the death of Bussy d'Amboise:—
Farther on, in the Mémoires de l'Estoile, there is this passage about the death of Bussy d'Amboise:—
"On Wednesday, 19 August, Bussy d'Amboise, first gentle-man-in-waiting of M. le Duc, Governor of Anjou, Abbé de Bourgueil, who assumed very high and mighty airs, because of the partiality of his master, and who had done all kinds of evil deeds and robbed the countries of Anjou and Maine, was slain by the Seigneur de Monsoreau, together with the wicked lieutenant of Saumur, in a house belonging to the said Seigneur de Monsoreau, where, at night, the said lieutenant, who was his love messenger, had brought him to sleep that night with the wife of the said Monsoreau, to whom Bussy had for a long time made love; with whom the said lady had purposely made this false assignation in order to have him surprised by her husband, Monsoreau; when he appeared towards midnight, he was immediately surrounded and attacked by ten or a dozen men who accompanied the Seigneur de Monsoreau, and who rushed upon him in fury to massacre him: this gentleman, seeing himself so contemptibly betrayed, and that he was alone (as on such expeditions people usually prefer to be), did not, however, cease to defend himself to the last, proving, as he had often said, that fear had never found room in his heart;—for so long as an inch of sword remained in his hand, he fought on till only the handle was left him, and then he made use of tables, forms, chairs and stools, with which he disabled three or four of his enemies, until, overpowered by numbers and bereft of all arms and means of defending himself, he was beaten down, close to a window, from which he had tried to fling himself in the hope of escape. Such was the end of Captain Bussy...."
"On Wednesday, August 19, Bussy d'Amboise, the first gentleman-in-waiting to M. le Duc, Governor of Anjou, Abbé de Bourgueil, who carried himself with an arrogant air due to his master's favor and had committed numerous brutal acts while looting Anjou and Maine, was killed by Seigneur de Monsoreau, along with the wicked lieutenant of Saumur, in a house owned by Monsoreau. That night, the lieutenant, who was his secret messenger, had brought him to spend the night with Monsoreau’s wife, whom Bussy had long been pursuing romantically. The lady had intentionally set up this deceitful meeting to have her husband catch Bussy. When Monsoreau arrived around midnight, he was immediately surrounded and attacked by ten or twelve men with him, who rushed at Bussy in a frenzy to kill him. Faced with such treacherous betrayal and finding himself alone—since such missions typically require isolation—Bussy fought valiantly until the end, proving, as he often claimed, that fear had never found room in his heart; for as long as he had even an inch of sword left, he kept fighting until he was down to the handle, then he used tables, benches, chairs, and stools to take down three or four of his attackers. Eventually, overwhelmed by their numbers and stripped of all his weapons and means to defend himself, he was beaten down near a window from which he tried to jump in hopes of escaping. Thus ended the life of Captain Bussy...."
It was from these two paragraphs relating to Bussy and to Saint-Mégrin that I built up my drama. M. Villenave told me that I should find details as to manners in two valuable books entitled the Confession de Sancy, and the Ile des Hermaphrodites.
It was from these two paragraphs about Bussy and Saint-Mégrin that I created my drama. Mr. Villenave suggested that I would find details about manners in two valuable books titled the Confession de Sancy and the Ile des Hermaphrodites.
In connection with Henri III. it is easy to see that the dramatic gift is born with certain people. I was twenty-five years of age, Henri III. was my second serious piece of work: let any conscientious critic take it and submit it to the most rigorous examination and he will find plenty to blame in the style, but nothing in the plot. I have written fifty dramas since Henri III., but not one of them is more cleverly constructed.
In relation to Henri III., it's clear that some people are just born with a dramatic talent. I was twenty-five when I wrote it, and Henri III. was my second serious piece. Any honest critic can take it and put it through a strict review, and they'll find plenty to criticize in the writing, but nothing wrong with the story. I've written fifty plays since Henri III., but not one of them is better constructed.
CHAPTER XV
The reading of Henri III. at M. Villenave's and M. Roqueplan's—Another reading at Firmin's—Béranger is present—A few words about his influence and popularity—Effect produced by my drama—Reception by the Comédie-Française—Struggle for the distribution of parts—M. de Broval's ultimatum—Convicted of the crime of poetry I appeal to the Duc d'Orléans—His Royal Highness withholds my salary—M. Laffitte lends me three thousand francs—Condemnation of Béranger
The reading of Henri III. at M. Villenave's and M. Roqueplan's—Another reading at Firmin's—Béranger is there—A few words about his influence and popularity—The impact of my play—Response from the Comédie-Française—Competition for role assignments—M. de Broval's ultimatum—Accused of the crime of poetry, I turn to the Duc d'Orléans for help—His Royal Highness withholds my salary—M. Laffitte lends me three thousand francs—Condemnation of Béranger.
The execution of Henri III. was, relatively speaking, rapid; as soon as the plot was completely settled in my mind it scarcely took me two months to finish the work. I recollect that, in the interval between the composition of the plot and the execution of the piece, I went to Villers-Cotterets, to shoot, I believe; on my return, I started before the carriage, and my young friends, Saunier, Labarre and Duez, put me on my way as far as the village of Vauciennes. During our walk I told them the whole of Henri III. from beginning to end. Henri III. was completed directly the plot was completed. When I am busy working at one of my plays it is a help to me to tell the story; as I tell it I invent, and, at the conclusion of one of these recitals, some fine morning, there the play is, ready finished. But it often happens that this way of composing, namely, by not beginning the composition until I have finished the plot, is very slow. I kept Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle nearly five years thus in my head, and since 1832 I have had the plot of a Juif errant in my mind, waiting till I can get a moment's leisure to finish it; it will be one of my best pieces of work. I have only one fear, and that is that I shall die before I can get it done.
The execution of Henri III. was pretty quick; once the plot was completely clear in my mind, it took me less than two months to finish it. I remember that between working on the plot and writing the piece, I went to Villers-Cotterets, probably to hunt; on my way back, I set off before the carriage, and my young friends, Saunier, Labarre, and Duez, accompanied me as far as the village of Vauciennes. During our walk, I told them the entire story of Henri III. from start to finish. Henri III. was finished right after I completed the plot. When I’m working on one of my plays, sharing the story helps me; as I narrate it, I create, and one fine morning, after one of these storytelling sessions, the play is all done. However, this method of composing—waiting until I’ve completed the plot before starting to write—can be quite slow. I kept Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle in my head for nearly five years, and since 1832, I've had the plot for Juif errant on my mind, just waiting for a moment of free time to finish it; it’s going to be one of my best works. My only worry is that I’ll die before I can complete it.
When I had finished Henri III. I read it to a small circle of friends at Madame Waldor's. The play made a great impression; but the unanimous advice was that I ought to have Christine produced first. They said that Henri III. was too daring for a first production. I need hardly say that M. Villenave thought all these new movements in literature monstrous aberrations of the human intellect. It was the period when an entirely fresh generation was springing up around us and with us. Several journals had just been begun by men of our age, full of the new ideas then afloat, in opposition to the views of the Constitutionnel, the Courrier français, the Journal de Paris and the Journal des Débats, which from that time reserved the whole of its praise for Victor Hugo.
When I finished Henri III., I read it to a small group of friends at Madame Waldor's. The play made a strong impression, but everyone agreed that I should have Christine produced first. They thought Henri III. was too bold for a debut production. I hardly need to mention that M. Villenave believed all these new movements in literature were just monstrous mistakes of the human mind. It was a time when a completely new generation was emerging around us. Several magazines had just been launched by people our age, filled with the new ideas circulating then, in contrast to the views of the Constitutionnel, the Courrier français, the Journal de Paris, and the Journal des Débats, which from that point on reserved all its praise for Victor Hugo.
These journals were the Figaro and the Sylphe. They were edited by Nestor Roqueplan, Alphonse Royer, Louis Desnoyers, Alphonse Karr, Vaillant, Dovalle and a dozen other bold champions of the Romantic school. I invited them all to meet in Nestor Roqueplan's rooms, also asking Lassagne and Firmin to join us. In those days Nestor Roqueplan was not magnificently lodged in his apartments at the Opéra; his salons were not ornamented by Boule, nor were the corner-stones from Coromandel. He had a small room on the fifth floor, with a chimneypiece ornamented with a washhand basin, in lieu of a clock, and duelling pistols instead of candlesticks. Nearly a score of us were packed in this room; we laid out the mattresses from the bed on the floor to form divans; we transformed the bedstead into a sofa. I stood before a table lit by plain candles; the kettle was put on the fire so that each act could be divided by a cup of tea—and I began. This time, I was dealing with men of daring opinions, and their advice was therefore exactly the opposite: they all declared with one accord that I ought to abandon Christine to her unhappy lot and to push forward Henri III. Firmin was enchanted; he could understand the part of Saint-Mégrin much better than he had been able to enter into that of Monaldeschi. He undertook to ask for a reading for me and[Pg 320] to hurry one forward. In the meantime, if I were willing, he would gather his fellow-actors together at his own house, so that I could read my play to them before the definitive reading at the Théâtre-Français. I felt beside myself with my success; I would have read it fifty times had I been asked to do so. I placed myself in his hands and told him to do whatever he wished. As I was going away, Lassagne caught me by the arm.
These journals were the Figaro and the Sylphe. They were edited by Nestor Roqueplan, Alphonse Royer, Louis Desnoyers, Alphonse Karr, Vaillant, Dovalle, and about a dozen other brave advocates of the Romantic school. I invited all of them to gather in Nestor Roqueplan's place, also asking Lassagne and Firmin to join us. Back then, Nestor Roqueplan wasn’t living in his lavish apartments at the Opéra; his rooms weren’t decorated with Boule furniture or even featuring corner-stones from Coromandel. He had a small room on the fifth floor, with a fireplace that had a washhand basin instead of a clock and dueling pistols as candlesticks. Nearly twenty of us squeezed into this room; we laid out the mattresses from the bed on the floor to create makeshift couches and turned the bed frame into a sofa. I stood in front of a table illuminated by simple candles; we put the kettle on the stove so we could break up the acts with cups of tea—and I got started. This time, I was working with bold thinkers, and their advice was completely the opposite: they all unanimously agreed that I should leave Christine to her unfortunate situation and push ahead with Henri III. Firmin was thrilled; he could relate to the role of Saint-Mégrin much better than he had with Monaldeschi. He offered to request a reading for me and[Pg 320] to expedite the process. In the meantime, if I was okay with it, he would gather his fellow actors at his place so I could read my play to them before the official reading at the Théâtre-Français. I was ecstatic about my success; I would have read it fifty times if asked. I put myself in his hands and told him to do whatever he wanted. As I was leaving, Lassagne grabbed my arm.
"My friend," he said, "you were only half right in the matter of Christine; you are altogether right in Henri III."
"My friend," he said, "you were only partly correct about Christine; you are completely right about Henri III."
Firmin fixed the reading for the following Thursday; it was necessary that Béranger should be present at it. You must understand the import of those few words, "It was necessary that Béranger should be present at it!" Béranger was the hero of the hour; of him Benjamin Constant had just said, "Good old Béranger! he thinks he is writing chansons and really he is composing odes!" This mot had gone round, it hit the mark so deliciously, and the whole of the Liberal party had pronounced Béranger to be the greatest poet of his age. This partisanship had roused some opposition, but the only effect was to carry enthusiasm to the utmost pitch. Please, let me make it clear that I do not wish to convey the impression that Béranger was overrated, but I think it was rather unjust on the others; and by the others I mean Lamartine and Hugo. They also composed odes, admirables odes, too, and no one went so far as to say that they could not also compose chansons. The explanation was that Lamartine and Hugo were both out-and-out members of the Royalist party, and the Royalist party was far from representing the opinion of the majority. Now, this popular enthusiasm was not on account of Béranger as a poet pure and simple; it was for Béranger as a national poet, for Béranger as the author of the Vieux Drapeau, the Dieu des bonnes gens, the Grand'mère. Here the instincts of the masses were not at fault; they fully realised that Béranger was a fiery socialist, that each of his political chansons was the blow of a pickaxe aimed to undermine the foundations of the throne, and they applauded with hands and with voices the bold pioneer who[Pg 321] dug the trench by which the people were, one day, to gain access to the Tuileries. Therefore, Béranger enjoyed an immense influence; all parties vied with each other as to who should gain Béranger to their side. They offered him the Cross and he refused it; they offered him a pension and he refused it; they offered him membership in the Academy and he refused it; no one became possessed of Béranger, but, on the contrary, Béranger gained the confidence of everybody in general and of Laffitte in particular.
Firmin scheduled the reading for the following Thursday; it was crucial for Béranger to be there. You need to understand the significance of those few words, "It was crucial for Béranger to be there!" Béranger was the star of the moment; Benjamin Constant had just remarked, "Good old Béranger! He thinks he’s writing songs, but he’s actually composing odes!" This line spread quickly, striking a chord so perfectly, and the entire Liberal party declared Béranger the greatest poet of his time. This favoritism sparked some pushback, but it only heightened the enthusiasm even more. Let me clarify that I don’t mean to suggest that Béranger was overrated; I just think it was a bit unfair to others, and by "others," I mean Lamartine and Hugo. They also wrote odes, truly remarkable ones, and no one claimed they couldn’t write songs too. The reason was that Lamartine and Hugo were both committed members of the Royalist party, which didn’t reflect the views of the majority. Now, this popular enthusiasm wasn’t just about Béranger as a poet; it was for Béranger as a national poet, for Béranger as the writer of the Vieux Drapeau, the Dieu des bonnes gens, the Grand'mère. The instincts of the masses weren’t wrong; they recognized that Béranger was a passionate socialist, that each of his political songs was like a pickaxe blow aimed to undermine the throne, and they cheered with their hands and voices for the bold pioneer who[Pg 321] dug the trench through which the people would one day reach the Tuileries. Consequently, Béranger had immense influence; all parties competed to win him over. They offered him the Cross, and he turned it down; they offered him a pension, and he refused it; they offered him a spot in the Academy, and he declined it; no one could claim Béranger, but, on the contrary, Béranger earned the trust of everyone in general and Laffitte in particular.
Laffitte's friendship with Béranger and Béranger's influence on Laffitte displayed itself in a singular way in 1830. France owed the reign of Louis-Philippe to these two men; that is to say, the indispensable transition as I deem it from aristocratic royalism to democratic rule—that intermediate stage which has been termed la royauté bourgeoise. We shall have some strange details to relate when we reach the proper time and place; for, throughout that great week, we were closely associated with makers and unmakers of kings. But, for the moment, the Béranger that Firmin promised me was not the man of politics, but Béranger the poet, the author of Lisette, the Deux Sœurs de Charité and Frétillon. We were, besides, to have such authorities as MM. Taylor, Michelot and Samson; Mlle. Leverd and Mlle. Mars.
Laffitte's friendship with Béranger and Béranger's influence on Laffitte showed itself in a unique way in 1830. France owed the reign of Louis-Philippe to these two men; in other words, the crucial transition, as I see it, from aristocratic royalism to democratic rule—that intermediate stage which has been called la royauté bourgeoise. We’ll have some intriguing details to share when we get to the right time and place; because, during that significant week, we were closely linked with those who make and unmake kings. But, for now, the Béranger that Firmin promised me was not the political figure, but Béranger the poet, the author of Lisette, Deux Sœurs de Charité, and Frétillon. We were also going to hear from notable figures like MM. Taylor, Michelot, and Samson; Mlle. Leverd and Mlle. Mars.
I wished my mother to have the pleasure of being present at this reading, as I felt quite certain of a successful issue, so I persuaded her to accompany me.
I wanted my mom to enjoy being there for this reading because I was pretty sure it would go well, so I convinced her to come with me.
Alas! poor mother! I might have had a presentiment that she would not be present at its performance!
Alas! poor mother! I should have sensed that she wouldn't be there for its performance!
The reading created a great impression on everybody. Although, in the nature of things, Béranger could not thoroughly enter into the spirit of dramatic form, he, too, was moved to enthusiasm along with the rest, by the third and fifth acts and did not hesitate to predict that I should have a great success.
The reading made a strong impression on everyone. Even though Béranger couldn't fully grasp the essence of dramatic form, he was just as excited as everyone else by the third and fifth acts and confidently predicted that I would achieve great success.
From that night dates a friendship between Béranger and me—a friendship which has never failed. This friendship often took a sardonic, almost bitter form of expression, for Béranger[Pg 322] is not at all the good-humoured man people imagine, he has too much genius to be genial; but this friendship was always sincere and ready to be put to the proof by deeds and tokens.
From that night, a friendship began between Béranger and me—a friendship that has never wavered. This friendship often expressed itself in a sardonic, almost bitter way, because Béranger[Pg 322] is not the cheerful person people think he is; he has too much talent to be easygoing. Still, this friendship was always genuine and ready to be tested through actions and gestures.
The reading, as I have said, had a marked effect upon all present; but especially were the five Comedians impressed by it—Firmin, Michelot, Samson, Mlle. Mars and Mlle. Leverd. It was settled that when the Committee met two days hence, a special reading should be asked for and that, making use of the guarantee which was given me with regard to Christine, special favour should be sought on my account so that the piece might be played as soon as possible. The play was read on 17 September 1828 and received with acclamation. After the reading, I was called into the director's office, which was vacant, for the time being. There I found Taylor, Mademoiselle Mars, Michelot and Firmin. Mademoiselle Mars began the subject with her usual frankness, I was going to say with her usual brutal frankness. I was not to allow Henri III. to be put aside as I had in the case of Christine; everything must be settled at once, while the Committee was in the mood—the distribution of rôles, the signing of the contract; and, taking advantage of the eager enthusiasm of the Committee, steps were immediately to be taken to obtain the mise en scène from the Administration. Moreover, my generous patron Taylor was about to quit the theatre to travel in the East; he had kept his promise to the author of Hécube and was setting out, not only for Alexandria and Cairo, but even as far as Luxor. Advantage might be taken of his absence to do me a bad turn. I endowed Mlle. Mars, Firmin and Michelot with plenary powers, and they undertook my affairs, constituting themselves my tutelary guardians, and declaring that I was incapable of carrying out the necessary negotiations myself.
The reading, as I mentioned, had a strong impact on everyone there; but especially the five Comedians—Firmin, Michelot, Samson, Mlle. Mars, and Mlle. Leverd. It was decided that when the Committee met in two days, they should request a special reading, and that using the guarantee I had regarding Christine, special favor should be requested on my behalf to ensure the piece was performed as soon as possible. The play was read on September 17, 1828, and was met with cheers. After the reading, I was called into the director's office, which was temporarily empty. There, I found Taylor, Mademoiselle Mars, Michelot, and Firmin. Mademoiselle Mars opened the discussion with her usual honesty, or rather her usual blunt honesty. I was not to let Henri III. be sidelined as I had done with Christine; everything needed to be settled right away, while the Committee was enthusiastic—the casting, signing the contract; and, taking advantage of the Committee's eagerness, steps were to be taken immediately to get the mise en scène from the Administration. Furthermore, my generous supporter Taylor was about to leave the theater to travel to the East; he had kept his promise to the writer of Hécube and was setting off not just for Alexandria and Cairo, but all the way to Luxor. His absence could be used against me. I empowered Mlle. Mars, Firmin, and Michelot with full authority, and they took charge of my affairs, acting as my protective guardians and declaring that I was incapable of handling the necessary negotiations myself.
When the question of the distribution of rôles was discussed, Mlle. Mars met with great opposition. She wished Armand to undertake the part of Henri III. and Madame Menjaud to be the page. Now, I wanted Louise Despréaux to be the[Pg 323] page and Michelot to be Henri III. The discussion was protracted, lasting for a week. This struggle was the beginning of a series of battles between Mlle. Mars and myself which, in spite of our real friendliness, lasted first with regard to one subject and then another, until the death of that estimable actress. But I stood firm. I had profited by the reproaches of Mlle. Mars and I turned the tables against her. Madame Menjaud was a very talented woman, but she was neither young enough nor pretty enough for a page boy, and it was just precisely on this account that Mlle. Mars could not get rid of that egoism which is the defect of even the most eminent of artistes, objecting to the contrast of a young and fresh face by the side of her own, she being at that time fifty-one years of age. I had to be satisfied with retorting that as Louise Despréaux was a pupil of Firmin I was bound to have her. My reason for declining to let Armand play the part of Henri III. was more difficult to divulge. Although Armand was five or six years the senior of Mlle. Mars, he was still good-looking, looked quite young and was the most presentable of the French Comedians, but nobody save Armand himself would ever have dreamt of his taking the part of Henri III.! I was obliged to tell Armand that his acting of the part was too realistic, and that I did not wish him to take it. This answer made Armand my enemy for life, and very nearly caused me to fall out with Mlle. Mars.
When the topic of role assignment came up, Mlle. Mars faced strong opposition. She wanted Armand to play the role of Henri III and Madame Menjaud to be the page. However, I wanted Louise Despréaux to be the [Pg 323] page and Michelot to be Henri III. The debate dragged on for a week. This conflict marked the start of a series of disputes between Mlle. Mars and me that, despite our genuine friendship, continued first on one issue and then another until the death of that esteemed actress. But I remained resolute. I had taken Mlle. Mars's criticisms to heart and used them against her. Madame Menjaud was very talented, but she wasn’t young or attractive enough for a page, and it was precisely because of this that Mlle. Mars couldn't shake off that selfishness that even the greatest artists can have, objecting to the contrast of a youthful and fresh face next to hers, given that she was fifty-one years old at the time. I had to settle for saying that since Louise Despréaux was a student of Firmin, I was obligated to cast her. My reason for not allowing Armand to play the role of Henri III was harder to explain. Although Armand was five or six years older than Mlle. Mars, he was still good-looking, appeared quite young, and was the most presentable of the French Comedians, but no one, except Armand himself, would have thought of him taking on the role of Henri III! I had to tell Armand that his performance was too realistic and that I didn’t want him to play it. This response made Armand my enemy for life and nearly caused a rift between Mlle. Mars and me.
Such were my worries at the theatre—there were plenty more for me at the offices.
Such were my worries at the theater—there were plenty more for me at the offices.
As in the case of Christine, the papers immediately published the news of my reception, and as in the case of Christine there was a great commotion about it in the offices. However, nothing was said to me at first. Thanks to the easy means of communication between the Committee and my little office, Firmin called on me several times, and my subsequent absences after his calls, which had reference to various difficulties that arose about distribution of parts or the mise en scène, having been noted, an accusation was concocted against me of a sufficiently grave nature to constitute a charge of insubordination.[Pg 324] Consequently, I received one morning, through the agency of Féresse, a request to step upstairs and appear before the director-general. M. de Broval received me with a severe look that boded a storm. I was at once reminded of M. Lefèvre and his discourse on the well organised machine, and the wheel, which, small though it was, prevented the whole from working. Alas! for the last six years I had not grown into a much larger wheel, and I felt as small before M. de Broval as I had done before M. Lefèvre. But there was something stirring in the depths of my being that was growing, and that was a self-confidence which six years of work had given me and the reception of my two plays Christine and Henri III. So I awaited the tempest with a calmness that surprised and almost disconcerted M. de Broval.
As with Christine, the news of my reception was quickly reported by the papers, and just like before, it caused quite a stir in the offices. However, no one said anything to me at first. Due to the easy communication between the Committee and my small office, Firmin visited me several times, and my subsequent absences after his visits, which were related to various issues about distribution of parts or the mise en scène, were noted. This led to a serious accusation being fabricated against me that was serious enough to be considered insubordination.[Pg 324] As a result, one morning, through Féresse, I was asked to go upstairs and meet with the director-general. M. de Broval greeted me with a stern look that hinted at trouble. I immediately thought of M. Lefèvre and his talk about the well-organized machine, where even a small wheel could prevent the whole thing from working. Sadly, over the past six years, I hadn’t developed into a larger wheel, and I felt just as small in front of M. de Broval as I had before M. Lefèvre. But deep inside, something was changing, a growing self-confidence that six years of work and the reception of my two plays Christine and Henri III. had given me. So I faced the impending storm with a calmness that surprised and almost unsettled M. de Broval.
At length, in dulcet tones, he explained to me that literature and official work were incompatible and that, knowing how, in spite of the natural antipathy between them, I had been endeavouring to combine them, he requested me to make my choice between the two.
At last, in a gentle voice, he told me that literature and official work just don't mix. He acknowledged that, despite their natural clash, I had been trying to bring them together, and he asked me to choose between the two.
M. de Broval was a fine talker, for he had been a third-class clerk in the diplomatic service. On great days he wore, as I believe I have mentioned, a coat with a braided collar, and on this coat the medal of Saint-Janvier, which he had received on the marriage of the Duc d'Orléans with the daughter of Ferdinand of Sicily; on ordinary days, he dressed like everybody else. One of his shoulders was higher than the other and he had a big red nose. I was always unlucky with deformed persons. I knew that the time had come when I must stake my last throw; I let M. de Broval proceed with the rounding off of his sentences, and his greatly beloved climaxes, until he had finished, and then I said—
M. de Broval was a great conversationalist because he had worked as a third-class clerk in the diplomatic service. On special occasions, he wore a coat with a braided collar, along with the Saint-Janvier medal he received when the Duc d'Orléans married Ferdinand of Sicily's daughter; on regular days, he dressed like everyone else. One of his shoulders was higher than the other, and he had a big red nose. I always seemed to have bad luck with people who had physical differences. I knew it was time to make my final move; I let M. de Broval finish his lengthy sentences and his much-loved climaxes, and then I said—
"Monsieur le Baron, as far as I have been able to follow your discourse, I gather you leave me the choice between my place as copying clerk and my vocation as a literary man."
"Monsieur le Baron, from what I’ve gathered from your speech, it seems you’re giving me the option between staying as a copying clerk and pursuing my career as a writer."
"That is so, Dumas," the baron replied.
"That's right, Dumas," the baron replied.
"My place was obtained from the Duc d'Orléans by General[Pg 325] Foy; it was accorded me by the Duc d'Orléans through his influence; now, before I can believe that the first prince of the blood royal, a man whom everybody declares to be a patron of letters—and who justified this title by receiving into his library M. Casimir Delavigne, dismissed from his office for the crime of making poetry—before, I say, I can credit that such a man could dismiss me from his administration for the same crime as that committed by M. Casimir Delavigne, which, in the case of M. Casimir Delavigne, was a title to favour, I must receive my exeat, whether verbal or in writing, either from the lips or the hand of M. le Duc d'Orléans. I will neither resign nor accept dismissal. As for my salary, as M. le Baron has given me to understand that the one hundred and twenty-five francs payment I draw monthly is an exorbitant tax upon His Royal Highness's budget, I am willing to renounce it on the spot."
"My place was obtained from the Duc d'Orléans by General[Pg 325] Foy; it was given to me by the Duc d'Orléans through his influence. Now, before I can believe that the first prince of the royal blood, a man everyone claims is a supporter of the arts—and who proved this by welcoming M. Casimir Delavigne into his library after he was ousted from his position for writing poetry—before I can accept that such a man would dismiss me from his administration for the same reason as M. Casimir Delavigne, which, in his case, was a reason to be favored, I must receive my exeat, whether spoken or written, either from the mouth or the hand of M. le Duc d'Orléans. I will neither resign nor accept dismissal. As for my salary, since M. le Baron has suggested to me that the one hundred and twenty-five francs I receive monthly is an unreasonable burden on His Royal Highness's budget, I am ready to give it up right away."
"Ah! ah!" M. de Broval exclaimed in surprise; "and how do you and your mother propose to live, monsieur?"
"Wow!" Mr. de Broval said in surprise; "so how do you and your mom plan to live, sir?"
"That is my own business, monsieur"; and I bowed and prepared to take my leave.
"That's my own business, sir"; and I nodded and got ready to leave.
"Take notice, Monsieur Dumas," said M. de Broval, "from the end of next month you shall not receive any further salary."
"Listen up, Monsieur Dumas," M. de Broval said, "starting at the end of next month, you won't be getting any more salary."
"From this present one, monsieur, if you wish it. This will enable you to save one hundred and twenty-five francs on His Highness's account, and I have no doubt that His Highness will be duly grateful to you for this economy."
"From this current one, sir, if you want it. This will let you save one hundred and twenty-five francs on His Highness's behalf, and I'm sure that His Highness will really appreciate this savings."
Whereupon I again bowed and withdrew.
Whereupon I bowed once more and left.
M. de Broval kept his word. When I returned to my office, I was officially informed that in future I could dispose of my time as I thought proper, since from that day my salary was suspended. It seems incredible and yet it is a fact. Furthermore, the salaries in the prince's offices were as a general rule so poor they were not enough for us to live on. So each had recourse to some particular industry to ameliorate his constant state of penury: some had married sempstresses who kept little shops; others had shares in livery stables;[Pg 326] there were even some who ran thirty-two sous restaurants in the Latin Quarter, who laid down the ducal pens at five o'clock to take up the serviette of a waiter in a cheap eating-house. Ah well! nothing was said to these, they were not reproached with lowering his princely dignity in the eyes of others; no, their industry was extolled and it was looked upon as quite natural and quite ordinary; whilst I, who felt no vocation to marry a shopkeeper; who did not possess any capital to invest in the cab trade; who was accustomed to put a serviette on my knees and not over my arm, was looked upon as a criminal because I sought a way of salvation in literature! They suspended my salary because I had a tragedy and a drama accepted by the Comédie-Française!
M. de Broval kept his promise. When I got back to my office, I was officially told that from now on I could manage my time as I saw fit since, starting that day, my salary was put on hold. It seems unbelievable, yet it’s true. Additionally, the salaries in the prince's offices were generally so low that they weren't enough for us to get by. So everyone found some side hustle to improve their constant financial struggle: some married seamstresses who owned small shops; others had stakes in horse stables; [Pg 326] there were even some who ran thirty-two sous restaurants in the Latin Quarter, dropping their prestigious pens at five o'clock to take on the role of a waiter in a budget eatery. Ah well! No one said anything to them; they weren’t criticized for diminishing the prince's dignity in front of others; no, their hard work was praised and seen as perfectly normal and acceptable; while I, who had no desire to marry a shopkeeper, who didn’t have any money to invest in the taxi business, and who was used to placing a napkin on my lap instead of over my arm, was viewed as a criminal for trying to find my way out through literature! They suspended my salary because I had a tragedy and a play accepted by the Comédie-Française!
Well, I had prepared my plans beforehand, and these plans had fortified me. I had decided that I would lay my case before Béranger, and ask him to obtain for me an interview with Laffitte. It was just possible that Laffitte might do for me what he had done for Théaulon, under similar circumstances. Laffitte might, perhaps, lend me a thousand crowns. I went and told Firmin all my difficulties, and he took me to Béranger. And Béranger took me to Laffitte. I should misrepresent the truth if I said that M. Laffitte jumped at the opportunity of rendering me this service; but I should also misrepresent it if I did not hasten to add that he did render it me. I signed a promissory note for three thousand francs, I deposited a copy of my manuscript of Henri III. with the cashier, and I pledged my word of honour to return the three thousand francs upon the sale of the manuscript. There' was no question of interest.
Well, I had already made my plans, and they had given me strength. I decided I would present my situation to Béranger and ask him to help me get a meeting with Laffitte. There was a chance that Laffitte could do for me what he did for Théaulon in a similar situation. Laffitte might, possibly, lend me a thousand crowns. I explained all my troubles to Firmin, and he took me to Béranger. Béranger then took me to Laffitte. I would be misrepresenting the truth if I said that M. Laffitte eagerly agreed to help me; however, I would also be misrepresenting it if I didn't quickly add that he did help me. I signed a promissory note for three thousand francs, I handed over a copy of my manuscript of Henri III. to the cashier, and I pledged my word of honor to return the three thousand francs once the manuscript sold. There was no talk of interest.
I left Laffitte's house with my three notes of a thousand francs each in my pocket, I shook hands warmly with Béranger and I ran home to my mother. I found her in despair; she had already heard what had happened. I drew the three notes of a thousand francs from my pocket and put them into her hands. They represented my salary for two years. I explained to her how I had come by the money, but she could not realise it. Nevertheless, my poor mother began to believe that I was[Pg 327] not altogether out of my senses for writing plays, since I could borrow a thousand crowns on the bare manuscript of one of these plays—a sum equivalent to two years of my salary. That night, I related at M. Villenave's what had happened. M. Villenave blamed me, but everyone else said I had done right.
I left Laffitte's house with three notes of a thousand francs each in my pocket, shook hands warmly with Béranger, and hurried home to my mom. I found her in despair; she had already heard what happened. I took the three notes out of my pocket and handed them to her. They represented my salary for two years. I explained how I got the money, but she couldn’t grasp it. Still, my poor mom started to believe I wasn’t completely crazy for writing plays since I could borrow a thousand crowns on just the manuscript of one of those plays—a sum equal to two years of my salary. That night, I shared what happened with M. Villenave. M. Villenave criticized me, but everyone else said I did the right thing.
A fortnight after Béranger had rendered me this service he was sentenced by the tribunal de police correctionnelle de la Seine to pay a fine of ten thousand francs and to nine months' imprisonment, as author of the Ange gardien, of the Gérontocratie and of the Sacre de Charles le Simple. Béranger did not appeal against the judgment and he was a prisoner at the beginning of the year 1829. A month after his entry into prison, M. Viennet visited him.
A couple of weeks after Béranger helped me out, he was sentenced by the tribunal de police correctionnelle de la Seine to pay a fine of ten thousand francs and spend nine months in prison for being the author of the Ange gardien, the Gérontocratie, and the Sacre de Charles le Simple. Béranger didn’t appeal the ruling, and he found himself in prison at the beginning of 1829. A month after he entered prison, M. Viennet came to visit him.
"Well, my noble songster," began the author of the Philippide, "how many chansons have you already composed under lock and key?"
"Well, my noble singer," started the author of the Philippide, "how many songs have you already written and kept hidden?"
"Not one yet," replied Béranger; "do you suppose chansons are written as easily as epic poems?"
"Not a single one yet," Béranger replied. "Do you really think songs are written as easily as epic poems?"
CHAPTER XVI
The Duc d'Orléans has my salary stopped—A scribbler (folliculaire)—Henri III. and the Censorship—My mother is seized with paralysis—Cazal—Edmond Halphen—A call on the Duc d'Orléans—First night of Henri III.—Effect it produced on M. Deviolaine—M. de Broval's congratulations
The Duc d'Orléans has cut off my salary—A writer (a hack)—Henri III. and Censorship—My mother has had a stroke—Cazal—Edmond Halphen—A visit to the Duc d'Orléans—Opening night of Henri III.—The effect it had on Mr. Deviolaine—Mr. de Broval's congratulations
It was under these conditions that the year 1829 broke upon me—the year in which was to take place the grand duel between my past and my future. My intimate intercourse with the Villenave family had been the means of opening to me several of the salons of the day, and among these that of the Princess de Salm. Here it was that I met Lady Morgan, Cooper and Humboldt.
It was in this environment that the year 1829 arrived—the year when my past and future were set to confront each other. My close relationship with the Villenave family had given me access to several prominent social circles of the time, including that of Princess de Salm. It was there that I encountered Lady Morgan, Cooper, and Humboldt.
Meanwhile, Henri III. was causing a great sensation. Nothing was talked of save the revolution which its representation meant. I attended the rehearsals with great assiduity, attracted, so I asserted, by my interest in the work; but, according to Mlle. Mars, the real reason was the interest I took in an exceedingly pretty and charming lady, named Mlle. Virginie Bourbier, who played a trifling part in my drama. Since the month of October I had not put foot inside the office. Now, although I had worked hard for nine months of the year and, consequently, was entitled to three-quarters of my bonus, everyone save myself seemed to have had share in the distribution of funds, and in the munificence of His Royal Highness. It was not a simple oversight, as I might have hoped, although that would have been humiliating enough—no, the fact had been debated, considered and decided, and His Royal Highness had condescended to write beside my name, in his own hand—
Meanwhile, Henri III. was creating quite a stir. The only topic of conversation was the revolution that its representation signified. I attended the rehearsals diligently, claiming it was my enthusiasm for the project; however, Mlle. Mars suggested that the real reason was my interest in a very pretty and charming woman named Mlle. Virginie Bourbier, who had a minor role in my play. Since October, I hadn't set foot in the office. Even though I had worked hard for nine months of the year and, therefore, deserved three-quarters of my bonus, it seemed that everyone except me had benefited from the distribution of funds, thanks to the generosity of His Royal Highness. It wasn't just an oversight, as I might have wished, even though that would have been humiliating enough—no, this matter had been discussed, analyzed, and decided upon, and His Royal Highness had taken the time to write beside my name, in his own hand—
"The gratuities of M. Alexandre Dumas are to be withheld, as he is engaged in literary work."
"The tips for M. Alexandre Dumas are to be withheld, as he is focused on his writing."
The Administration was divided into two camps over my position. Some had bravely dared to take the side of literature against bureaucracy. Among the number of my partisans was little old Bichet, whose head being turned by M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison maintained that I should do great things ... not so great, of course, as Piron; but still, I should make my name known. The others were Lassagne, Lamy, secretary of Mlle. Adélaïde, the son of the director of the comptabilité Jamet, whose admiration for the English actors, and specially for a charming English actress, had brought him over to the Romantic school, and some others, who were too dependent on their positions to dare to manifest their sympathy with me openly. Oudard remained neutral. M. Deviolaine wavered; all this talk there had been about me had shaken his opinion. Was I right, in spite of the whole world, and, in spite of my education at three francs per month, should I succeed where scores of others had failed? He expressed his doubt, from time to time, nearly always winding up his hesitation by the following words:—
The Administration was divided into two groups over my position. Some had courageously chosen to support literature against bureaucracy. Among my supporters was the little old Bichet, who, influenced by M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison, insisted that I would accomplish great things... not as great as Piron, of course, but I would still make a name for myself. The others included Lassagne, Lamy, secretary to Mlle. Adélaïde, and the son of the director of the comptabilité Jamet, whose admiration for English actors, especially for a lovely English actress, had led him to embrace the Romantic school, along with a few others who were too reliant on their positions to openly show their support for me. Oudard stayed neutral. M. Deviolaine wavered; all the talk about me had made him uncertain. Was I right, despite everyone else's opinion and my meager education, should I really succeed where many others had failed? He would occasionally express his doubt, usually ending his hesitations with these words:—
"The —— is crazy enough to do it!"
"The —— is crazy enough to actually do it!"
As is usual in theatrical matters, the production was postponed from day to day but at last it was fixed to take place on 11 February. A grave anxiety, however, hovered over everybody and myself in particular, like a black cloud. The Censor had not yet given his final decision upon the play. A wretched creature occupied the office at that time, who lived on scandal, making capital of others' self-esteem or their weakness, beside whom Geoffroi was honesty itself and a conscientious critic. The following lines on the Folliculaire by Laville might have been written about him:—
As is common in theater, the production was delayed repeatedly, but it was finally scheduled for February 11. However, a serious anxiety loomed over everyone, especially me, like a dark cloud. The Censor still hadn't made a final decision on the play. At that time, a miserable person held the position, thriving on gossip and exploiting others' pride or vulnerabilities, making Geoffroi look like a paragon of honesty and a fair critic. The following lines from the Folliculaire by Laville could have been written about him:—
"Un vase de vermeil, une bague de prix,
Du vin surtout, voilà ses cadeaux favoris.
On assure—je crois que, sur ce fait probable,
Pour le vrai, la chronique a pris le vraisemblable—
Qu'au jour où nos amis viennent du vieux Nestor
Nous souhaiter les ans, et bien d'autres encor;
Au jour où les filleuls aiment tant leurs marraines;
Jour de munificence où, sous le nom d'étrennes,
[Pg 330]
Chacun de son voisin attend quelques tributs,
Et d'une honnête aumône accroît ses revenus,
Il revend au rabais, ou plutôt à l'enchère,
Le superflu des vins et de la bonne chère
Dont l'accable le zèle ou l'effroi des acteurs;
Et que Follicula, pour qui les directeurs
De schalls et de chapeaux renouvellent l'emplette,
Se fait, pendant deux mois, marchande à la toilette!"
"An ornate vase, a valuable ring,
And especially wine, these are her favorite gifts.
It’s said—I think, based on this likely fact,
For the truth, the news has taken what's plausible—
That on the day our friends come from old Nestor
To wish us well on our birthdays, and many more;
On the day when godchildren love their godmothers so much;
A day of generosity where, under the name of gifts,
[Pg 330]
Everyone expects a little something from their neighbors,
And with a good donation, boosts their income,
They sell off at a discount, or rather at auction,
The excess of wine and fine food
That overwhelms them from the zeal or fear of the actors;
And Follicula, for whom the directors
Of halls and hats renew their purchases,
Becomes, for two months, a saleswoman at the dressing table!"
The entire theatrical world paid tribute to this man. Mademoiselle Mars gave him a pension; he received subsidies from the Théâtre-Français, the Odéon, the Opéra and the Opéra-Comique. They came to him as to the open market: he sold eulogy to one, calumny to others; he sold everything, even his silence.
The whole theater community honored this man. Mademoiselle Mars gave him a pension; he got funding from the Théâtre-Français, the Odéon, the Opéra, and the Opéra-Comique. They approached him like he was an open market: he offered praise to some, slander to others; he sold everything, even his silence.
Mademoiselle Mars, Firmin, the company of the Comédie-Française, and even Taylor himself had urged me to pay this man a call; but I had obstinately refused. So, one morning, someone brought me his paper, which contained the following lines:—
Mademoiselle Mars, Firmin, the team from the Comédie-Française, and even Taylor himself had pushed me to visit this guy; but I stubbornly declined. So, one morning, someone handed me his paper, which included these lines:—
"In the play that has just been accepted by the Comédie-Française, the work of an author who, we are told, possesses great merit, there appear characters who had a disgraceful connection with the subject (the Court of Henri III.), whose new appearance on the stage may possibly serve to prove the author's talent, but whose presence, it cannot be denied, create an impropriety impossible to tolerate. History has preserved the names of these miserable heroes, those infamous personages, who took part in a debauch as dissolute as it was inexcusable; we will venture to call them by their true names, and to signify our detestation of the representatives of these rôles of mignons, on account of the scandalous mischief they will do to the masses. If the information we have received upon this subject be correct, the authority which honours the theatre with its guardian vigilance will not permit an innovation of this nature, for it knows that its first duty is only to authorise those plays concerning the representation of which a son or a daughter can be innocently satisfied when they ask of their parents, 'What does that mean?'"
"In the play that has just been accepted by the Comédie-Française, written by an author believed to have significant talent, there are characters with a disgraceful link to the subject (the Court of Henri III). Their new presence on stage might showcase the author’s abilities, but it undeniably creates an inappropriateness that is impossible to accept. History has preserved the names of these unfortunate figures, these infamous characters who engaged in debauchery that was both reckless and inexcusable; we will dare to call them by their real names, expressing our disdain for the portrayal of these roles of mignons, due to the scandalous harm they will do to the public. If the information we have received is correct, the authority that oversees the theatre will not permit such a change, as it knows that its main responsibility is to approve only those plays that a child can innocently ask their parents, 'What does that mean?'"
I had expected this and was prepared to meet it. I had[Pg 331] hardly read the above paragraph before I had armed myself with a substantial cane and had reappeared at the offices.
I had anticipated this and was ready to face it. I had[Pg 331] barely finished reading the above paragraph before I grabbed a sturdy cane and returned to the office.
"De la Ponce," I said, in scriptural phrase, "take up your cloak and your hat."
"De la Ponce," I said, using a biblical tone, "grab your cloak and your hat."
I set off in search of the critic with all the more satisfaction in that I knew there were days when he was no coward: if a duel would serve his purpose he would fight one. I sent in my name.
I set off to find the critic, feeling even more satisfied because I knew there were times when he wasn’t a coward: if it would help his cause, he would agree to a duel. I submitted my name.
He had been expecting me, he said, when he heard my name; but he probably did not expect me to come to him in the frame of mind in which I presented myself before him.
He said he had been expecting me when he heard my name, but he probably didn't anticipate me coming to him in the state of mind that I did.
Was I going to be lucky or unlucky? I could not tell, but the folliculaire was not in one of his brave moods: he beat about the bush, spoke of his influence with the Government, tried to show us his last New Year's presents and ended up, in short, by offering to use his influence on my behalf with M. de Martignac, who was a friend of his and owed him some money.
Was I going to be lucky or unlucky? I couldn't tell, but the folliculaire was not in one of his confident moods: he beat around the bush, talked about his connections with the Government, tried to flaunt his latest New Year's gifts, and ultimately, offered to use his influence to help me with M. de Martignac, who was a friend of his and owed him some money.
I quote this sentence especially, as an example of the man's impudence.
I highlight this sentence specifically as an example of the man's boldness.
I told him I had not come to solicit his influence but to request him to withdraw as quickly as possible and in the fullest manner his article in that day's papers. Next day, his paper contained the following apology:—
I told him I hadn’t come to ask for his influence but to request that he withdraw his article from that day’s newspapers as quickly and completely as possible. The next day, his paper included the following apology:—
"We are exceedingly sorry to find our brief article on Henri III., recently accepted by the Comédie-Français, in yesterday's issue contained imputations which were far from our intention. We had not received the accurate information on the subject which is now in our possession, and we can satisfy our readers concerning the taste, the delicacy and the tact with which the scenes and personages to which we referred are handled. This method of treating romance is too closely akin to classic traditions to admit of objection on our part."
"We are very sorry to see that our short article on Henri III., which was recently accepted by the Comédie-Français, contained accusations in yesterday's issue that were not our intention. We didn’t have the correct information on the topic before, but now we do, and we want to assure our readers about the taste, delicacy, and tact with which the scenes and characters we mentioned are depicted. This approach to romance is too closely tied to classic traditions for us to object."
My readers may, perhaps, be surprised that I should have had one moment's uneasiness in connection with such a man, but—I must repeat it to be believed—despicable and despised though this man was, he had his influence. Instead[Pg 332] of his expressions of opinion being torn up before his eyes by those to whom they referred, they received due attention in the eyes of critics, and I knew intimately one director of the Beaux-Arts who paid him, for many years, a pension of a thousand francs. For the rest, whether this apology influenced the Commission of Examiners or not, the day after the appearance of the apology the piece was returned less cut about and lacerated and mauled than it would have been to-day! True, M. de Martignac, who had heard much about the play, desired to be its censor, and M. de Martignac, as everyone knew, was so clever a man that, while he was in the Government, even Charles X. showed signs of cleverness.
My readers might be surprised that I experienced even a moment of unease regarding such a man, but—I must emphasize this to be believed—no matter how despicable and despised he was, he had his influence. Instead[Pg 332] of his opinions being dismissed in front of him, they were given proper attention by critics, and I was close with one director of the Beaux-Arts who paid him a pension of a thousand francs for many years. As for whether this apology affected the Commission of Examiners, the day after the apology was published, the piece was returned less cut up and mangled than it would have been today! It’s true that M. de Martignac, who had heard a lot about the play, wanted to be its censor, and M. de Martignac, as everyone knew, was so smart that even Charles X. recognized his intelligence while he was in the Government.
I was at the theatre, full of delight at this unexpected escape of my play, which was now to be produced the following Saturday, when one of M. Deviolaine's servants came hurriedly to me, looking very scared, to tell me that my mother had fallen ill as she was going down the stairs after visiting M. Deviolaine, and that they could not bring her back to consciousness. M. Deviolaine lived on the fourth floor of the house of one Chaulin, a stationer, at the corner of the rue Saint-Honoré and the rue de Richelieu. I rushed away from the theatre, sending the property-lad to tell M. Florence, the doctor belonging to the theatre, that my mother needed his assistance. In a few seconds I was with my mother: she was seated in a large arm-chair; her eyes were open and she had regained consciousness, but she could hardly speak. The whole of one side of her body was quite paralysed. She had been to call on Madame Deviolaine; as usual, I had been the subject of conversation; as usual, they had been telling her I was a wilful blockhead, unworthy the clemency the House of Orléans had shown me; that my play would be a failure and would not even produce enough to pay back M. Laffitte his thousand crowns, and that then I should find myself out of a berth and with no future before me. My poor mother had wept copiously, going away in great distress of mind, and as she was about to step downstairs she was seized with faintness, absolutely lost all power and fell down in a[Pg 333] heap, her legs on the stairs and her body on the landing. A lodger found her in this position as he came upstairs; he rang M. Deviolaine's door-bell, and they carried her in and put her in a chair. My poor mother had somewhat regained consciousness by the time I reached her. I felt her pulse, and held up her arm, which fell inert; I pinched her to find the extent of her insensibility, and I came to the conclusion that she had just had a stroke of apoplexy, serious enough at any rate to cause paralysis of her left side. I sent for some mustard and put her feet in hot water till the doctor came. Then, as he was a long while in coming, I sent, to an instrument maker, who lived nearly opposite, for a lancet, and decided to bleed her myself in the foot if Florence did not come. But he came, and performed this operation himself; a slight improvement at once manifested itself, and, her tongue feeling freer, she was able to pronounce a few words. Meanwhile my sister had hastened there; fortunately, she was in Paris, having come up to see the first performance of my play. Fortunately, too, there was an empty room in the house—on the third floor, I think—and we took it for a quarter. Madame Deviolaine sent a bed down to it for my mother; we carried mattresses for ourselves from the rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis; we put the mattresses on the floor of my mother's room; and both my sister and I were determined not to leave her alone for a single moment.
I was at the theater, filled with joy at the unexpected success of my play, which was set to premiere the following Saturday, when one of M. Deviolaine's servants rushed to me, looking very frightened. He told me that my mother had fallen ill while going down the stairs after visiting M. Deviolaine, and that they couldn't bring her back to consciousness. M. Deviolaine lived on the fourth floor of a building owned by a stationer named Chaulin, at the corner of rue Saint-Honoré and rue de Richelieu. I hurried away from the theater, sending the properties boy to inform M. Florence, the theater's doctor, that my mother needed his help. In a few moments, I was with my mother: she was sitting in a large armchair; her eyes were open, and she had regained consciousness, but she could hardly speak. One side of her body was completely paralyzed. She had been visiting Madame Deviolaine; as usual, I had been the topic of conversation; they had told her I was a stubborn fool, unworthy of the kindness shown to me by the House of Orléans; that my play would fail and wouldn’t even earn enough to pay M. Laffitte back his thousand crowns, leaving me jobless and with no future. My poor mother had cried a lot, leaving in great distress, and as she was about to step downstairs, she suddenly felt faint, lost all strength, and collapsed in a heap, her legs on the stairs and her body on the landing. A neighbor found her like this while coming upstairs; he rang M. Deviolaine's doorbell, and they carried her in and put her in a chair. By the time I arrived, my poor mother had somewhat regained consciousness. I checked her pulse and lifted her arm, which fell limply; I pinched her to assess her sensitivity, and concluded that she had likely suffered a stroke, serious enough to cause paralysis on her left side. I called for some mustard and put her feet in hot water until the doctor arrived. Since he took a long time to come, I asked an instrument maker living across the street for a lancet and prepared to bleed her myself in the foot if Florence didn't show up. But he did arrive, and performed the procedure himself; a slight improvement was noticeable right away, and with her tongue feeling less constrained, she was able to say a few words. Meanwhile, my sister had rushed over; luckily, she was in Paris for the first performance of my play. Fortunately, there was an empty room in the building—on the third floor, I think—and we rented it for a quarter. Madame Deviolaine sent down a bed for my mother; we carried mattresses from rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis for ourselves; we laid the mattresses on the floor of my mother's room, and both my sister and I were determined not to leave her alone for a single moment.
Unluckily, Thibaut was away from Paris. Madame de Celles, daughter of General Gérard, was suffering from consumption and had required a doctor to accompany her to Italy. Madame de Leuven had recommended Thibaut, and he had gone with her. As we only knew Florence slightly, he thoughtfully withdrew of his own accord after he had rendered first aid to our invalid. So I called in another of my friends, named Cazal. He was an extremely clever fellow who, when he found that, in spite of his medical skill, his practice did not increase, invented a new kind of umbrella and parasol, took out a patent for them and made a fortune. Cazal spent the whole night with us by my mother's side; and next day, as the[Pg 334] improvement continued, he believed he might look for her recovery if she had no relapse.
Unfortunately, Thibaut was away from Paris. Madame de Celles, daughter of General Gérard, was suffering from tuberculosis and needed a doctor to accompany her to Italy. Madame de Leuven recommended Thibaut, and he went with her. Since we only knew Florence a little, he wisely stepped back after providing first aid to our patient. So I brought in another friend of mine named Cazal. He was a really smart guy who, when he realized that despite his medical expertise his practice wasn't growing, invented a new type of umbrella and parasol, got a patent for them, and made a fortune. Cazal spent the whole night with us by my mother’s side; and the next day, as the[Pg 334] improvement continued, he thought there was a chance for her recovery if there were no setbacks.
How I rejoiced that the idea had come to me of applying to M. Laffitte! how I rejoiced that M. Laffitte had lent me the thousand crowns! We could at least be certain of one thing, that, no matter how things turned out, our mother would want for nothing during her illness. Furthermore, on learning this news, one of my friends, son of a celebrated diamond merchant, Edmond Halphen, not knowing I was as rich as Ali Baba, sent me a small purse containing twenty louis. I returned him the louis, but I kept the purse, in remembrance of that delicate kindness which so few have shown to me, and I recall the act with gratitude, for it touched me deeply. I have, however, sometimes met with the same spontaneous generosity elsewhere, but among my women friends, not among my men friends.
How happy I was that the idea of asking M. Laffitte for help had come to me! How glad I was that M. Laffitte had lent me the thousand crowns! We could at least be sure of one thing: no matter how things went, our mother wouldn’t lack for anything during her illness. Furthermore, when my friend Edmond Halphen, the son of a famous diamond merchant, heard this news and not knowing I was as wealthy as Ali Baba, sent me a small purse with twenty louis in it. I returned the louis but kept the purse as a reminder of that thoughtful kindness, which so few have shown me, and I remember the act with gratitude because it really touched me. However, I have sometimes encountered the same kind of spontaneous generosity elsewhere, but mostly among my women friends, not among my men friends.
Deeply troubled as I was,—God alone knew how deeply this blow had struck me!—I was obliged to leave my mother, for a few hours; my drama was so novel, even to those who were rehearsing it, that, unless I was present, their confidence took flight. I returned and found everyone greatly concerned by the misfortune that had overtaken me in such an unexpected manner. Taylor was present to prompt in my place in case I was unable to turn up. The play was ready or all but ready, and there was no doubt it would be performed the following Saturday. When I returned home, I found the whole of the Villenave family awaiting me, from Théodore to Élisa. They had missed me the night before, I who never missed going to their house a day, and, when the letter arrived that told my kind friends what had happened, they came off to see me at once. No one can have any idea of the strain of the next two or three days—the profound grief at watching my mother's dying condition, and the terrible labour of preparing a first drama for its public ordeal.
I was deeply troubled—only God knew how much this blow affected me!—but I had to leave my mother for a few hours; the play was so new, even to those rehearsing it, that if I wasn’t there, their confidence would vanish. When I returned, I found everyone very concerned about the unexpected misfortune that had befallen me. Taylor was there to step in for me in case I couldn’t make it. The play was almost ready, and there was no doubt it would be performed the following Saturday. When I got home, the entire Villenave family was waiting for me, from Théodore to Élisa. They had missed me the night before, since I never missed visiting their house, and when they received the letter informing them of my situation, they came to see me immediately. No one could understand the strain of the next couple of days—the deep sorrow from watching my mother’s condition worsen and the exhausting work of getting my first play ready for its public debut.
The night before the representation, I took a step that I had decided upon for some time previously. I presented myself at the Palais-Royal and asked to see M. le Duc d'Orléans. The[Pg 335] request was so unusual and so audacious that, no doubt, the attendants expected I had an audience. They informed the Duc d'Orléans of my presence and of my request to speak to him. The Duc d'Orléans repeated my name over to himself twice and gave orders to admit me. "Ah! ah! is it you, M. Dumas?" he said. "What good wind blows you hither or, rather, blows you back again?"
The night before the meeting, I made a decision that I had been contemplating for a while. I went to the Palais-Royal and asked to see M. le Duc d'Orléans. The[Pg 335] request was so unusual and bold that the attendants probably thought I was there for an audience. They informed the Duc d'Orléans of my presence and of my request to speak with him. The Duc d'Orléans repeated my name to himself twice and instructed them to let me in. "Ah! ah! Is it you, M. Dumas?" he said. "What brings you here, or rather, what brings you back?"
"Monseigneur," I said to him, "to-morrow they play Henri III."
"Monseigneur," I said to him, "tomorrow they’re performing Henri III."
"Yes," he said, "I know that."
"Yeah," he said, "I know that."
"Well, monseigneur, I have come to ask a favour of you, or rather an act of justice."
"Well, sir, I’ve come to ask you for a favor, or more accurately, a fair act."
"What is it?"
"What's that?"
"To give me your presence at my first representation.... A year ago, your Highness was informed that I was an empty-headed, vain fool; for a year I have been working as a humble poet; without giving me a hearing, monseigneur, you have sided with those of your retinue who have been my accusers—perhaps your Highness should have waited, but your Highness thought otherwise and did not wait. To-morrow things will be put to public trial; all I come to beg of you, monseigneur, is that you will be present at the sentence."
"To have you attend my first performance.... A year ago, Your Highness was told that I was a foolish, vain person; for the past year, I have been working hard as a humble poet. Without ever listening to me, you’ve sided with those in your circle who accused me—perhaps you should have waited, but you chose not to. Tomorrow, everything will be put on public trial; all I ask of you, Your Highness, is that you will be there when the verdict is given."
The duke looked at me for a moment, and, seeing how calmly I met his scrutiny, he replied—
The duke stared at me for a moment, and, noticing how calmly I handled his gaze, he responded—
"I would have granted your request with great pleasure, M. Dumas, for various people have told me that if you were not a model of industry you were an example of perseverance; but, unfortunately, it is impossible."
"I would have happily granted your request, M. Dumas, because many people have told me that if you aren't a hard worker, you are a great example of perseverance; but, unfortunately, it's not possible."
"Your Highness probably means that a man who aspires to talk with people in high places should know better than to interrogate a prince; but, monseigneur, I have come to you in such exceptional circumstances that I will venture to ask whence arises that impossibility, for I must confess it disappoints me greatly."
"Your Highness probably means that someone who wants to converse with influential people should be smart enough not to question a prince; but, Your Excellency, I have approached you under such unusual circumstances that I feel compelled to ask why that is impossible, as I must admit it deeply disappoints me."
"You shall judge for yourself: to-morrow I expect twenty to thirty princes and princesses to dinner."
"You can decide for yourself: tomorrow I expect twenty to thirty princes and princesses for dinner."
"Would it not be a novel entertainment, monseigneur, to take these princes and princesses to see Henri III.?"
"Wouldn’t it be an interesting idea, sir, to take these princes and princesses to see Henri III.?"
"How could I take them to see it when dinner begins at six and Henri III. begins at seven?"
"How am I supposed to take them to see it when dinner starts at six and Henri III. starts at seven?"
"Let monseigneur advance his dinner one hour and I will delay Henri III. for an hour; that would allow monseigneur three hours wherein to assuage the hunger of his august guests."
"Let the Lord move his dinner forward by one hour, and I will hold up Henri III. for an hour; that would give the Lord three hours to satisfy the hunger of his esteemed guests."
"Well, that is not a bad idea.... Do you think the Théâtre-Français would consent to the delay?"
"Well, that's not a bad idea.... Do you think the Théâtre-Français would agree to the delay?"
"They would be only too delighted to accommodate your Highness."
"They would be more than happy to accommodate you, Your Highness."
"But where should I seat them? I only have three boxes."
"But where should I put them? I only have three boxes."
"I asked the Administration not to dispose of the first circle until I had seen your Highness."
"I asked the Admin not to get rid of the first circle until I had seen you, Your Highness."
"You presumed, then, to think that I should consent to see your play?"
"You thought I would agree to see your play?"
"I relied upon your sense of justice.... You see, monseigneur, I appeal to Philippe awakened."
"I counted on your sense of justice.... You see, sir, I'm appealing to Philippe who has awakened."
"Very well. Go and tell M. Taylor that, if the Comédie-Français consents to put back the representation an hour, I will be present at it, and in order to carry this out I will engage the whole circle."
"Sure thing. Go tell M. Taylor that if the Comédie-Française agrees to push back the performance by an hour, I'll be there, and to make that happen, I'll get the whole group involved."
"I will hasten there immediately, monseigneur."
"I'll head there right away, sir."
"Are you satisfied?"
"Are you happy?"
"Enchanted! I trust also that your Highness will not have reason to repent of this kindness."
"Enchanted! I also hope that you won't regret this kindness, Your Highness."
"I hope so too.... Away with you, and good luck!"
"I hope so too... Go on, and good luck!"
I bowed and left.
I bowed and walked out.
Ten minutes later, the theatre had been told; twenty minutes later, the Duc d'Orléans had received an answer in the affirmative. That very evening letters were sent to the guests informing them of the change of hour.
Ten minutes later, the theater had been informed; twenty minutes later, the Duc d'Orléans had received a positive response. That same evening, letters were sent to the guests notifying them of the change in time.
The long-expected day came at last! On that day there was neither rehearsal nor any other meeting: I could remain by my mother's side until the evening. They had given me a certain number of theatre tickets, especially tickets for the[Pg 337] pit; the claque, i.e. hired applause, was not a recognised thing in those days as it is now, and the post of entrepreneur de succès was almost a sinecure: it was left to the care of one's friends and to the impartiality of the public. The generosity of the theatre allowed me to sign a pit ticket for each of my old office companions. Porcher and his wife had each a balcony ticket. I had a little box on the stage itself which held two persons. My sister had one of the boxes in the first row, where she entertained Boulanger, de Vigny and Victor Hugo. I did not know either Hugo or de Vigny, and they introduced themselves to me in despair of getting a chance otherwise. I made the acquaintance of both of them that night. M. Deviolaine had an orchestra ticket. The whole of the remaining seats in the house had been taken for a week past, and the exorbitant price of twenty louis was given for one box.
The long-awaited day finally arrived! On that day, there was no rehearsal or any other gathering; I could stay with my mom until the evening. They had given me several theater tickets, especially tickets for the[Pg 337] pit. Back then, the claque, or hired applause, wasn't a common thing like it is now, and the role of entrepreneur de succès was almost a no-show; it was mostly left to friends and the fairness of the audience. The theater's generosity allowed me to sign a pit ticket for each of my old office buddies. Porcher and his wife each got a balcony ticket. I had a little box on the stage that fit two people. My sister had one of the boxes in the front row, where she entertained Boulanger, de Vigny, and Victor Hugo. I didn’t know either Hugo or de Vigny, and they introduced themselves to me, hoping for a chance to connect otherwise. I got to know both of them that night. M. Deviolaine had an orchestra ticket. All the remaining seats in the house had been sold out for a week, and an outrageous twenty louis was paid for one box.
At a quarter to eight I kissed my mother, who, in the clouded state of her brain, scarcely realised what a battle I was on the eve of fighting. I met M. Deviolaine in the corridor.
At 7:45, I kissed my mother, who, in her foggy state of mind, barely understood the battle I was about to fight. I ran into M. Deviolaine in the hallway.
"Well, you young rip!..." he said, "so you have got your way at last!"
"Well, look at you, you little rascal!..." he said, "so you finally got what you wanted!"
"What did I tell you?"
"What did I say?"
"Yes, but we have yet to see what the public thinks of your prose."
"Yes, but we still need to see what the public thinks of your writing."
"You will see, since you are here."
"You'll see, now that you're here."
"I shall see, I shall see," growled M. Deviolaine. "It is highly probable that I shall see...."
"I'll see, I'll see," growled M. Deviolaine. "It's very likely that I'll see...."
I moved away from him, not knowing what he meant by his words, and I reached my box, which, as I have said, was on the stage. I could see the whole house from my box perfectly. Those who were present at that performance will recollect what a splendid sight it was: the first circle was filled with princes smothered under the orders of five or six nations; the whole of the aristocracy crowded into the first and second rows of the boxes; ladies sparkled with diamonds.
I moved away from him, not understanding what he meant by his words, and I reached my box, which, as I mentioned, was on the stage. I could see the entire audience from my box perfectly. Those who were there for that performance will remember what a stunning sight it was: the first circle was packed with princes cloaked in the insignia of five or six nations; the whole aristocracy filled the first and second rows of the boxes; ladies sparkled with diamonds.
The curtain rose. I have never experienced such a sensation[Pg 338] as that which a breath of air from the theatre caused me as it passed across my feverish brow. The first act was listened to with patience, although the narrative was long, cold and tiresome. The curtain fell. The words of the Duc de Guise, "Saint Paul! if I can only hunt out the men who assassinated Dugast!" were heartily applauded, and this warmed up both audience and actors.
The curtain went up. I've never felt anything like the sensation a breeze from the theater brought as it brushed against my heated forehead. I listened to the first act with patience, even though the story was lengthy, dull, and exhausting. The curtain came down. The Duc de Guise's line, "Saint Paul! If I can just track down the guys who killed Dugast!" got a loud round of applause, which energized both the audience and the actors.
I ran off to see how my mother was. On my return to the theatre I met M. Deviolaine in the corridor; but, as soon as I appeared, he quickly retired into a small antechamber, on purpose, as I imagined, to avoid me. I did the poor dear man injustice! he had quite other intentions in his thoughts.
I rushed off to check on my mom. On the way back to the theater, I ran into M. Deviolaine in the hallway; but as soon as I showed up, he quickly stepped into a small waiting room, which I thought was to dodge me. I misunderstood the poor guy! He had completely different things on his mind.
The second act began; it was an amusing one; the scene of the pea-shooter concerning which I was much afraid, passed without any signs of objection, and the curtain fell amidst pretty general applause.
The second act started; it was entertaining; the scene with the pea-shooter, which I was quite worried about, went by without any signs of disapproval, and the curtain dropped to pretty widespread applause.
The third act was the one to decide the success of the play. In this act comes the scene between the page and the duchess, and the scene between the duchess and the duke—the scene where M. de Guise compels his wife to appoint a meeting with Saint-Mégrin. If the strong situations in that scene found favour with the public, the battle was won. The scene roused cries of horror, but, at the same time, peals of applause; it was the first time any dramatic scenes had been presented with great freedom—I might even call it with brutal frankness.
The third act was the one that determined the play's success. In this act, there's the scene between the page and the duchess, as well as the scene between the duchess and the duke—the scene where M. de Guise pressures his wife to set up a meeting with Saint-Mégrin. If the intense moments in that scene resonated with the audience, victory was assured. The scene elicited gasps of horror but also waves of applause; it was the first time any dramatic scenes had been shown with such freedom—I could even say with brutal honesty.
I went out; I was very anxious to see my poor mother and to embrace her, although she was then hardly in a condition to understand who it was that was embracing her.
I went out; I was really eager to see my poor mom and hug her, even though she was hardly in a state to recognize who was hugging her.
How happy I should have been if she had been in the theatre, instead of on her bed! She was sleeping quite peacefully; I kissed her without waking her, and returned to the theatre. Under the porch I again met M. Deviolaine, who was going away.
How happy I would have been if she had been at the theater instead of in bed! She was sleeping so peacefully; I kissed her without waking her and went back to the theater. Under the porch, I ran into M. Deviolaine again, who was leaving.
"What!" I said, "are you not going to stay to the end?"
"What!" I said, "aren't you going to stay until the end?"
"How can I stay to the end, you brute?"
"How can I stay until the end, you bully?"
"Why can you not stay?..."
"Why can't you stay?..."
"Because I am thoroughly upset! Because I am turned inside out.. an attack of colic."
"Because I'm really upset! Because I feel completely unsettled... it's a bad case of colic."
"Ah!" I exclaimed, laughing; "so that was why I saw you going to the lavatory?"
"Ah!" I exclaimed, laughing; "so that's why I saw you heading to the bathroom?"
"Yes, that was the reason, monsieur.... You have already cost me fifty sous! at two sous each time it is ... Why, you will ruin me!"
"Yes, that was the reason, sir.... You’ve already made me spend fifty sous! At two sous each time it is ... Why, you’re going to ruin me!"
"Bah! you exaggerate. Whatever could you do at the twenty-fifth time?"
"Ugh! You're overreacting. What could you possibly do on the twenty-fifth try?"
"Nothing, you young puppy! And the last time, if I had not been stopped by the hair of my head, I should have disappeared entirely! Ah! what a business!... Oh dear! I am horribly ill!" and M. Deviolaine laid both hands on his stomach and began running towards the Rue Saint-Honoré.
"Nothing, you little pup! And last time, if I hadn’t been stopped by my hair, I would have vanished completely! Ah! what a mess!... Oh no! I'm feeling really sick!" M. Deviolaine said as he placed both hands on his stomach and started running towards Rue Saint-Honoré.
I went into the theatre; as I had indeed foreseen, from the fourth act to the end it was more than a success, it was an increasing delirium: all hands applauded, even those of the ladies. Madame Malibran, who had only been able to find a seat on the third row, leant right out of her box, holding on to a pillar to keep herself from falling. Then, when Firmin appeared to give the name of the author, the enthusiasm was so universal that even the Duc d'Orléans himself stood up and called out the name of his employé, the success of whose work—if not the most merited, at least the most striking of the epoch—had just caused him to be greeted as a poet.
I went into the theater; as I had expected, from the fourth act to the end it was more than a success, it was a growing frenzy: everyone was applauding, even the ladies. Madame Malibran, who could only find a seat in the third row, leaned out of her box, holding onto a pillar to keep from falling. Then, when Firmin appeared to announce the author's name, the excitement was so widespread that even the Duc d'Orléans himself stood up and shouted the name of his employee, whose work—if not the most deserved, at least the most remarkable of the time—had just earned him recognition as a poet.
That very night, when I returned home, I found a letter from M. le Baron de Broval, which I will give word for word:—
That very night, when I got home, I found a letter from M. le Baron de Broval, which I will share exactly:—
"I cannot sleep without first telling you, my dear young friend, how very happy I am at your splendid triumph, without congratulating you and, above all, your estimable mother most heartily, for I know you felt more anxious on her behalf than on your own. My sister and I and all at the office sympathised deeply with you; and now we rejoice at a triumph justly deserved both on account of your very great and persevering talent and your filial devotion. I am very sure that your laurels, and the success in wait for you in the future now[Pg 340] laid open before you, will not stand in the way of your friendships, and I assure you that my feelings towards you are very warm.
"I can't sleep without first telling you, my dear young friend, how incredibly happy I am about your amazing success. I have to congratulate you and especially your wonderful mother, as I know you were more concerned for her than for yourself. My sister, the rest of us at the office, and I all felt for you deeply, and now we celebrate a triumph that you truly deserve because of your immense and consistent talent, as well as your dedication to family. I'm sure that your achievements and the success ahead of you, now[Pg 340] laid out before you, won’t interfere with your friendships, and I want you to know that my feelings for you are very warm."
BARON DE BROVAL"
BARON DE BROVAL"
"10 February 1829"
"10 February 1829"
This was the man who, five months before, had compelled me to renounce my salary!
This was the guy who, five months ago, made me give up my salary!
CHAPTER XVII
The day following my victory—Henri III. is interdicted—I obtain an audience with M. de Martignac—He removes the interdiction—Les hommes-obstacles—The Duc d'Orléans sends for me into his box—His talk with Charles X. on the subject of my drama—Another scribbler—Visit to Carrel—Gosset's shooting-box and pistols No. 5—An impossible duel
The day after my win—Henri III. is banned—I manage to meet with M. de Martignac—He lifts the ban—Les hommes-obstacles—The Duc d'Orléans invites me to his box—His chat with Charles X. about my play—Another author—Visit to Carrel—Gosset's shooting lodge and pistol No. 5—A duel that can't take place
To few men has it been given to see such a rapid change take place in their lives as took place in mine during those four hours of the representation of Henri III. I was totally unknown until that night, and, next day, whether for good or for evil, I was the talk of all Paris. From that night dated the hatreds of people whom I had never seen—hatreds roused by the unwelcome fame attached to my name. But friendships also dated from that epoch. What multitudes of people envied me that night, who had no idea that I spent it on a mattress on the floor by the side of my dying mother! Next day, the room was filled with bouquets; I covered my mother's bed with them, and she touched them with the hand that was left unparalysed, pulling them nearer to her or pushing them away, unconscious what all these flowers meant—and, possibly, even unconscious that they were flowers at all. By two o'clock in the afternoon, the day after the performance, my manuscript had sold for six thousand francs. These six thousand francs were paid me in six bank-notes; and I went to show them to M. Deviolaine.
To very few people has it been given to experience such a quick transformation in their lives as I did during those four hours of the performance of Henri III. I was completely unknown until that night, and the next day, whether for better or worse, I was the talk of all Paris. From that night forward, I faced the animosity of people I had never met—hatreds sparked by the unwanted fame attached to my name. But friendships also began at that time. So many people envied me that night, unaware that I was spending it on a mattress on the floor next to my dying mother! The day after, the room was filled with bouquets; I covered my mother’s bed with them, and she touched them with the hand that wasn’t paralyzed, pulling them closer or pushing them away, not realizing what these flowers meant—and possibly even unaware that they were flowers at all. By two o'clock in the afternoon, the day after the performance, my manuscript had sold for six thousand francs. These six thousand francs were given to me in six banknotes, and I went to show them to M. Deviolaine.
"What are those?" he asked.
"What are those?" he asked.
"They are the price of my manuscript," I replied. "You see it amounts to M. Laffitte's three thousand francs and three thousand francs besides."
"They are the cost of my manuscript," I replied. "You see, it adds up to M. Laffitte's three thousand francs and another three thousand francs on top of that."
"What!" cried M. Deviolaine; "are there idiots who have bought it of you?"
"What!" shouted M. Deviolaine. "Are there really people who have bought it from you?"
"You see for yourself."
"See for yourself."
"Well, they are brainless idiots!"
"Well, they're clueless idiots!"
Then, handing me back the notes, and shrugging his shoulders, he said—
Then, giving me back the notes and shrugging his shoulders, he said—
"You do not inquire how I am!"
"You don't ask how I'm doing!"
"I did not dare.... How are you?"
"I didn't dare.... How are you?"
"A little better, happily."
"Feeling a bit better, happily."
"Were you able to return to the theatre?"
"Were you able to go back to the theater?"
"Yes, I was there for the conclusion."
"Yeah, I was there for the ending."
"Were you there when my name was given out?"
"Were you there when they called out my name?"
"The deuce I was!"
"What the heck I was!"
"And did it not give you a little gratification?"
"And didn't it give you a little satisfaction?"
"A little! Why, you rascal, I wept like a baby!"
"A little! Why, you troublemaker, I cried like a baby!"
"Come now! it cost you a lot to acknowledge that.... Let us shake hands."
"Come on! It cost you a lot to admit that.... Let's shake hands."
"Ah!" said M. Deviolaine, "if only your poor father could have been there!"
"Ah!" said M. Deviolaine, "if only your poor dad could have been there!"
"My mother could have been there if people had not made her so unhappy."
"My mom could have been there if people hadn't made her so unhappy."
"Come, come! you are not going to tell me that it is my fault your mother is in bed, are you? Good gracious me! it tormented me sufficiently during your representation. I could not think of anything else; I believe it was that which gave me the beastly colic.... By the bye, what are they saying in the office?"
"Come on! You’re not going to blame me for your mother being in bed, are you? Good grief! It stressed me out enough during your performance. I couldn’t focus on anything else; I think that’s what gave me a terrible stomach ache... By the way, what are they saying in the office?"
I showed him M. de Broval's letter. He read it through twice over.
I showed him M. de Broval's letter. He read it twice.
"Well, I never!..." he said, as he handed it me back, shrugging his shoulders. "Shall you return to the office?"
"Wow, I can't believe it!..." he said, handing it back to me and shrugging his shoulders. "Are you going back to the office?"
"I? Dear me no!"
"No way!"
"Well, I think you are right. Shall you go and see M. Fossier?".
"Well, I think you’re right. Are you going to see M. Fossier?"
"No, indeed."
"No way."
"He likes you, nevertheless."
"He likes you, though."
"Then why did he not write me a letter of congratulation, too?"
"Then why didn't he write me a letter of congratulations, too?"
"Well, but he might have expected tickets for his daughter."
"Well, he could have expected tickets for his daughter."
"That reminds me. Shall I save you a box for the second performance? You hadn't a good place for the first ... you were close to the door."
"That reminds me. Should I save you a box for the second show? You didn't have a good spot for the first one... you were near the door."
"You scoundrel! I was right where I was, near the door.... Do you believe this mad prank you have just played is going to bring you in any more than what you have just shown me?"
"You scoundrel! I was right where I was, near the door.... Do you really think this crazy prank you just pulled is going to get you anything more than what you've just shown me?"
"Certainly I do."
"Of course I do."
"About how much?"
"How much is it?"
"Fifteen thousand francs."
"15,000 francs."
"What!"
"Seriously?!"
"About fifteen thousand francs."
"About fifteen thousand francs."
"And how long will it run to gain that?"
"And how long will it take to achieve that?"
"Perhaps two months."
"Maybe two months."
"So in two months, you will have earned the whole year's salary of three chief clerks, including bonuses?"
"So in two months, you'll have made the entire annual salary of three chief clerks, including bonuses?"
"Call in your three chief clerks and tell them to do as much for themselves."
"Call in your three main clerks and tell them to handle as much as they can on their own."
"Get out! I am afraid the very ceiling will fall on our heads while you are saying such monstrous things!"
"Get out! I'm worried the ceiling will collapse on us while you're saying such outrageous things!"
"To-morrow night, then?"
"Tomorrow night, then?"
"Yes, to-morrow night, if I have nothing better to do."
"Yeah, tomorrow night, if I don't have anything better going on."
I was quite easy. M. Deviolaine would not have anything better to do, nor would he have accepted a year of his salary to be kept away.
I was pretty easygoing. M. Deviolaine wouldn’t have anything better to do, nor would he have accepted a year’s salary to stay away.
From M. Deviolaine's house I ran to M. Laffitte's. I was proud to be able to pay him what I owed him so promptly. I gave him his thousand crowns, and he returned me my promissory note and my manuscript. But I always remembered the service rendered me, which, coming when my mother was taken ill, was of priceless value. Still, I had not reached the conclusion of my worries. When I returned to my temporary dwelling-place, I found a letter from the Théâtre-Français asking me to go to the office there immediately. I rushed there, and found the Committee in a state of consternation from Taylor downwards. They had received a[Pg 344] letter from the Home Minister suspending Henri III. This was a far more serious matter than the suspension of my salary. Luckily, Taylor had made up his mind what should be done. He proposed I should urgently demand an audience of M. de Martignac. He himself undertook to take the letter and see that it was conveyed to him. I sat down and wrote at once, asking for an audience for the next day. I received an answer two hours later. M. de Martignac would see me at seven next morning. By seven next morning I was at his house. Oh! what a blessing it is to find a Minister who is both polished and cultivated, like M. de Martignac! rara avis, as Juvenal would call it, and, worse still, a bird of passage! We remained together for an hour, not talking of the play, but of all sorts of subjects; in ten minutes, we came to an understanding over the play, and I carried my manuscript back, saved, this time not from Annihilation, but from Limbo. Oh! poor M. de Martignac! how well he understood Art! How thoroughly well he knew that type of human being who obstructs all progress he meets with on the way, with a view rather of hindering others from advancing than of advancing himself! It was not under M. de Martignac's administration that Art, wherever it turned, encountered the notice, "This road is closed by order of the authorities." And to think that for twenty years the same men blocked the same avenues; that, from being old men, they grew into being decrepit ones, whilst we young men grew old; that, by dint of ill-will and persecution, they managed to drive both Lamartine and Hugo into politics, Soulié and Balzac into their graves; that I stood almost alone, in my struggle against them; that they set their mark on things, like the seal of Solomon which enclosed the genii of the Thousand and One Nights in clay vases; and that all this political and literary compression will one day burst in their faces, killing and overturning all around it without injuring itself—wrinkled dwarfs who everlastingly stir up the glowing fires of revolutions! Some things, at least, are very clear; that, for twenty years, these rulers were petty, paltry, contemptible; that they left behind them[Pg 345] a sad and shameful memory amongst the Germans, Hungarians, Italians, along the banks of the Nile as well as on the shores of the Bosphorus, at Mogador even as at Montevideo, in the old World as well as the New; that, during the whole of the time which transpired between the day on which M. Sébastiani made his announcement at the Tribune that "Order reigned at Warsaw," and that on which M. Barrot wrote in the Moniteur that "The French have entered Rome," they gave the lie not only with respect to every promise made by man—whether these promises came through M. de la Fayette or M. de Lamartine—but still, more, with respect to everything hoped of God, who destined France to be the Pole Star to other nations, who said to the peoples, "You wish to sail towards the unknown world, towards the Promised Land called Liberty; there is your compass. Spread your sails and follow boldly!" Instead of keeping faith with men and fulfilling God's will, what did you do, you poor slaves of passion, and miserable servants of blindness? You made the sea rough and the winds contrary for every noble vessel that set sail under divine inspiration. You know it is so, I am not telling you anything fresh; you know that whatever is young and noble and pure, that has not been dragged through the mud of the past, and reaches forth to ethereal regions in the future, is against you; you know that those whom you allowed to be murdered by Austrian rods, those whom you left shut up in pontifical dungeons, those whom you suffered to be shot down by Neapolitan cannon, were martyrs. You are aware that, whilst people hail you, you tyrants, as you go to your places of entertainment, we shall have their devotion; you are aware, in short, that we, the torchbearers, are loved, whilst you, the workers of darkness, are detested; you know that should you ever be forgiven your deeds, it will be because of what we have said on your behalf; and hence come your persecutions—powerless, thank God, like all things that come from below and seek to harm what is above.... Yes, what is above, for he who can say "I have just written this page, and you could not write it," is above you!
From M. Deviolaine's house, I rushed over to M. Laffitte's. I was proud to pay him what I owed so quickly. I gave him a thousand crowns, and he returned my promissory note and my manuscript. I always remembered the favor he did for me, which, coming as it did when my mother fell ill, was invaluable. However, my worries weren't over yet. When I got back to my temporary place, I found a letter from the Théâtre-Français asking me to come to their office right away. I hurried there and found the Committee in a state of panic, from Taylor down to everyone else. They had received a[Pg 344] letter from the Home Minister suspending Henri III. This was a much bigger issue than just the suspension of my salary. Luckily, Taylor had a plan. He suggested I urgently request a meeting with M. de Martignac. He volunteered to take the letter and make sure it got to him. I sat down and immediately wrote to ask for an audience the next day. I got a response two hours later. M. de Martignac would see me at seven the next morning. By seven the next morning, I was at his house. Oh! What a relief it is to find a Minister who is both refined and knowledgeable like M. de Martignac! Rara avis, as Juvenal would say, and worse yet, a migratory bird! We spent an hour together, not discussing the play but a variety of topics; in ten minutes, we came to an agreement about the play, and I got my manuscript back, saved this time not from Annihilation, but from Limbo. Oh! Poor M. de Martignac! He truly understood Art! He recognized that type of person who blocks all progress they encounter, not to advance themselves, but to hinder others! Under M. de Martignac's administration, Art didn't find signs saying, "This road is closed by order of the authorities." And to think that for twenty years the same people obstructed the same pathways; that, as they aged, they grew into being utterly decrepit while we younger folks grew older; that through their malice and persecution, they managed to push both Lamartine and Hugo into politics, and Soulié and Balzac into their graves; that I stood almost alone in my fight against them; that they left their mark on things, like the seal of Solomon, which trapped the genies of the Thousand and One Nights in clay vases; and that all this political and literary oppression will someday explode in their faces, destroying everything around it without touching themselves—wrinkled little tyrants who constantly stoke the fires of revolutions! Some things are very clear; that, for twenty years, these rulers were petty, trivial, and despicable; that they left behind[Pg 345] a sad and shameful legacy among the Germans, Hungarians, Italians, along the Nile as well as on the shores of the Bosphorus, in Mogador and Montevideo, in the old World and the New; that throughout the time between the day M. Sébastiani announced at the Tribune that "Order reigned at Warsaw," and the day M. Barrot wrote in the Moniteur that "The French have entered Rome," they denied not only every promise made by men—whether those promises came from M. de la Fayette or M. de Lamartine—but even more, everything hoped from God, who destined France to be the guiding star to other nations, who said to the peoples, "You wish to sail towards the unknown world, towards the Promised Land called Liberty; there's your compass. Spread your sails and go boldly!" Instead of keeping faith with people and fulfilling God’s will, what did you do, you pitiful slaves of passion, and miserable servants of ignorance? You made the seas rough and the winds unfriendly for every noble ship that set sail under divine inspiration. You know it's true; I'm not telling you anything new; you know that whatever is young, noble, and pure, that hasn't been dragged through the mud of the past and strives for higher realms in the future, is against you; you know that those whom you allowed to be executed by Austrian forces, those you locked away in papal dungeons, those you let be gunned down by Neapolitan cannons, were martyrs. You realize that while people cheer for you, you tyrants, as you head to your theaters, we will have their loyalty; you know, ultimately, that we, the torchbearers, are loved, while you, the purveyors of darkness, are despised; you acknowledge that should you ever be absolved for your actions, it will be due to what we have said on your behalf; and thus come your persecutions—powerless, thank God, like all things that rise from below seeking to harm what is above.... Yes, what is above, for anyone who can say, "I just wrote this page, and you could not write it," is above you!
Let us return to Henri III., which had nothing to do with all this, and which suddenly and unexpectedly found itself raised sky-high. My return was awaited with impatience, for they dared not advertise without the minister's permission. I brought them that permission, and they advertised. M. le Duc d'Orléans announced that he would be present at the second performance. When I reached the theatre that night, I was told that he had already arrived and had asked me to go to his box. I did as I was bidden, between the first and second acts. The densely packed theatre bore witness to the genuine strength of my success. The Duc d'Orléans received me most graciously.
Let’s go back to Henri III., which had nothing to do with all this, and suddenly found itself getting a huge boost. My return was eagerly anticipated because they didn’t dare promote anything without the minister’s approval. I brought them that approval, and they started advertising. M. le Duc d'Orléans announced that he would be attending the second performance. When I got to the theater that evening, I was told that he had already arrived and wanted me to come to his box. I did as requested, between the first and second acts. The packed theater was a clear sign of my true success. The Duc d'Orléans welcomed me very graciously.
"Now, M. Dumas," he said, "are you not satisfied? You have gained your case against everybody—the public and myself included. Even Broval, Deviolaine and Oudard are enchanted."
"Now, M. Dumas," he said, "aren't you satisfied? You've won your case against everyone—the public and me included. Even Broval, Deviolaine, and Oudard are thrilled."
I bowed.
I bowed.
"But for all that, do you know," he continued laughingly, "you have very nearly got me into serious trouble?"
"But still, do you know," he said with a laugh, "you almost got me into big trouble?"
"You, monseigneur?"
"You, sir?"
"Yes, I."
"Yes, I do."
"How is that?"
"How's that?"
"The king sent for me yesterday."
"The king called for me yesterday."
"The king?"
"The king?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Yep, definitely."
"And what about, monseigneur?"
"And what about it, sir?"
"About your drama."
"About your drama series."
"About Henri III.?"
"About Henri III.?"
"'Are you aware of what I have been informed, cousin?' he said, laying emphasis upon the last word. 'I have been told that you have a youth in your offices who has written a play in which both you and I figure—I as Henri III., and you as the Duc de Guise?'"
"'Do you know what I've been told, cousin?' he said, stressing the last word. 'I've heard that there's a young man in your office who wrote a play featuring both of us—I play Henri III. and you play the Duc de Guise?'"
"Monseigneur, you could of course have replied that the king was mistaken and that the young man was no longer in your employ."
"Your Excellency, you could have easily replied that the king was wrong and that the young man was no longer working for you."
"No; I much preferred to reply otherwise, and not to lie, since I mean to keep you on."
"No; I would rather respond differently and not lie, since I intend to keep you around."
"Then what did your Highness say?..."
"Then what did you say, Your Highness?..."
"I said, 'Sire, people have misinformed you, and for three reasons:—First, I do not beat my wife; secondly, Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans has not made me a cuckold; thirdly, your Majesty has not a more faithful subject than myself.' Do you think my reply was equal to anything you would have advised me to make?"
"I said, 'Your Majesty, people have given you the wrong information for three reasons: First, I don’t abuse my wife; second, Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans hasn’t betrayed me; and third, there isn’t a more loyal subject to you than I am.' Do you think my response was as good as anything you would have suggested?"
"Indeed, monseigneur, it is infinitely more witty."
"Definitely, it's way funnier."
"And nearer the truth, monsieur.... Ah! the curtain is rising: go about your business; mine is to listen to you."
"And closer to the truth, sir.... Ah! the curtain is going up: go on with your work; my job is to listen to you."
I bowed.
I bent down.
"By the bye," said the duke, "Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans desires to see you to-morrow morning, to inquire how your mother is."
"By the way," said the duke, "Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans wants to see you tomorrow morning to ask how your mother is doing."
I bowed and withdrew.
I bowed and left.
Oh! what a power is success, with its notoriety and fuss over a name; with its calm and serene supremacy of mind over matter! M. de Broval, M. Deviolaine and M. Oudard were enchanted; the Duc d'Orléans had called me to his box to repeat a witty mot he had said to the king; and, finally, Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans would see me on the morrow to ask me news of my mother! Birth, it would seem, only bestows principalities; talent gives the dignity of princehood.
Oh! What a power success has, with all its fame and the buzz around a name; with its calm and steady control of mind over matter! M. de Broval, M. Deviolaine, and M. Oudard were thrilled; the Duc d'Orléans had invited me to his box to share a clever joke he had told the king; and, finally, Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans would meet with me tomorrow to ask about my mother! It seems that birth grants titles, while talent confers the dignity of being a prince.
Next day, I paid my visit to the Duchesse d'Orléans, who was as gracious to me as could be; but, alas! why did all this kindness come so late? When I returned, I found in an envelope a newspaper, the name of which I have forgotten;—some friend who was sensitive concerning my reputation had sent it me. It announced the success of Henri III., and added—
Next day, I visited the Duchesse d'Orléans, who was incredibly kind to me; but, unfortunately, why did this kindness come so late? When I got back, I found an envelope containing a newspaper, the name of which I've forgotten;—a friend who cared about my reputation had sent it to me. It reported the success of Henri III., and added—
"That success, great though it be, is not surprising to those who know how these literary and political jobs are put up by the House of Orléans. The author is an underling in His Royal Highness's pay."
"That success, as impressive as it is, doesn’t surprise anyone who knows how these literary and political roles are organized by the House of Orléans. The author is on His Royal Highness's payroll."
The article was painful as well as untruthful; a lie, because the House of Orléans, as was well known, had not schemed to help me in any way; and painful, because the writer by the[Pg 348] use of the word "pay" (gages) had evidently intended to imply that I was only a common servant. I looked at my poor sick mother, who, unaware of what I was reading, was trying to express the first desires of returning consciousness by smiles of tender affection; and at such a moment as this I was compelled, by an individual whom I had never set eyes upon, whose very existence was unknown to me and who had no reason for hating me, to leave her in order to demand an apology for a gross and gratuitous insult! I went to de la Ponce. I begged him to go to the office of the paper and arrange there and then, with the writer of the article, the conditions of a duel for the following morning. Such a long time has elapsed since then and I have so short a memory for injuries, that I have completely forgotten both the name of the paper and the name of the writer with whom I had the quarrel. I regret the latter, for he bore himself so well in the whole affair that I am still of opinion he took upon himself the responsibility for an article that was not his. As I cannot recollect his name, allow me to speak of him as M. X——. De la Ponce returned in about an hour's time. The duel had been accepted for the next day but one, as M. X——, who acknowledged himself the author of the article, had a duel on the day between with Carrel. I went to call on Carrel, whom I had known for a long time, having met him at M. de Leuven's and also with Méry. Like myself, he, too, had been gratuitously insulted; like me, he had demanded satisfaction, and he was to meet my future adversary in a pistol duel at eight o'clock next morning. Carrel complimented me on my success, and promised to do his utmost so that M. X—— would not be able to fight with me the day after. It was a sad fact that scarcely had I begun my dramatic career before, in less than a week, I was compelled to demand satisfaction from two men, not on account of criticisms passed upon my talent, but for injury done to my personal character. A few words de la Ponce dropped led me to believe that pistols would be the weapons chosen, and Carrel confirmed me in this opinion; so, when I met Adolphe, I told him what had happened and[Pg 349] begged him to come and practise shooting with me next day. Although I could not afford to squander money, I still had sufficient to permit myself a turn once a month at Gosset's. I had become a habitué there. We reached the place about ten o'clock.
The article was painful and false; a lie, because the House of Orléans, as everyone knew, hadn't plotted to help me at all; and painful because the writer, by using the word "pay" (gages), clearly meant to imply that I was just a regular servant. I looked at my poor sick mother, who, unaware of what I was reading, was trying to show the first signs of coming back to consciousness with tender smiles. In that moment, I was forced by someone I had never seen before, whose existence was unknown to me and who had no reason to dislike me, to leave her and demand an apology for a blatant and unnecessary insult! I went to de la Ponce. I asked him to go to the newspaper's office and arrange, right then and there, with the writer of the article for the conditions of a duel for the following morning. So much time has passed since then and my memory of slights is short, that I have completely forgotten both the name of the newspaper and the name of the writer I quarreled with. I regret not remembering his name because he handled the whole situation so well that I still believe he took on the responsibility for an article that wasn't his. Since I can't recall his name, let's refer to him as M. X——. De la Ponce came back in about an hour. The duel had been accepted for the day after tomorrow because M. X——, who admitted he wrote the article, had a duel scheduled with Carrel that day. I went to see Carrel, whom I had known for a long time, having met him at M. de Leuven's and with Méry. Like me, he had also been insulted without cause; like me, he demanded satisfaction, and he was set to face my future opponent in a pistol duel at eight o'clock the next morning. Carrel congratulated me on my success and promised to do everything he could to make sure M. X—— wouldn't be able to fight me the day after. It was a sad fact that as soon as I started my acting career, within less than a week, I had to demand satisfaction from two men, not because of critiques about my talent, but due to attacks on my personal character. A few words de la Ponce mentioned led me to think that pistols would be the chosen weapons, and Carrel confirmed this opinion; so when I met Adolphe, I told him what had happened and [Pg 349] asked him to come practice shooting with me the next day. Although I couldn’t afford to waste money, I still had enough to treat myself to a trip once a month to Gosset's. I had become a regular there. We arrived at the place around ten o'clock.
"Philippe!" I shouted to the lad attendant as I passed in, "pistols No. 5 and twenty-five balls."
"Philippe!" I called out to the boy at the counter as I walked in, "give me pistols number 5 and twenty-five bullets."
Philippe came up.
Philippe arrived.
"You can have twenty-five balls," he said, "but not pistols No. 5, unless you are going to practise alone."
"You can have twenty-five balls," he said, "but not pistols No. 5, unless you're practicing by yourself."
"Why so?"
"Why's that?"
"Because they were lent this morning to a gentleman who had a duel, and you should see the state in which he brought them back."
"Because they were borrowed this morning by a guy who had a duel, and you should see the condition he returned them in."
And, indeed, the second No. 5 pistol had the trigger-guard broken and the butt end blown off.
And, in fact, the second No. 5 pistol had a broken trigger guard and the back end blown off.
"What did that?"
"Who did that?"
"Why! a bullet," said Philippe.
"Wow! A bullet," said Philippe.
"Quite so, but what about the gentleman who held it?"
"That's true, but what about the guy who had it?"
"He had two of his fingers cut."
"He had two of his fingers amputated."
"Cut?"
"Cut it?"
"Yes, cut!"
"Yes, cut it!"
"So he had to pay the price of two of his fingers?"
"So he had to give up two of his fingers?"
"And also for the mending of the pistol."
"And also for fixing the pistol."
"What was this gentleman's name?"
"What was this guy's name?"
"I do not recollect his name; he was fighting with M. Carrel."
"I don’t remember his name; he was in a fight with M. Carrel."
"Stuff and nonsense!"
"Bullshit!"
"It's true."
"True."
"Are you certain?"
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am. M. Carrel's seconds brought back the pistols."
"Of course I am. M. Carrel's seconds returned the pistols."
"See," I said to Adolphe, "this will postpone my duel of to-morrow and no mistake."
"Look," I said to Adolphe, "this will definitely postpone my duel tomorrow."
And then I related to him that my adversary had arranged to fight a duel with Carrel that very day, and that it was probably he who had had his two fingers injured.
And then I told him that my opponent had set up a duel with Carrel that very day, and that it was likely he was the one who had his two fingers hurt.
"It is very easy to find out," said Adolphe; "let us go and inquire."
"It’s really easy to find out," said Adolphe; "let’s go ask."
We went to M. X——'s house, and found that it was really he who had been fighting; he had had two fingers blown off—his third and little fingers. I sent up my visiting-card by his man-servant, and we took our departure. We had not gone more than two storeys downstairs when we heard the man running after us. M. X—— begged me to go in. I found him smiling in spite of his wounds, and very courteous in spite of his attack.
We went to M. X——'s house and discovered that he was the one who had been in a fight; he had lost his third and little fingers. I sent my visiting card up with his servant, and we left. We hadn't even made it down two floors when we heard the man running after us. M. X—— asked me to come back in. I found him smiling despite his injuries and very polite despite what had happened.
"Pray excuse me, monsieur," he said, "for the liberty I took in asking you to come back and see me; I use the privilege of a wounded person."
"Please forgive me, sir," he said, "for being so bold as to ask you to come back and see me; I'm just taking advantage of the privilege of someone who's hurting."
"Is your injury a serious one, monsieur?" I asked.
"Is your injury serious, sir?" I asked.
"No—I escaped with the loss of two fingers from my right hand; and since I still have three left with which to write and tell you how sorry I am for having made myself unpleasant towards you, I have all I need."
"No—I got away with the loss of two fingers on my right hand; and since I still have three left to write and express how sorry I am for having been unpleasant to you, I have everything I need."
"You still have the use of your left to shake hands with me, monsieur," I said, "and that would be better than tiring your right over anything imaginable."
"You can still use your left hand to shake hands with me, sir," I said, "and that would be better than wearing out your right hand over anything you can think of."
We shook hands; conversed on indifferent topics; and then, ten minutes later, we took leave of one another. We have never seen each other since, and, as I have said, I have totally forgotten his name. I bear my memory a grudge, for I shall ever remember him with pleasure.
We shook hands, chatted about random topics, and then, ten minutes later, we said our goodbyes. We haven't seen each other since, and, as I've mentioned, I've completely forgotten his name. I hold a grudge against my memory because I'll always think of him fondly.
Singular freak of chance! If this man had not had a quarrel with Carrel, and if Carrel had not deprived him of his two fingers, he would have fought with me, and he might have killed me or been killed by me. And for what reason, I ask you?
Singular freak of chance! If this guy hadn't had a fight with Carrel, and if Carrel hadn't taken off his two fingers, he would have fought me, and he might have killed me or I might have killed him. And for what reason, I ask you?
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
The Arsenal—Nodier's house—The master's profile—The congress of bibliophiles—The three candles—Debureau—Mademoiselle Mars and Merlin—Nodier's family—His friends—In which houses I am at my best—The salon of the Arsenal—Nodier as a teller of tales—The ball and the warming-pan
The Arsenal—Nodier's home—The master's outline—The assembly of book enthusiasts—The three candles—Debureau—Mademoiselle Mars and Merlin—Nodier's family—His friends—The places where I excel—The salon of the Arsenal—Nodier as a narrator—The gathering and the warming pan
I promised I would return to Nodier, and I will keep my word. After the service Nodier rendered me by opening the doors of the Théâtre-Français to me, I went to thank him. Nodier did better for me on my second visit than he did on the first—he opened the doors of the Arsenal to me. And, lest my readers should be frightened at the word, and think that I mean a collection of arms, a museum of artillery, let me hasten to add that the doors of the Arsenal were the doors of Charles Nodier's house. Everybody knows the large, gloomy-looking building called the Arsenal, in a line with the quai des Célestins, at the back of the rue de Morland, looking over the river. This was where Nodier lived. In these unpretentious Memoirs it would take us too far afield to relate how, once upon a time, when Paris was preparing for war, this heavy building was raised upon a piece of ground called the Champ-au-Plâtre; how, when the heavy-looking building was raised, François I. had the cannon cast there which did much unlucky work at Pavia; how, requiring a plot of ground, he borrowed a farm from his good town of Paris, promising to return it; how, having borrowed this first farm, he borrowed a second from it, and a third; how, in short, on the principle of[Pg 352] the axiom "What is good to take is good to keep," he kept the three borrowed farms—we will relate these matters when, at the end of our impressions of Europe, Asia and Africa, we set about putting down our impressions of rambles in Paris. These farms, together with the great building of which we have spoken, were used to store cannon and powder. One day, in the reign of Henri II., a spark, coming from nobody knew where,—who knows whence terrible fires spring!—set fire to the powder-magazine and exploded it. Paris shook as Naples and Catana shake when Vesuvius or Etna are in a state of eruption; the fish perished in the river; at the unexpected concussion the neighbouring houses swayed and then collapsed one upon another. Melun, a dozen leagues off, shuddered at the noise of the explosion; thirty persons blown into the air by this volcano fell down in fragments, a hundred and fifty were wounded and, unacquainted with the cause of the accident, attributed it to the Protestants, against whom they were not slow to pick a grievance. It will be readily understood that the buildings erected by François I. and the three farms of the city of Paris disappeared in this commotion. Charles IX., who was a great hand at building, and was responsible for the sculpturing in the Louvre and the carving of the fountain of the Innocents, paid a visit to the ruins with his architect. He designed the plan of a new building, began the fresh erection and, as he was both a great artist and a great poet, it is probable that he would have made a good piece of work of it. But Queen Catherine of Medici, having already got rid of one son, was not sorry to be rid of Charles IX., after the fashion of François II., in order to hasten the coming of Henri III. In case this accusation against Catherine de Medici should strike our readers as rather too strong, who may prefer to look upon the death of Charles IX. as the judgment of God (an act which, indeed, might quite possibly go hand in hand with the poisoning of Charles IX. by his mother), we will here reproduce a dialogue recorded by Bassompierre; it is short, but instructive.
I promised I would return to Nodier, and I will keep my word. After the help Nodier gave me by letting me through the doors of the Théâtre-Français, I went to thank him. Nodier was even more helpful on my second visit—he opened the doors of the Arsenal for me. And, to make sure my readers aren't alarmed by the term and think I'm referring to a weapons collection or an artillery museum, let me clarify that the doors of the Arsenal were actually the doors of Charles Nodier's house. Everyone knows the large, gloomy building known as the Arsenal, located along the quai des Célestins, behind the rue de Morland, overlooking the river. That’s where Nodier lived. In these simple Memoirs, it would take us too far off topic to explain how, once upon a time, when Paris was gearing up for war, this heavy building was built on a piece of land called the Champ-au-Plâtre; how, when this imposing structure was constructed, François I had cannons made there that caused a lot of damage at Pavia; how, needing space, he borrowed a farm from his good town of Paris, promising to return it; how, having borrowed this first farm, he borrowed a second, and then a third; how, in short, on the principle of the saying “What is good to take is good to keep,” he kept all three borrowed farms—we'll discuss these matters later when we share our reflections on travels in Europe, Asia, and Africa. These farms, along with the large building we've mentioned, were used to store cannons and gunpowder. One day, during the reign of Henri II, a spark, coming from no one knows where—who knows how terrible fires start!—set the powder magazine ablaze, causing an explosion. Paris shook like Naples and Catania do when Vesuvius or Etna erupt; the fish died in the river; nearby houses swayed and then collapsed one onto the other from the unexpected blast. Melun, a dozen leagues away, trembled at the sound of the explosion; thirty people were blown into the air by this volcanic blast, falling in pieces, while one hundred fifty were injured. Unaware of the real cause of the accident, they blamed the Protestants, eager to find someone to blame. It’s easy to understand that the buildings built by François I and the three farms belonging to the city of Paris vanished in this chaos. Charles IX., who was quite the builder and responsible for the carvings at the Louvre and the Fountain of the Innocents, visited the ruins with his architect. He designed a plan for a new building, started the construction, and since he was both a great artist and poet, it’s likely he would have created something impressive. But Queen Catherine de Medici, having already got rid of one son, was not unhappy to see Charles IX. gone, following the example of François II, to hasten the arrival of Henri III. In case this accusation against Catherine de Medici seems too harsh to our readers, who might prefer to view Charles IX.'s death as an act of divine judgment (which, indeed, could very well coincide with the idea of Charles IX. being poisoned by his mother), let’s include a short but insightful dialogue recorded by Bassompierre.
"Sire," Bassompierre said to King Louis XIII., who was[Pg 353] seated in the embrasure of a window of the old Louvre, fiercely blowing a horn,—"sire, you ought not to blow with all your strength like that; you are weak in the lungs, and the same thing might happen to you as happened to King Charles IX."
"Sire," Bassompierre said to King Louis XIII., who was[Pg 353] sitting in the window nook of the old Louvre, blowing a horn fiercely, "sire, you shouldn’t blow with all your strength like that; your lungs aren’t strong, and you could end up like King Charles IX."
"My dear Bassompierre," Louis XIII. replied, "King Charles IX. did not die from blowing his horn too long and too frequently; he died from being so imprudent as to become reconciled to his mother, after he had had the prudence to quarrel with Catherine of Medici."
"My dear Bassompierre," Louis XIII replied, "King Charles IX didn’t die from playing his horn too long or too often; he died because he was reckless enough to make up with his mother after wisely choosing to argue with Catherine de' Medici."
Let us return to the Arsenal, and to another king who was so imprudent as to quarrel with his wife—or, rather, with the House of Austria to which she belonged—to Henri IV. He it was, in fact, who finished the Arsenal and laid out the beautiful garden, which we can still see in pictures of the period of Louis XIII. He gave it to Sully, wherein to carry on his ministry of finance; and here it was that the parsimonious minister amassed the millions with which Henri III. intended to carry on his war with Flanders, when the poignard of Ravaillac put an end to that strange dream of the seventeenth century, which was to become a reality in the nineteenth, namely, the union of the seven elective republics and of the six hereditary monarchies, under one supreme head, established under the title of the Congrès de la Paix.
Let's go back to the Arsenal and talk about another king who made the mistake of arguing with his wife—or rather, with the House of Austria that she was from—Henri IV. He was the one who completed the Arsenal and designed the beautiful garden, which we can still see in pictures from the Louis XIII era. He handed it over to Sully for managing his finance ministry; it was here that the frugal minister accumulated the millions that Henri III planned to use for his war with Flanders, before Ravaillac's dagger ended that unusual dream of the seventeenth century—a dream that would actually come true in the nineteenth century, which involved the unification of seven elective republics and six hereditary monarchies under one supreme leader, known as the Congrès de la Paix.
Ah! my dear Mr. Cobden, you with whom I once spent several dull days and shared some melancholy dinners in Spain, the idea of this Peace Congress did not originate with you; it came from our unfortunate King Henri IV.,-"Let us render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's."
Ah! my dear Mr. Cobden, you with whom I once spent several boring days and shared some sad dinners in Spain, the idea of this Peace Congress didn't come from you; it originated with our unfortunate King Henri IV.,-"Let us give to Cæsar what belongs to Cæsar."
And so all you who visit the Arsenal should know that those beautiful rooms which now form the library were decorated by Sully with Henri IV.'s money.
And so all of you who visit the Arsenal should know that those beautiful rooms that now make up the library were decorated by Sully using Henri IV's money.
In 1823, Charles Nodier was appointed librarian of this library, and left the rue de Choiseul, where he lived, to establish himself in his new habitation. But the building that was often the subject of illustrations was not a very magnificent place to live in! On the first landing of a flight of steps with massive balustrades, you came upon a badly fitting door on the left[Pg 354] which led to a bricked corridor; the dining-room and the office were paved with bricks like the corridor. Three other rooms completed the suite—three luxurious rooms, with parquetried floors and panelled walls: one was Madame Nodier's bedroom; the other the salon; and the third the workroom, library and bedchamber of Charles. Charles led two separate existences: his week's existence was that of a worker and bibliophile; his Sunday existence was that of a society man and host. Nodier was an adorable personality; I have never met nor ever known anyone so learned, so much of an artist and yet so kindly in disposition as he, save, perhaps, Méry. And though he possessed plenty of faults he hadn't a vice, and his winning faults sprang from the originality of the man of genius. Nodier was extravagant, careless, dilatory; but his was the delightful idleness of a Figaro. He might, perhaps, have been accused of being rather too worldly; but that, too, sprang from his carelessness, in not taking the trouble to examine into his feelings. It was rather the whole community of martyrs, so to speak, that Nodier loved after this fashion; he had an inner circle of privileged friends whom he loved with all his heart; others, he liked only intellectually. Nodier was par excellence a man of learning: he knew everything and a host of things besides; for he exercised the prerogative of men of genius: if he did not know a thing he invented his knowledge of it, and it must be confessed his invention was generally far more likely, far more ingenious and romantic and specious and, I will venture to say, far nearer the truth than the reality itself. It will be readily guessed that, with this gift of invention, Nodier was a veritable mine of paradoxes. But he never tried to force you to accept these paradoxes; he created three-fourths of his paradoxes for his own diversion.
In 1823, Charles Nodier was appointed librarian of this library, and he moved from the rue de Choiseul, where he lived, to settle into his new place. However, the building that often featured in illustrations wasn’t very impressive to live in! On the first landing of a flight of stairs with big balustrades, you came across a poorly fitting door on the left[Pg 354] that led to a bricked corridor; the dining room and the office had brick floors like the corridor. Three other rooms completed the suite—three nice rooms with wooden floors and paneled walls: one was Madame Nodier's bedroom; another was the living room; and the third was the workroom, library, and bedroom of Charles. Charles led two distinct lives: during the week, he was a hardworking bibliophile; on Sundays, he was a socialite and host. Nodier was a wonderful person; I have never met anyone as learned, artistic, and kind-hearted as he was, except maybe Méry. Despite his many faults, he had no vices, and his charming flaws came from the originality of a genius. Nodier was extravagant, careless, and slow; but his laziness was the charming kind of idleness, like a Figaro. He could be seen as a bit too worldly, but that was also because he didn’t bother to examine his feelings deeply. He seemed to love the entire community of martyrs, so to speak; he had a close circle of privileged friends whom he cherished wholeheartedly, while he only liked others intellectually. Nodier was *par excellence* a scholar: he knew everything and much more; he embraced the privilege of geniuses: if he didn’t know something, he would make up his knowledge about it, and it must be said that his inventions were often more plausible, clever, romantic, and plausible, and I would say, much closer to the truth than the actual reality. It’s easy to see that, with this knack for invention, Nodier was a true treasure trove of paradoxes. But he never forced anyone to accept these paradoxes; he created three-fourths of them just for his own amusement.
One day, when I had been lunching with a minister, I was asked—
One day, when I was having lunch with a minister, I was asked—
"How did the luncheon pass off?"
"How was lunch?"
"All right," I replied; "but if I hadn't been there myself I should have been horribly bored!"
"Okay," I said; "but if I hadn't been there myself, I would have been really bored!"
And so it was with Nodier; for fear of being bored, he made up paradoxes, just as I told stories.
And that's how it was with Nodier; to avoid getting bored, he invented paradoxes, just like I told stories.
I must return to what I said about Nodier being a little too much inclined to love everybody. My sentence sounds somewhat reproachful, but it must not be taken so. Nodier was the philanthropist of Terence, the man unto whom nothing is alien. Nodier loved, as fire warms, as a torch lightens, as the sun shines; he loved because to love and make friendships were as much the fruition of his nature as grapes are the fruit of the vine. Let me be permitted to coin a mot to describe the man who himself coined so many, he was a lover (aimeur). I have said he loved and made friendships because, for Nodier, women existed as well as men. As he loved all men of goodwill, so, in his youth (and Nodier was never old), did he love all lovable women. How he managed this he himself would have found it impossible to explain. But, in common with all eminently poetic minds, Nodier always confused the dream with the ideal, and the ideal with the material world; for Nodier, every fancy of his imagination really existed—Thérèse Aubert, la Fée aux miettes, Inès de las Sierras—he lived in the midst of all these creations of his genius, and never sultan had a more magnificent harem.
I need to go back to what I said about Nodier being a bit too inclined to love everyone. My statement might sound a bit harsh, but please don't take it that way. Nodier was the kind of philanthropist Terence described, the one for whom nothing is foreign. Nodier loved like fire provides warmth, like a torch gives light, and like the sun shines; he loved because loving and building friendships was as natural to him as grapes are to the vine. Let me create a phrase to characterize the man who crafted so many himself: he was a lover. I've mentioned that he loved and formed friendships because, for Nodier, women were just as real as men. Just as he cherished all good-hearted people, so too did he love all lovable women in his youth (and Nodier was never old). How he managed this would have been impossible for him to explain. But, like all truly poetic minds, Nodier often blurred the lines between dreams and ideals, and ideals and reality; for Nodier, every whim of his imagination really existed—Thérèse Aubert, la Fée aux miettes, Inès de las Sierras—he lived amid all these creations of his genius, and no sultan had a more magnificent harem.
It is interesting to know how a writer who produced so many books, and such entertaining ones too, as he did, worked. I am going to tell you. We will take the Nodier of the week-days, romance-writer, savant and bibliophile, the writer of the Dictionnaire des Onomatopées, Trilby, the Souvenirs de Jeunesse. In the morning, after two or three hours of easy work, when he had covered a dozen or fourteen pages of paper six inches long by four wide, with a regular, legible handwriting, without a single erasure, he considered his morning task done, and went out. When he was out of doors, Nodier wandered about aimlessly, going up now one street of the boulevards, now another, now along this or that quay. No matter what road he took, three things preoccupied him: the stalls of the second-hand bookshops, booksellers' windows and book-binders' shops; for Nodier was almost as fond of fine bindings[Pg 356] as of rare books, and I believe he really classed Deneuil, Derome, Thouvenin and the three Elzevirs in the same rank in his mind. These adventurous walks of Nodier, which were protracted by discoveries of books or by meetings with his friends, usually began at noon and nearly always ended between three and four o'clock at Crozet's or at Techener's. In these houses, at about that hour, the book-lovers of Paris gathered together: the Marquis de Ganay, the Marquis de Châteaugiron, the Marquis de Chalabre; Bérard, the Elzevir collector, who, in his spare moments, made the Charter of 1830; finally, the bibliophile Jacob, king of bibliographical knowledge when Nodier was not present, viceroy when Nodier came on the scenes. Here they exchanged opinions and discussed de omni rescibili et quibusdam aliis. These causeries lasted till five o'clock. At five o'clock, Nodier went home by some other route than that which he had traversed in the morning; thus, if he had come by the quays he would return by the boulevards, and if he had gone along the boulevards, he would return by the quays. At six o'clock, Nodier dined with his family. After dinner, came a cup of coffee sipped like a true Sybarite, in little and big draughts, then the cloth was removed with everything on it, and three candles were placed on the bare table. Three tallow candles, not three wax ones. Nodier preferred tallow to wax—why, no one ever knew: it was one of Nodier's caprices. These three candles, never more, never fewer, were placed triangularly. Then Nodier brought out the work on which he was engaged and his quill pens—he detested steel pens—and he worked until nine or ten o'clock at night. At that hour, he went out a second time; but, this time, he invariably followed the course of the boulevards; and, according to what might be on, he would go to the Porte-Saint-Martin, to the Ambigu or to the Funambules. It will be remembered that it was at the Porte-Saint-Martin that I met him for the first time.
It's interesting to learn how a writer who produced so many entertaining books worked. I'm going to share that with you. Let's take Nodier, the novelist, scholar, and book lover who wrote the Dictionnaire des Onomatopées, Trilby, and Souvenirs de Jeunesse. In the morning, after two or three hours of casual work, when he had filled a dozen or fourteen pages of six by four-inch paper with neat and legible handwriting, without any corrections, he considered his morning's work complete and headed out. Once outside, Nodier strolled aimlessly, wandering up different streets on the boulevards and along various quays. No matter which path he took, three things occupied his mind: the second-hand bookstores, the windows of booksellers, and the bookbinding shops; Nodier loved fine bindings almost as much as he did rare books, and I believe he ranked Deneuil, Derome, Thouvenin, and the three Elzevirs equally in his mind. These adventurous walks of Nodier often extended due to discoveries of books or meetups with friends, usually starting around noon and typically wrapping up between three and four o'clock at Crozet's or Techener's. Around that time, Paris's book lovers gathered there: the Marquis de Ganay, the Marquis de Châteaugiron, the Marquis de Chalabre; Bérard, the Elzevir collector who, in his free time, worked on the Charter of 1830; and lastly, the bibliophile Jacob, the king of bibliographical knowledge when Nodier was absent, and his viceroy when he was present. They exchanged ideas and discussed de omni rescibili et quibusdam aliis. These discussions lasted until five o'clock. At five o'clock, Nodier took a different route home than he had in the morning; if he had come by the quays, he would return via the boulevards, and if he had gone along the boulevards, he would come back by the quays. At six o'clock, Nodier had dinner with his family. After dinner, he enjoyed a cup of coffee, savored like a true Sybarite, in small and large sips, then the table was cleared, and three candles were placed on the bare surface. Three tallow candles, not three wax ones. Nodier preferred tallow over wax—why, no one ever knew: it was one of his quirks. These three candles, never more, never fewer, were arranged in a triangle. Then Nodier would bring out the work he was focused on and his quill pens—he hated steel pens—and he worked until nine or ten o'clock at night. At that hour, he would go out again; this time, he always followed the boulevards, heading to the Porte-Saint-Martin, the Ambigu, or the Funambules, depending on what was happening. It’s worth noting that it was at the Porte-Saint-Martin where I first met him.
There were three actors whom Nodier adored—Talma, Potier and Debureau. When I made Nodier's acquaintance, Talma had been dead three years; and Potier had retired two years[Pg 357] before; so there only remained to him the irresistible attraction of Debureau. He it was who first extolled the famous Pierrot; in this respect, Janin came after Nodier and was merely his imitator. Nodier saw the Bœuf enragé nearly a hundred times. At the first representation of the piece he waited for the ox until the end, and not seeing it, he went out and spoke about it to the boxkeeper.
There were three actors that Nodier loved—Talma, Potier, and Debureau. When I first met Nodier, Talma had been dead for three years, and Potier had retired two years[Pg 357] earlier; so he was left with the undeniable charm of Debureau. He was the one who first praised the famous Pierrot; in this regard, Janin followed Nodier's lead and was just an imitator. Nodier saw the Bœuf enragé nearly a hundred times. At the first showing of the play, he waited for the ox until the end, and not seeing it, he went out and talked to the box office attendant about it.
"Madame," he asked, "will you please inform me why this pantomime that I have just seen is called the Bœuf enragé?"
"Ma'am," he asked, "could you please tell me why this show I just saw is called the Bœuf enragé?"
"Monsieur," replied the boxkeeper, "because that is its title."
"Mister," replied the boxkeeper, "that's just what it's called."
"Ah!" exclaimed Nodier; and he withdrew satisfied with the explanation.
"Ah!" exclaimed Nodier, feeling satisfied with the explanation as he stepped away.
The six days of the week were spent in exactly the same way: then came Sunday. Every Sunday Nodier went out at nine o'clock in the morning to breakfast with Guilbert de Pixérécourt, for whom at that time he had a profound admiration and the friendliest feelings. He called him the Corneille of the boulevards. Here he met the scientific gatherings of Crozet or of Techener.
The six days of the week were spent in exactly the same way: then came Sunday. Every Sunday, Nodier would head out at nine in the morning to have breakfast with Guilbert de Pixérécourt, whom he greatly admired and felt very friendly towards. He referred to him as the Corneille of the boulevards. Here, he would meet the scientific gatherings of Crozet or Techener.
We have mentioned that one of these bibliomaniacs was called the Marquis de Chalabre. He died leaving a very valuable library, which he bequeathed to Mademoiselle Mars. Mademoiselle Mars read very little or, to be truthful, she did not read at all. She commissioned Merlin to classify the books left her and to arrange for their sale. Merlin was the most honest man on the face of the earth; and he set about this commission with his usual conscientiousness, and he turned and re-turned the leaves of each volume so carefully that one day he went to Mademoiselle Mars with thirty or forty one-thousand franc notes in his hand, which he laid on a table.
We mentioned that one of these book lovers was called the Marquis de Chalabre. He passed away, leaving behind a very valuable library, which he entrusted to Mademoiselle Mars. Mademoiselle Mars read very little or, to be honest, she didn’t read at all. She hired Merlin to organize the books she inherited and to manage their sale. Merlin was the most honest person you could find, and he took on this task with his usual dedication. He meticulously went through each book, and one day he came to Mademoiselle Mars with thirty or forty one-thousand franc notes in his hand, which he placed on a table.
"What is that, Merlin?" asked Mademoiselle Mars.
"What is that, Merlin?" asked Mademoiselle Mars.
"I do not know, madame," he replied.
"I don't know, ma'am," he replied.
"What do you mean? Why, those are bank-notes!"
"What do you mean? Those are banknotes!"
"Certainly."
"Definitely."
"Where have you found them?"
"Where did you find them?"
"In a pocket-book, within the cover of a very rare Bible;[Pg 358] and, as the Bible belongs to you, these bank-notes are yours too."
"In a pocketbook, inside the cover of a very rare Bible;[Pg 358] and since the Bible is yours, these banknotes are yours as well."
Mademoiselle Mars took the bank-notes, which were of course hers, and she had the greatest difficulty in making Merlin accept a present of the Bible in which he had, as I understand, discovered the bank-notes.
Mademoiselle Mars took the banknotes, which were obviously hers, and she had a tough time getting Merlin to accept a gift of the Bible where, as I understand it, he found the banknotes.
Nodier would return home between three and four o'clock, and, like M. Villenave, would allow his daughter Marie to dress and titivate him. For we have omitted to mention that Nodier's family was composed of his wife, his daughter, his sister Madame de Tercy and his niece. At six o'clock, Nodier's table would be laid. Three or four spare covers would be provided in excess of the number of the family party, and these were for regular habitués. Three or four more covers were put for chance comers. The habitués were Cailleux, the director of the Musée; Baron Taylor, who was soon to leave his place vacant because of his journey to Egypt; Francis Wey, whom Nodier loved as though he were his own child, whose old French aristocratic accent was but little less noticeable than Nodier's own, and Dauzats'. The casual diners were Bixio, the huge Saint-Valery and myself. Saint-Valery was a librarian, like Nodier. He was six feet one inch in height and an extremely well informed man but possessed of no originality or any wit: it was of him that Méry wrote this line—
Nodier would come home between three and four o’clock, and, like M. Villenave, would let his daughter Marie help him get ready and look good. We forgot to mention that Nodier's family included his wife, his daughter, his sister Madame de Tercy, and his niece. At six o'clock, Nodier's table would be set. Three or four extra places would be set beyond the family count for regular guests. Another three or four places were added for unexpected arrivals. The regulars included Cailleux, the director of the Musée; Baron Taylor, who would soon be leaving for Egypt; Francis Wey, whom Nodier cared for as if he were his own child, and whose old French aristocratic accent was barely less noticeable than Nodier's own and Dauzats'. The occasional diners were Bixio, the large Saint-Valery, and me. Saint-Valery was also a librarian like Nodier. He stood six feet one inch tall and was very knowledgeable but lacked originality or humor: it was about him that Méry wrote this line—
"Il se baisse, et ramasse un oiseau dans les airs!"
"He's bending down and grabbing a bird in mid-air!"
When he was at the library, it was a very rare thing for him to need a ladder to reach down a book, so tall was he. He would stretch up one of his long arms, standing on tiptoe, and find the book that was required, even if it were close to the ceiling. He was susceptible in the extreme, and could not bear any joking references to his tall figure no matter how harmless they were; he was angry with me for a long while because once, when he was complaining to Madame Nodier of a violent cold in his head, I asked him if he had had cold feet a year ago.
When he was at the library, it was pretty rare for him to need a ladder to grab a book, since he was so tall. He would stretch up one of his long arms, standing on tiptoe, and get the book he needed, even if it was near the ceiling. He was extremely sensitive and couldn’t handle any light-hearted jokes about his height, no matter how harmless they seemed; he was mad at me for a long time because once, when he was telling Madame Nodier about a bad cold he had, I asked him if he had cold feet the year before.
When you were admitted into that charming and desirable[Pg 359] inner circle of the Nodier family, you could dine with them as often as you liked. If one, two or three covers were needed beyond the number already laid, they were added; if the table had to be enlarged, it was made longer. But unlucky was the man who happened to be the thirteenth! he was pitilessly placed at a little table to dine by himself, unless a fourteenth guest, still less expected than he, should turn up to relieve him of his penance. I was very soon among the number of the more intimate friends of whom I have just spoken, and my place at the table was settled once for all, between Madame Nodier and Marie Nodier. When I appeared at the door I was greeted with exclamations of joy; they all rushed at me, from Nodier downwards, who stretched out his two great arms to embrace me or shake me by the hand. At the end of a year, from being an accepted fact, my place became recognised as mine by right: it remained vacant for me until after the soup course; then they ventured to fill it, but if I happened to arrive, either ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour, or half an hour late, even if I did not arrive until dessert, the interloper got up, or was made to do so, and my place given up to me. Nodier used to make out that I was as good as a fortune to him, because I saved him from doing the talking; but what may have been a pleasure, in this respect, to the idle master of the house, was a source of sorrow to his guests: to relieve the most fascinating talker imaginable from conversing was tantamount to a crime. Nevertheless, when I was charged with being viceroy of the conversation I was on my mettle to fill my position to the best of my abilities. There are certain houses wherein one is spontaneously brilliant; others where one is dull no matter how one tries to be the reverse. There were three houses where I was at my best, three houses in which my spirits ever rose and scintillated with youthful exuberance; these houses were Nodier's, Madame Guyet-Desfontaines' and Zimmermann's. At all other places I could still be entertaining, but merely in the ordinary way of social intercourse. However, no matter whether Nodier himself was the talker (and when this was[Pg 360] the case, grown-up people and small children all held their peace to listen); whether his silence left the conversation to Dauzats, to Bixio or to me, the time flew by unheeded until the close of dinner was reached—a dinner that might have been envied by the most powerful prince of the earth, provided his tastes were intellectually inclined. Dinner over, coffee was handed round, while we were still at table. Nodier was far too much of a Sybarite to rise from the table to take his Mocha standing uncomfortably in a half-warmed salon, when he could take it lolling back in his chair, in a warm dining-room, well scented with the aroma of fruits and liqueurs. During this last act, or rather this epilogue to the dinner, Madame Nodier and Marie rose to go and light up the salon, and I, who took neither coffee nor liqueurs, accompanied them, to help in their task, my tall figure being very useful to them in lighting the lustres and candelabras without the necessity of standing on chairs. I need hardly say that if M. Saint-Valery, who was a foot taller than I, were there, the charge of lighting up fell to him by right.
When you were welcomed into that lovely and sought-after[Pg 359] inner circle of the Nodier family, you could join them for dinner whenever you wanted. If they needed one, two, or three extra places set, they were added; if the table had to be extended, it was lengthened. But woe to the person who happened to be the thirteenth! They were inevitably seated at a small table to eat alone, unless an unexpected fourteenth guest showed up to save them from their isolation. I quickly became one of the closer friends I just mentioned, and my spot at the table was permanently assigned, sitting between Madame Nodier and Marie Nodier. When I arrived at the door, they greeted me with shouts of joy; everyone rushed to me, including Nodier, who opened his arms wide to hug me or shake my hand. After a year, my place at the table became an established fact; it was kept empty for me until after the soup course. They would only think about filling it once I arrived, but if I showed up ten, fifteen, or even thirty minutes late, or only for dessert, the intruder would get up, or be told to move, and my spot would be given back to me. Nodier used to say I was practically a blessing for him because I saved him from having to do all the talking; but while this may have pleased the laid-back host, it caused disappointment for his guests: relieving the most captivating conversationalist from talking was almost a crime. Still, when I was called the viceroy of conversation, I was determined to live up to the role as best as I could. Some homes naturally inspire brilliance in conversation, while others leave you feeling dull no matter how hard you try. There were three homes where I truly thrived, where my energy soared and sparkled with youthful enthusiasm; those were Nodier's, Madame Guyet-Desfontaines', and Zimmermann's. In other settings, I could still be engaging, but just in the standard way of social interaction. Regardless of whether Nodier was the one talking (and when he did, both adults and children fell silent to listen) or if his quiet allowed conversation to flow to Dauzats, Bixio, or me, time flew past until the end of dinner, which could make even the mightiest prince of the earth envious, if he had an appreciation for intellectual dining. After dinner, coffee was served while we were still seated at the table. Nodier was way too indulgent to stand up for his Mocha in an uncomfortable, half-warmed salon when he could enjoy it relaxed in his chair in a warm dining room, beautifully scented with the aroma of fruits and liqueurs. During this last act, or rather this epilogue to dinner, Madame Nodier and Marie would go to light up the salon, and since I didn’t take coffee or liqueurs, I joined them to help; my tall frame was very handy for lighting the chandeliers and candelabras without needing to stand on chairs. I should mention that if M. Saint-Valery, who was a foot taller than I was, was there, the responsibility of lighting up would rightfully fall to him.
When, thanks to us, the salon was lit up,—a ceremony that only took place on Sundays, for on week-days the receptions were held in Madame Nodier's room—the light illuminated white panelled walls with Louis XV. mouldings, and furniture of extreme simplicity, comprising a dozen chairs or easy-chairs and a sofa covered with red cashmere, the hangings being of the same colour; a bust of Hugo, a statue of Henri IV. as a child, a portrait of Nodier and a landscape of a view in the Alps, by Régnier. On the left, as you entered, was Marie's piano, in a recess almost like a room in itself. This recess was large enough, like the spaces between bedsteads in the time of Louis XIV., for the friends of the household to stand round and talk with Marie as she played quadrilles and valses with her clever, agile fingers. But quadrilles and valses did not begin before the given moment: two hours, from eight to ten, were invariably devoted to conversation; then we danced from ten to one in the morning. Five minutes after Madame Nodier, Marie and I had lighted up the salon, Taylor[Pg 361] and Cailleux were the first to come in—they were far more at home in the house than was Nodier himself; then came Nodier with his arm through that of Dauzats or Francis Wey or Bixio; for although Nodier was only thirty-eight or forty at that time, he was like a tall climbing plant that covers walls with leaves and flowers, but already needs something to lean on. Behind Nodier entered the rest of the guests, with his little daughter dancing and skipping. Ten minutes later, the usual callers began to drop in—Fontanay and Alfred Johannot, with their two impassive faces, always melancholy in the midst of our laughter and gaiety, as though they were under some vague presentiment of death; Tony Johannot, who never came without a fresh drawing or an engraving to enrich Marie's album or collection; Barye, who looked lonely in the midst of the tumult, for it always seemed as though his mind were far away from his body in quest of something wonderful; Louis Boulanger, with his variable moods, to-day sad, to-morrow gay, ever the same great artist, great poet and faithful friend; Francisque Michel, a seeker of old manuscripts, often so preoccupied with his researches of the day that he would forget he had come in an ancient hat of the period of Louis XIII. and yellow slippers; de Vigny, who, in ignorance of his future transfiguration, still deigned to mix with mortals; de Musset, almost a boy, dreaming over his Contes d'Espagne et d'Italie; and, bringing up the rear, Hugo and Lamartine, the two kings of poetry, the peaceful Eteocles and Polynices of Art, one bearing the sceptre of the ode and the other the crown of elegy.
When we lit up the salon—an event that only happened on Sundays, since week-day gatherings took place in Madame Nodier's room—the light brightened the white-paneled walls with Louis XV moldings and extremely simple furniture, which included a dozen chairs or armchairs and a sofa covered in red cashmere, with matching drapes. There was a bust of Hugo, a childhood statue of Henri IV, a portrait of Nodier, and a landscape from the Alps by Régnier. To the left, as you walked in, was Marie's piano, set in a nook that felt like a small room of its own. This nook was spacious enough, like the spaces between beds during Louis XIV's era, for friends of the household to gather and chat with Marie as she played quadrilles and waltzes with her skillful, nimble fingers. But the quadrilles and waltzes didn’t start until the scheduled time: two hours, from eight to ten, were always reserved for conversation; then we danced from ten to one in the morning. Five minutes after Madame Nodier, Marie, and I had brightened the salon, Taylor[Pg 361] and Cailleux were the first to arrive—they felt more at home there than Nodier himself. Next came Nodier, with his arm linked with that of Dauzats, Francis Wey, or Bixio; even though Nodier was only about thirty-eight or forty at that time, he resembled a tall climbing plant that cloaks walls with leaves and flowers, yet already needed something to support him. Following Nodier came the other guests, with his little daughter twirling and skipping around. Ten minutes later, the usual crowd began to trickle in—Fontanay and Alfred Johannot, their faces always expressionless and melancholic amid our laughter and fun, as if they were sensing some vague premonition of death; Tony Johannot, who never came without a new drawing or engraving to add to Marie's album; Barye, who appeared solitary amidst the chaos, as if his thoughts were far away, searching for something extraordinary; Louis Boulanger, with his shifting moods, sad today, happy tomorrow, yet ever the same remarkable artist, great poet, and loyal friend; Francisque Michel, a seeker of old manuscripts, often so absorbed in his research that he would forget he was wearing an ancient hat from the time of Louis XIII and yellow slippers; de Vigny, unaware of his future transformation, still mingling with mortals; de Musset, almost a boy, lost in his thoughts over his Contes d'Espagne et d'Italie; and lastly, Hugo and Lamartine, the two luminaries of poetry, the calm Eteocles and Polynices of Art, one holding the scepter of the ode and the other crowned with elegy.
Alas! and alas! what has become of all those who gathered there? Fontanay and Alfred Johannot are dead; de Vigny has made himself invisible; Taylor is given over to his travels; Lamartine, with his provisional government, has let France slip through his fingers; Hugo is a deputy and strives to hold the country together, a task that proved too difficult for his colleague's hands; and the rest of us are all scattered, each following his own laborious career, hampered with spiteful enemies, harassing laws and petty ministerial hatreds; we[Pg 362] struggle on, blindfold and weary, towards that new world which Providence is preserving for our sons and our grandsons, which we shall not see, but towards which at least our tombs, like milestones, will point the way.
Alas! What has happened to everyone who was there? Fontanay and Alfred Johannot have passed away; de Vigny has vanished; Taylor is off traveling; Lamartine, with his temporary government, has let France slip away; Hugo is a deputy trying to keep the country together, a job that was too tough for his colleague; and the rest of us are all spread out, each pursuing our own hard paths, burdened by bitter enemies, problematic laws, and petty government rivalries; we[Pg 362] keep pushing on, blind and exhausted, toward that new world which Providence is saving for our children and grandchildren, a world we won't see, but at least our graves will point the way like milestones.
Let us go back to our salon, into which those of whom I have just been speaking were now entering, hailed with effusive greetings of delight. If Nodier, when he left the dinner-table, went and stretched himself out in his arm-chair by the fireside, it was because he liked, after the fashion of the egoistic Sybarite he was, to enjoy at his ease some chance play of his imagination, during that blissful moment which follows in the wake of coffee; if, on the other hand, making an effort to remain standing, he leant against the chimneypiece, his calves to the fire and his back to the mirror, it meant he was going to tell some of his stories. We were then all on the qui vive to smile at the anecdotes which were to drop from those finely modelled, satirical and witty lips; everybody kept silence; and he would pour forth one of the delightful stories of his youth, which sounded like a romance of Longus, or an idyll of Theocritus. He seemed like Walter Scott and Perrault; the savant grappling with the poet, memory battling with imagination. Nodier was not merely amusing to listen to, but in addition he was delightful to watch. His tall, lean body, his long thin arms, his white tapering hands, his long face, full of a serene melancholy, all harmonised and fitted in with his rather languid voice, and with the afore-mentioned aristocratic accent; and, whether Nodier were reciting a love-story, or describing a fight on the plains of la Vendée, or some drama that happened in the place de la Révolution, a conspiracy of Cadoudal or of Oudet, his hearers would hold their breath to listen, so wonderfully did the story-teller know how to get at the heart of everything he described. Those who came in in the middle bowed silently and sat down in an arm-chair or leant against the wainscotting; the recital always came to an end too soon; why he ever concluded was a mystery, for we knew that Nodier could draw eternally on that purse of Fortunatus which we call imagination. We did not applaud,—do we[Pg 363] applaud the murmur of a stream, the song of a bird, the perfume of a flower?—but when the murmur ceased, the song died away, the perfume evaporated, we listened, we waited, we longed for more! Then Nodier would slide back quietly from his position at the fireplace into his big arm-chair; would smile and turn to Lamartine or Hugo with—
Let’s head back to our lounge, where the people I just mentioned are now entering, greeted with warm and enthusiastic hellos. If Nodier, after leaving the dinner table, settled into his armchair by the fire, it was because he enjoyed, like the self-centered hedonist he was, the chance to relax and let his imagination wander during that blissful moment after coffee. On the other hand, if he made an effort to stay standing, leaning against the mantelpiece with his calves to the fire and his back to the mirror, it meant he was about to share some of his stories. We would all perk up, ready to smile at the anecdotes coming from those skillfully shaped, witty lips; everyone fell silent as he began to recount one of his delightful tales from his youth, sounding like a romance by Longus or an idyll by Theocritus. He resembled both Walter Scott and Perrault; the scholar wrestling with the poet, memory clashing with imagination. Nodier was not only entertaining to listen to, but also wonderful to watch. His tall, thin body, long arms, white tapering fingers, and long face, filled with a calm melancholy, all fit perfectly with his somewhat languid voice and the previously mentioned aristocratic accent. Whether Nodier was telling a love story, narrating a battle on the plains of La Vendée, or describing a drama from Place de la Révolution, a conspiracy involving Cadoudal or Oudet, his audience would hold their breath, so skillfully did he reach the heart of everything he described. Those who entered midway bowed quietly and either sat in an armchair or leaned against the wainscoting; the storytelling always seemed to end too soon. Why he ever stopped was a mystery because we knew Nodier could endlessly draw from that reservoir of imagination we call creativity. We didn’t applaud—do we applaud the murmur of a stream, the song of a bird, the scent of a flower?—but when the murmur faded, the song ended, and the scent dissipated, we listened, we waited, we craved more! Then Nodier would quietly slide back from his position by the fireplace into his large armchair, smile, and turn to Lamartine or Hugo with—
"Enough of such prose as that—now let us have poetry, poetry!"
"Enough of that kind of writing—let’s have poetry, poetry!"
And, without a second bidding, one of the two poets would, from where he was, with hands leant on the back of an armchair, or shoulders propped up against the panelled walls, give birth to the harmonious and eager flow of his poetic fancy; then every head would turn in the fresh direction, every intellect would follow the flight of a thought which soared above them on eagle's wings to play now in the mist of clouds among the lightnings of the tempest, now in the rays of the sun.
And, without needing any prompting, one of the two poets would, from his spot, with his hands resting on the back of an armchair, or his shoulders leaned against the paneled walls, unleash a beautiful and eager stream of his poetic imagination; then every head would turn to follow him, and every mind would follow the ascent of a thought that soared above them on eagle's wings, now playing in the mist of clouds among the lightning of the storm, now in the sunlight.
On these occasions applause followed; then, when the applause had ceased, Marie would go to her piano and a brilliant rush of notes would burst upon the air. This was the signal for a quadrille; arm-chairs and chairs were put away, card-players took refuge in corners, and those who, instead of dancing, preferred to talk with Marie, would slip into her alcove. Nodier was one of the earliest at the card-tables; for a long time he would only play at bataille, at which he claimed to be very expert; but, finally, he was induced to make a concession to the taste of the century and played écarté. When the ball had begun, Nodier, who was usually very unlucky, would call for cards. From the moment he began, Nodier effaced himself, disappeared and was utterly forgotten; he was one of those old-fashioned hosts who obliterated themselves in order to give precedence to their guests, who, when made welcome, become masters of the house themselves. Moreover, after Nodier had disappeared for a time, he would disappear entirely. He went to bed in good time, or, to speak more correctly, he was put to bed early. To Madame Nodier belonged the care of putting this great child to bed; she[Pg 364] would therefore leave the salon first in order to get his bed ready. If it were winter, and very cold, and the kitchen fire had perchance gone out, a warming-pan would be seen to thread its way amidst the dancers to the salon fireplace, its wide jaws would open to receive the glowing coals, and then it would be taken away to Nodier's bedroom. Nodier followed the warming-pan, and we saw him no more that night.
On these occasions, applause would follow; then, when the applause faded, Marie would go to her piano, and a brilliant rush of notes would fill the air. This was the cue for a quadrille; armchairs and chairs were pushed aside, card players found refuge in corners, and those who preferred to chat with Marie would slip into her alcove. Nodier was among the first at the card tables; for a long time, he would only play bataille, which he claimed to be very good at; but eventually, he was convinced to cater to the trends of the time and played écarté. Once the ball started, Nodier, who was usually quite unlucky, would call for cards. From the moment he did, Nodier faded into the background, disappearing and becoming completely forgotten; he was one of those old-fashioned hosts who made themselves disappear to let their guests shine, who, when welcomed, took over the house themselves. Moreover, after Nodier had faded for a while, he would vanish entirely. He would go to bed at a reasonable hour, or, more accurately, he was put to bed early. Madame Nodier took on the task of tucking this big child in; she[Pg 364] would leave the salon first to prepare his bed. If it were winter, and very cold, and if the kitchen fire had gone out, a warming-pan would be seen threading its way through the dancers to the salon fireplace, its wide jaws opening to receive the glowing coals, and then it would be taken to Nodier's bedroom. Nodier followed the warming-pan, and we saw him no more that night.
Such was Nodier; such was the life of that excellent man.
Such was Nodier; such was the life of that amazing man.
Once we came upon him in a mood of humiliation and shame and embarrassment. The author of the Rot de Bohème et ses Sept Châteaux had just been nominated an Academician. He made very humble apologies to Hugo and to me, and we forgave him.
Once we found him feeling humiliated, ashamed, and embarrassed. The author of the Rot de Bohème et ses Sept Châteaux had just been nominated as an Academician. He offered very humble apologies to Hugo and me, and we forgave him.
After having been rejected five times, Hugo was nominated in his turn. He offered me no excuses, which was as well; since I should certainly not have forgiven him!
After being rejected five times, Hugo was nominated this time. He didn’t make any excuses, which was good; I definitely wouldn’t have forgiven him!
CHAPTER II
Oudard transmits to me the desires of the Duc d'Orléans—I am appointed assistant librarian—How this saved His Highness four hundred francs—Rivalry with Casimir Delavigne—Petition of the Classical School against Romantic productions—Letter of support from Mademoiselle Duchesnois—A fantastic dance—The person who called Racine a blackguard—Fine indignation of the Constitutionnel—First representation of Marino Faliero
Oudard tells me about the wishes of the Duke of Orléans—I’ve been appointed assistant librarian—This saved His Highness four hundred francs—Competition with Casimir Delavigne—A petition from the Classical School against Romantic works—A supportive letter from Mademoiselle Duchesnois—An amazing dance—The person who called Racine a blackguard—The strong outrage from the Constitutionnel—The first performance of Marino Faliero
It will be remembered that, during the brief conversation which I had the honour of holding with M. le Duc d'Orléans in his private box, he had expressed the desire to keep me near him. I had no motive, now I had gained my liberty of action, for leaving the man who, at any rate, had assured me a living for six years and had allowed me to continue my studies and to become what I was. Moreover, at that time, M. le Duc d'Orléans was a typical representative of that Opposition party to which I belonged by rights as the son of a Republican general. M. le Duc d'Orléans, son of a regicide, member of the Jacobin Club, defender of Marat and indebted to Collot d'Herbois, seemed, indeed, to me, I must admit, if he had not greatly degenerated since 1793, to be far more advanced in 1829 than I was myself. He acted well up to the mot he uttered the day I was writing to his dictation: "Monsieur Dumas, bear in mind that, if one is descended from Louis XIV., if only by means of one of his bastards, it is still a sufficient honour to be proud of." I had, of course, called forth this mot by my ignorant hesitation. Besides, one could be proud of being descended from Louis XIV., while still blaming the turpitude of Louis XV. and the faults of Louis XVI.; furthermore, where had even our Republican fathers come from?—the[Pg 366] Parc-aux-Cerfs and the Petit Trianon. So then the Duc d'Orléans, if not precisely a Republican prince, as he had been styled in 1792, was at least a citizen prince, as he was called in 1829. In short, it was good for my position, and in harmony with my sympathies, to remain attached to M. le Duc d'Orléans. All these reflections had had sufficient time to ripen in my mind before I received a letter from Oudard asking me to call on him at his office. Formerly, such an invitation would have made me very uneasy; now, it only made me smile, and I presented myself. Raulot bowed nearly to the ground before me; he opened the door and announced—
It will be remembered that during the brief conversation I had the honor of having with M. le Duc d'Orléans in his private box, he expressed the desire to keep me close. Now that I had gained my freedom to act, I had no reason to leave the man who, at any rate, had guaranteed me a living for six years and had allowed me to continue my studies and become who I was. Moreover, at that time, M. le Duc d'Orléans was a typical representative of that Opposition party to which I belonged by rights as the son of a Republican general. M. le Duc d'Orléans, son of a regicide, member of the Jacobin Club, defender of Marat, and indebted to Collot d'Herbois, seemed to me, I must admit, if he had not greatly degenerated since 1793, to be far more progressive in 1829 than I was myself. He truly lived up to the remark he made the day I was writing at his dictation: "Monsieur Dumas, remember that if one is descended from Louis XIV., even if only through one of his bastards, it is still a sufficient honor to be proud of." I had, of course, provoked this remark with my ignorant hesitation. Besides, one could be proud of being descended from Louis XIV. while still criticizing the wrongs of Louis XV. and the faults of Louis XVI.; furthermore, where did even our Republican fathers come from?—the Parc-aux-Cerfs and the Petit Trianon. So then the Duc d'Orléans, if not exactly a Republican prince, as he had been called in 1792, was at least a citizen prince, as he was referred to in 1829. In short, it was beneficial for my position and in line with my sympathies to remain associated with M. le Duc d'Orléans. All these thoughts had been allowed enough time to settle in my mind before I received a letter from Oudard asking me to visit him at his office. In the past, such an invitation would have made me very uneasy; now, it only made me smile, and I went to meet him. Raulot bowed almost to the ground before me; he opened the door and announced—
"M. Alexandre Dumas."
"M. Alexandre Dumas."
Oudard came to meet me with a laughing face.
Oudard came to see me with a smiling face.
"Well, my dear poet," he said, "it seems you have had an undoubted success?"
"Well, my dear poet," he said, "it looks like you've had a definite success?"
"Yes."
"Yep."
"First, let me congratulate you heartily.... But who could have foreseen it?"
"First, let me congratulate you sincerely.... But who could have predicted it?"
"Those who suppressed my bonus money and kept back my salary; for I presume that if they had foreseen a failure they would not have had the cruelty to expose my mother and me to die of starvation."
"Those who held back my bonus and withheld my salary; because I assume that if they had anticipated a failure, they wouldn't have had the heartlessness to put my mother and me at risk of starving."
"Did not M. de Broval write to you the night of the representation?" Oudard asked in some confusion.
"Did M. de Broval not write to you the night of the performance?" Oudard asked, a bit confused.
"Yes, indeed; here is his letter."
"Yes, definitely; here is his letter."
I showed him the letter the reader has seen.
I showed him the letter that you have seen.
"And I am keeping it as a model," I continued, putting it back into my pocket again.
"And I'm keeping it as a model," I added, putting it back in my pocket.
"As a model of what?"
"As a role model for?"
"Of diplomatic lying and of stupid sycophancy."
"About deceptive diplomacy and foolish flattery."
"Come, that is strong language!"
"Come on, that’s harsh!"
"True, but one ought to call a spade a spade."
"True, but one should call a spade a spade."
"However that may be, let us drop the subject and speak of your position here."
"Regardless of that, let's change the subject and talk about your role here."
"That is equivalent to discussing castles in the air."
"That's like talking about castles in the sky."
"I do not refer to your past position, for I am well aware[Pg 367] that you would decline to remain in the household under the old conditions; neither do we desire you to do so.... You must have leisure for your work."
"I’m not talking about your previous role because I know you would refuse to stay in the household under the old conditions; we also don’t want you to do that.... You need time for your work."
"Continue, my lord Mæcenas, speak in the name of Augustus; I am listening."
"Go ahead, my lord Mæcenas, speak for Augustus; I'm all ears."
"No, on the contrary it is for you to speak. What do you desire?"
"No, actually, it's your turn to speak. What do you want?"
"I? I desired success and I have had it. I do not want anything else."
"I? I wanted success and I've achieved it. I don't want anything more."
"But what can we do that will be agreeable to you?"
"But what can we do that you'll be okay with?"
"Not a great deal."
"Not a big deal."
"Nevertheless, there must be some position in the house you would like."
"Still, there has to be a spot in the house that you like."
"There is none I covet; but there is one post that would suit my convenience."
"There’s no one I desire; but there is one position that would work well for me."
"Which is that?"
"Which one is that?"
"To be M. Casimir Delavigne's colleague at the library."
"To be M. Casimir Delavigne's coworker at the library."
Oudard's facial muscles twitched with an expression indicative of, "You are indeed ambitious, my friend."
Oudard's facial muscles twitched with an expression that clearly said, "You really are ambitious, my friend."
"Oh! indeed I quite understand the difficulties," I said.
"Oh! I totally understand the challenges," I said.
"You see," Oudard continued, "we already have Vatout and Casimir, a librarian and assistant librarian."
"You see," Oudard continued, "we already have Vatout and Casimir, a librarian and an assistant librarian."
"Of course, and that is ample, is it not, when there is no library?"
"Of course, and that’s enough, right, when there’s no library?"
For, as a matter of fact, the library of the Duc d'Orléans, at that time especially, was very inferior.
For, in fact, the Duc d'Orléans's library, especially at that time, was quite lacking.
"What do you mean by no library?" Oudard exclaimed; for, like the servant of a curé, he could not bear to have his master's house depreciated. "We have three thousand volumes!"
"What do you mean there’s no library?" Oudard shouted; because, like the servant of a priest, he couldn’t stand to see his master’s house put down. "We have three thousand books!"
"You are mistaken, my dear Oudard: there are three thousand and four; for I saw the Mémoires de Dumouriez, which had just come from London, in the house of M. le Duc d'Orléans, the day before yesterday."
"You’re wrong, my dear Oudard: there are three thousand and four; because I saw the Mémoires de Dumouriez, which just arrived from London, at M. le Duc d'Orléans' house the day before yesterday."
I gave the thrust good-humouredly, and so Oudard took it. He could not ward it off without acknowledging himself hit: he continued—
I delivered the thrust with a smile, and Oudard accepted it. He couldn't deflect it without admitting he was struck: he kept on—
"Well, well, you are wonderfully clever, my friend; I will convey to monseigneur your desire to become attached to the household as librarian."
"Well, well, you’re really clever, my friend; I’ll let the lord know about your wish to join the household as the librarian."
I stopped him.
I stopped him.
"Stay, let us quite understand one another, Oudard."
"Hold on, let’s make sure we understand each other, Oudard."
"I do not wish for anything better."
"I don't want anything more."
"Did you not ask me to come to you?"
"Didn't you ask me to come to you?"
"Certainly."
"Of course."
"It was not I who came on my own initiative?"
"It wasn't me who came on my own?""
"No."
"Nope."
"I should not have come if you had not written to me."
"I wouldn’t have come if you hadn't contacted me."
"That would have been very remiss on your part."
"That would have been a big mistake on your part."
"Possibly; but, all the same, I did not come. Now you talk of a desire: I have not expressed any; it is not I who desire to remain attached to the household. If they want to keep me, they must make me librarian; as to salary, they need not give me any. You see I am making things exceedingly easy for His Royal Highness."
"Maybe; but still, I didn't come. Now you mention a desire: I haven't shown any; it's not me who wants to stay connected to the household. If they want to keep me, they need to make me the librarian; as for salary, they don’t have to pay me anything. You see, I’m making things really easy for His Royal Highness."
"Ah! are you always going to be wilful?"
"Are you always going to be stubborn?"
"No, but I remember what M. le Duc d'Orléans condescended to write, by the side of my name, in his own handwriting, a month ago: 'Suppress his bonuses,' etc. etc."
"No, but I remember what M. le Duc d'Orléans took the time to write next to my name, in his own handwriting, a month ago: 'Cut his bonuses,' etc. etc."
"Come, I will tell you something that will restore the prince in your estimation."
"Come, I’ll tell you something that will change how you see the prince."
"Ah! my dear Oudard, I am indeed far too insignificant an individual to lay claim to the right of quarrelling with him."
"Ah! my dear Oudard, I'm really far too unimportant to have the right to argue with him."
"Well, then, I fancy he would accept the dedication of your drama."
"Well, I think he would accept the dedication of your play."
"The dedication of my play, my dear Oudard, belongs to the man who got it acted; my drama Henri III. will be dedicated to Taylor."
"The dedication of my play, my dear Oudard, goes to the man who got it performed; my drama Henri III. will be dedicated to Taylor."
"You are making a mistake, my dear friend."
"You’re making a mistake, my dear friend."
"No, I am repaying a debt."
"No, I'm paying off a debt."
"All right, we will not continue the subject; so, a librarian like Casimir Delavigne...."
"Okay, we won't keep discussing this topic; so, a librarian like Casimir Delavigne...."
"Or like Vatout, if the comparison seems to you to be simpler."
"Or like Vatout, if you think that's a simpler comparison."
"Are you aware how epigrammatic you have become since your success?"
"Do you realize how witty you’ve become since your success?"
"No; it is only that I can now say aloud what I formerly thought unspoken."
"No; it's just that I can now say out loud what I used to keep to myself."
"Well, I see clearly that you mean to have the last word."
"Well, I can see that you want to have the final say."
"Of course; try and find a word to which I cannot fit an answer. Au revoir!"
"Sure; go ahead and find a word that I can’t respond to. See you later!"
"Adieu!"
"Goodbye!"
Two days later, Oudard called me in again; he had discovered a post that would suit me much better than being librarian: namely, to be reader to Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans. I thanked Oudard; but I assured him that I still held to my first idea of being librarian or nothing at all.
Two days later, Oudard called me back in; he had found a position that would be much more suitable for me than being a librarian: specifically, to be a reader for Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans. I thanked Oudard, but I told him that I still preferred my original idea of being a librarian or nothing at all.
We parted rather more coldly than at first. Two days later, I received a third letter; this time, he had found something that would suit me best of all. They would make me chevalier d'honneur to Madame Adélaïde! I persisted obstinately that I wanted to be librarian. Finally, I received a fourth invitation, and I paid a fourth visit. They had decided to grant my request, and I was appointed assistant librarian, at a salary of 1200 francs.
We broke up on a colder note than before. Two days later, I got a third letter; this time, he had found something that would work best for me. They would make me chevalier d'honneur to Madame Adélaïde! I stubbornly insisted that I wanted to be the librarian. Eventually, I received a fourth invitation, and I made a fourth visit. They had decided to accept my request, and I was appointed assistant librarian, with a salary of 1200 francs.
As I had announced beforehand that the question of money was not of any consequence, they had taken advantage of it to suggest to monseigneur to pay me 300 francs less as librarian than they had paid me as a clerk. That didn't matter; but listen, and may Harpagon and Grandet hang themselves for not having invented what the people devised who arranged the affairs of M. le Duc d'Orléans and myself. As they had not paid me any salary for six months, they antedated my nomination by six months. Consequently, as I had a salary of 1500 francs as clerk and 1200 francs as librarian, they saved, by paying me for these six months as a librarian, the sum of 150 francs, which, added to my unpaid up bonuses of 1829, saved them 350 francs; and the 350 francs, added to the 50 francs cut off my bonus of 1828, amounted to a net total of 400 francs more into the princely coffers. It will be admitted, will it not? that the Duc d'Orléans was surrounded by men of large views![Pg 370] Unfortunately, these were the very same men who, later, surrounded the king.
As I mentioned earlier, the issue of money wasn't important, so they took the opportunity to suggest that the duke pay me 300 francs less as a librarian than what I had gotten as a clerk. It didn't really matter; but just listen, may Harpagon and Grandet regret not coming up with what the people who managed the affairs of M. le Duc d'Orléans and me did. Since they hadn't paid me for six months, they backdated my appointment by six months. Therefore, with a salary of 1500 francs as a clerk and 1200 francs as a librarian, by paying me for these six months as a librarian, they saved 150 francs, and when you add that to the unpaid bonuses from 1829, they saved 350 francs total; and adding the 50 francs deducted from my 1828 bonus brought the total to 400 francs more lining the duke's pockets. It's fair to say, right? that the Duc d'Orléans was surrounded by people with big ideas![Pg 370] Unfortunately, these were the same people who later surrounded the king.
When I was installed at the Library, I became acquainted with Vatout and Casimir Delavigne, who, as Oudard had warned me, did not welcome my advent with much warmth. Casimir Delavigne in particular, who, although he made it up with me afterwards, at first could not forgive me the success I had had with Henri III. Indeed, my success with Henri III. continued throughout the year, and, as there is a proverb to the effect that two successes, on the stage, never come together, the success of Henri III. prevented the success of Marino Faliero, which was awaiting its turn, and in which Mademoiselle Mars was to play Héléna. But Mademoiselle Mars was engaged for three long months in Henri III.; then came her two months' holiday; so Marino Faliero was put off until the coming winter. This did not in the least suit Casimir Delavigne.
When I started at the Library, I got to know Vatout and Casimir Delavigne, who, as Oudard had warned me, didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms. Casimir Delavigne, in particular, although he eventually made amends with me, initially couldn’t get over the success I had with Henri III. In fact, my success with Henri III. lasted all year, and there's a saying that two successes on stage never happen at the same time, so the success of Henri III. held back the success of Marino Faliero, which was waiting in line and featured Mademoiselle Mars as Héléna. However, Mademoiselle Mars was tied up with Henri III. for three long months, followed by her two-month vacation, pushing Marino Faliero to the next winter. This delay did not sit well with Casimir Delavigne.
I have related how Casimir Delavigne's dramatic affairs were conducted: a family council was called on account of Marino Faliero, and it was decided that the Doge of Venice should migrate to the Porte-Saint-Martin; that Madame Dorval, whose reputation had begun to spread, should replace Mademoiselle Mars and that Ligier should be seduced from the Odéon to play Marino Faliero. This migration made a great sensation. Casimir at the Porte-Saint-Martin! It was Coriolanus among the Volscians; all the papers wailed aloud and made moan over this exile of the national bard, and people began to look on me as a usurper who had risen up to drive out a crowned and anointed king from his legitimate throne. The situation was complicated by an event as novel as it was unexpected. A petition to the king appeared, entreating His Majesty to do for Corneille, Molière and Racine—who stood on their marble pedestals in the foyer unmoved by this agitation—what His Majesty's august predecessor had done for King Ferdinand VII. when he was expelled by the Cortes:—to re-establish them on their thrones. Alas! no one was ever less ambitious to snatch other people's thrones than I.... I was willing enough to take a seat or a comfortable arm-chair, ay, an elevated one, well in[Pg 371] view, by all means, but a throne! the word and the position were too classic, and I never aspired thereto. It is inconceivable, is it not? that there could be found seven men of letters sufficiently intolerant, silly and ridiculous to appeal to a king to proscribe a method of art, an invisible, indefinable and intangible conception, and boldly to say to him, "Sire, we are the representatives of Art; we alone know what is beautiful; we alone possess knowledge, taste and genius; true, the public hisses at us as soon as we appear; true, our tragedies do not attract anyone when they are acted; the Comedians play our pieces with marked aversion, it is true, since they do not draw the same profits from them, although expenses are the same; but what does all that matter! It is hard for us to die and to be forgotten; we would rather be hooted at than buried. Sire, issue your commands that our plays, and ours alone, be played;—for we are the sole descendants of Corneille, and Molière and Racine, whilst these new-comers are but the bastards of Shakespeare and Goethe and Schiller!"
I’ve shared how Casimir Delavigne’s dramatic productions were managed: a family meeting was held due to Marino Faliero, and it was decided that the Doge of Venice should move to the Porte-Saint-Martin; that Madame Dorval, whose fame was starting to spread, should take over for Mademoiselle Mars; and that Ligier should be lured from the Odéon to play Marino Faliero. This move caused quite a stir. Casimir at the Porte-Saint-Martin! It was like Coriolanus among the Volscians; all the newspapers lamented and mourned this exile of the national poet, and people began to see me as a usurper who had risen up to oust a crowned king from his rightful throne. The situation became even more complicated by a surprising and new development. A petition to the king appeared, asking His Majesty to do for Corneille, Molière, and Racine—who stood unmoved on their marble pedestals in the foyer—what His Majesty's esteemed predecessor had done for King Ferdinand VII when he was expelled by the Cortes: to restore them to their thrones. Unfortunately, no one was less ambitious about seizing others’ thrones than I.... I was happy enough to take a seat or a comfy armchair, sure, an elevated one, definitely in[Pg 371] view, but a throne! The term and the position were too classical, and I never aspired to that. Isn’t it hard to believe that there could be seven writers so intolerant, foolish, and ridiculous as to ask a king to ban a style of art, an invisible, undefined, and intangible concept, and boldly say to him, “Sire, we are the representatives of Art; we alone know what’s beautiful; we alone have knowledge, taste, and genius; true, the public boos us as soon as we appear; true, no one cares about our tragedies when they’re performed; the actors perform our works with noticeable reluctance, true, since they don’t make as much money from them, even though the costs are the same; but what does that matter! It’s hard for us to fade away and be forgotten; we’d rather be heckled than buried. Sire, issue commands that our plays, and ours alone, be performed;—for we are the only true heirs of Corneille, Molière, and Racine, while these newcomers are just the illegitimate offspring of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Schiller!”
How very logical! I was a bastard of Shakespeare, of Goethe and of Schiller, because I had just composed Henri III., a play so pre-eminently French, that, if it were open to any reproach, it would be that I had represented the manners of the end of the sixteenth century too faithfully. And as the thing really sounds incredible, we will place before our readers' own eyes the petition of these gentlemen:—
How logical! I was a child of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Schiller because I had just written Henri III., a play that is so distinctly French that if there were any criticism to be made, it would be that I portrayed the customs of the late sixteenth century too accurately. And since this seems unbelievable, we will present to our readers the request from these gentlemen:—
"SIRE,—The glory of letters is not the least brilliant among French glories, and the glory of our theatre is not the least brilliant of our literary glories. So thought your ancestors when they honoured the Théâtre-Français with a special protection; so thought Louis XIV., to whom it owed its first organisation. That regal protector of letters, persuaded that the chefs d'œuvre which his reign had produced could not be represented too perfectly, decreed that the best actors who were scattered about in the various companies which the capital then possessed should be united into one company, to be called the Comedians in Ordinary to the King. He gave rules to this select company, granted them rights and, among[Pg 372] others, the exclusive privilege of representing tragedy and high comedy; and he added to these favours that of endowment. His object in doing this, sire, as you are aware, was not solely to reward those actors who had the good fortune to please him, but also to encourage them in the exercise of an art which by its elevation should be in harmony with his royal spirit; also to perpetuate the prosperity of that art, and to establish a model theatre on a solid foundation, for both actors and authors. For a long while, the intentions of Louis XIV. were fulfilled by his successors, in whom there was no falling off, either in good taste or in generosity; the two arts that he loved, and to which the French stage owed its dignity and its superiority, have reigned there in almost undisputed sway. Such was the condition of things at the time of the decease of your august brother; why must it be confessed that it is no longer the same to-day? The death of the actor whose talents vied with those of the most perfect artist of any epoch, has brought about more than one injury to the noble art which he upheld. Whether from depravity of taste or from consciousness of their inability to take his place, certain associates of the Théâtre-Français have pretended that the method of art in which Talma excelled could no longer be beneficially carried on; they are seeking to exclude tragedy from the stage and to substitute for it plays composed in imitation of the most eccentric dramas that foreign literature affords—dramas which no one had ever dared before to reproduce except in our lowest theatres. It is quite conceivable that third-rate actors should pursue these tactics, which are in accordance with their indifferent performances; and that, since they are incapable of rising to the height of tragedy, they should wish to lower art to the level of their talent; but it is almost inconceivable, sire, that this attitude should be encouraged by those who should combat it. They not only violate the privileges granted them in order to advance, on every possible occasion, the particular method of art to which they have become attached; but, in order to satisfy the exigencies of this method, which seeks less to elevate the soul, entice the heart and occupy the mind, than to dazzle the eyes by material means, by the distraction of vain show and by stage effect, they are exhausting the capital of the theatre, increasing its debt and bringing about its ruin. And, in addition, as tragedy still struggles, and struggles with some success, against its[Pg 373] ignoble rival, in spite of all that is done to prevent it, the authorities, not satisfied with refusing to undertake necessary expenses and supply the apparatus needed, are doing their best to discourage tragic representations altogether, and only give subsidies to the principal actors in subjects of which the public disapproves; far worse still, in order to make all tragic acting henceforth impossible, in anticipation of the time when the two leading exponents of tragedy, Mademoiselle Duchesnois and M. Lafond, shall have retired from the stage, they have compelled them to submit to an exile of a year, under cover of a holiday, during which time they promise themselves to complete the absolute ruin of the theatre of Racine, Corneille and Voltaire.
"Your Majesty,—The brilliance of literature is a key part of French culture, and our theater's prestige is essential to our literary accomplishments. Your ancestors recognized this when they provided special protection to the Théâtre-Français, as did Louis XIV, who initially organized it. This royal patron of the arts believed that the masterpieces created during his reign deserved the best representation possible. He ordered that the finest actors from various companies in the capital be unified into a single group called the Comedians in Ordinary to the King. He established rules for this select group, granted them rights, including the exclusive privilege to perform tragedy and high comedy, and further endowed them. His aim, as you know, was not just to reward those actors who had delighted him, but to inspire them to pursue an art that aligned with his royal vision; he also wanted to ensure the ongoing success of that art and create a stable model theater for both actors and playwrights. For a long time, Louis XIV’s vision was upheld by his successors, who showed no decline in taste or generosity; the two arts he cherished, which gave the French stage its dignity and superiority, nearly reigned without challenge. Such was the situation when your esteemed brother passed away; why must we acknowledge that things are no longer the same today? The loss of the actor whose talents rivaled the greatest artists of any time has significantly harmed the noble art he represented. Whether due to poor taste or an awareness of their inability to match his talent, some members of the Théâtre-Français claim that the acting style in which Talma excelled can no longer be effectively perpetuated; they are trying to push tragedy off the stage and replace it with works mimicking the most bizarre dramas from foreign literature—dramas that had only been reproduced before in our lowest theaters. It’s hardly surprising that mediocre actors would pursue such methods, reflecting their lackluster performances; since they can't reach the heights of tragedy, they want to drag the art down to their level. However, it is nearly unbelievable, Your Majesty, that this mindset is supported by those who should be opposing it. They not only disregard the privileges granted to them to promote their preferred artistic style; but to satisfy the demands of this approach—one that aims less to elevate the soul, engage the heart, and stimulate the mind, than to dazzle the eyes with superficial spectacle and stage tricks—they are draining the theater’s resources, increasing its debt, and pushing it toward ruin. Moreover, even as tragedy still struggles, and has some success, against this lowly competitor, despite all efforts to undermine it, the authorities, not satisfied with neglecting necessary funding and resources, are actively trying to discourage tragic performances altogether, only offering financial support to the main actors in plays that the public disapproves of; and even worse, to ensure that tragic acting becomes impossible going forward, anticipating the time when the two leading figures of tragedy, Mademoiselle Duchesnois and M. Lafond, retire, they have forced them into a year-long exile disguised as a vacation, during which they intend to complete the utter destruction of the theater of Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire."
"Sire, are the agents in whom you have placed confidence, to watch over and control the theatre, responding properly to your beneficent designs? Was it intended that the liberty with which they were entrusted was to be used to advance the cause of melodrama to the detriment of tragedy? Ought the funds placed, by your liberality, at their disposal, in order to advance the cause of good taste, to be squandered over their own particular fancies, which tend to make the greatest names in Art subservient to the Melpomene of the boulevards, and to reduce their sublime art to the condition of a vile trade? We are convinced, sire, that the glory of your reign is concerned in the preservation of all sources of French glory, and we therefore consider it our duty to call your attention to the degradation by which the foremost of our theatres is threatened. Sire, the evil is already grave! In a few months' time it will be past redress; in a few months' time the theatre founded by Louis le Grand will be entirely closed to works which have been the delight of the most polite of courts, the most enlightened of nations; it will have fallen below the level of the meanest of stages, or, rather, the Théâtre-Français will have ceased to exist.
"Your Majesty, are the agents you’ve assigned to oversee and manage the theater responding appropriately to your generous intentions? Was it intended for the freedom they were granted to be used to promote melodrama at the expense of tragedy? Should the funds you generously provided to support good taste be wasted on their personal whims, which subjugate the greatest names in art to the Melpomene of the boulevards, reducing their magnificent art to a mere trade? We believe, Your Majesty, that the glory of your reign is connected to preserving all sources of French greatness, and we feel it is our duty to draw your attention to the degradation threatening our leading theater. Your Majesty, the situation is already serious! In just a few months, it will be too late to rectify; in a few months, the theater established by Louis le Grand will be completely closed to works that have captivated the most refined courts and the most enlightened nations; it will have sunk below the standard of the lowest stages, or rather, the Théâtre-Français will have ceased to exist."
"(Signed) A. V. ARNAULT, N. LEMERCIER, VIENNET,
JOUY, ANDRIEUX, JAY, O. LEROY""(Signed)" A. V. ARNAULT, N. LEMERCIER, VIENNET,
JOUY, ANDRIEUX, JAY, O. LEROY
This curious epistle was capped by another quite as strange—or, more correctly speaking, it was preceded by it. The letter of Mademoiselle Duchesnois, which we shall produce in its entirety, in the same way that we have produced the petition[Pg 374] of these gentlemen, was the rocket which warned the public that a great pyrotechnic display was about to take place.
This intriguing letter was followed by another just as odd—or, to be more accurate, it came before it. The letter from Mademoiselle Duchesnois, which we will present in full, just like we did with the petition[Pg 374] from these gentlemen, served as the signal that something spectacular was about to unfold.
My readers will recall the visit M. Lafond paid me in my office, to ask me if I had a smart, well-groomed fellow in my play who could say to Queen Christine, "Sacrebleu! your Majesty has not the right to assassinate this poor devil!" It will be remembered that I told him I had not. Whereupon M. Lafond had turned daintily upon his heels, remarking that his visit was, therefore, fruitless.
My readers will remember the visit M. Lafond made to my office to ask if I had a sharp, well-groomed character in my play who could say to Queen Christine, "Sacrebleu! your Majesty has no right to assassinate this poor guy!" I told him I didn't. At that, M. Lafond gracefully turned on his heels, stating that his visit was, therefore, pointless.
After the reading of Henri III., M. Lafond had said to himself that the part of that extremely well set up courtier, the Duc de Guise, would be his by right; but, alack, he had seen the rôle given to Joanny, who played it strikingly well although he was not irreproachable. It had been just as bad for poor Mademoiselle Duchesnois: she had seen successively the rôle of Christine and that of the Duchesse de Guise pass over her; she had done me the honour of wishing to act them both, and each time, with infinite trouble, I had had to explain to her how impossible it was for her to undertake either rôle; consequently, she was furious. Now, anger is a bad counsellor, so it came about that Mademoiselle Duchesnois wrote the following letter under its sway:—
After reading Henri III., M. Lafond thought that the role of the well-dressed courtier, the Duc de Guise, should belong to him. Unfortunately, he saw that the role was given to Joanny, who performed it impressively despite his flaws. It was just as unfortunate for poor Mademoiselle Duchesnois: she had seen the roles of Christine and the Duchesse de Guise slip away from her; she had honored me by wanting to play both, and each time, with great difficulty, I had to explain why it was impossible for her to take on either role. As a result, she was furious. Now, anger is not a good advisor, so Mademoiselle Duchesnois ended up writing the following letter while under its influence:—
"MONSIEUR,—I should have preferred to keep out of the quarrel which is engaging the attention of the newspapers concerning the Théâtre-Français; but, inasmuch as the defence of a system which is compromising our social existence is based upon erroneous facts, I have thought it my duty to the public to offer certain explanations which will show the question in its true light. Unquestionably, the first duty of the French Comedians should be to retain the favour of the public, and we cannot be reproached with respect to this, since, during the past three years, we have successively produced, at a very heavy expense, all the works of the new school; in consequence, our shares have fallen from sixteen thousand to seven thousand francs, and we have contracted, in the interim, a debt estimated at a hundred thousand francs. However, the old repertoire and works based on those of the old masters, such as Tartufe, Phèdre, Zaïre, Germanicus, Sylla, Pierre de[Pg 375] Portugal, Marie Stuart, l'École des Vieillards, Blanche, le Roman while they no longer glorify the stage, still bring some money to our pockets, and help to provide for the terrible expenses of the scenery and properties required for the dramas. In spite of the ruin of our prosperity and the increase of our liabilities, I should have kept silence if the rumour had not spread abroad that we were about to dissolve our Association in order to prepare ourselves for a new management, and to raise a so-called Romantic theatre on our ruins. These reports have gained enough strength to be repeated by several papers, and it has been noticed that the usual supporters of the Commissary Royal have gone out of their way to point out the advantages of such an absurd proposition, instead of denying it. The tragic actors, who, since the arrival of M. Taylor, have been the object of an animadversion for which, until recently, they have not been able to find a cause, were attacked in these same papers with unheard-of bitterness, and with the catchword of the moment, The public does not want any more tragedies. There is no denying that tragedy no longer brings in the enormous sums of the prosperous days of Talma and of the first fifteen years of my theatrical career; but, without dwelling upon its importance and its necessity, it can be seen by the receipts—not those obtained from the Commissary Royal, but the actual receipts entered on the registre des pauvres (which I am having looked out, at this very moment, in order to their publication)—that tragedy would again see prosperous days if the Government would grant it the protection that is its due, rather than persecute the actors and authors who are still its supporters. It would be a difficult task to enumerate all the instances of M. Taylor's ill-will: here are one or two which will be enough to convince you. Three young actors who were taken away from the Odéon showed some interest and aptitude for tragedy. M. Taylor tried to drive them away from the Comédie-Française. He succeeded with regard to MM. Ligier and Victor; and, if M. David has been saved to us, it was because a decision of the court overruled the Commissary Royal. M. Beauvallet, a young man who roused high hopes among the friends of dramatic art, has been obliged to take an engagement at a secondary theatre. Nor is this all; my presence and that of M. Lafond were obstacles in the way of carrying out the plans of the Romantic school. So we received, this winter, an intimation, almost tantamount to a[Pg 376] command, to leave Paris for a year, without having solicited anything of the kind, as certain wrongly informed journals have announced. It is under these circumstances, monsieur, that distinguished literary men who, by their connection with actors, are much better acquainted with the situation at the Théâtre-Français than are the writers of many articles, have felt it their duty to present a memorial to the King, not in order to exclude the new style of drama (a pleasantry invented by M. Taylor's friends to hold up to ridicule a perfectly justifiable proceeding), but to claim a protection for authors who belong to the Classical school and for the actors who support them, at least equal to that given to the Romantic school.
"SIR,—I would have liked to stay out of the ongoing dispute making headlines about the Théâtre-Français; however, since defending a system that jeopardizes our social existence is based on misinformation, I felt it was my responsibility to clarify the situation and reveal the true nature of the issue. Clearly, the main duty of the French Comedians is to maintain the public's favor, and we cannot be blamed for this. Over the last three years, we've heavily invested to produce all the works of the new school, which has caused our share prices to fall from sixteen thousand to seven thousand francs, leaving us with a debt of about one hundred thousand francs. Nevertheless, the classic repertoire and works based on traditional pieces, such as Tartufe, Phèdre, Zaïre, Germanicus, Sylla, Pierre de[Pg 375] Portugal, Marie Stuart, l'École des Vieillards, Blanche, le Roman, though they no longer elevate the stage, still generate some revenue to help with the large expenses of scenery and props needed for the dramas. Despite our decline in prosperity and the increase in our debts, I would have remained silent if rumors hadn’t spread that we were planning to dissolve our Association to pave the way for new management and create a so-called Romantic theater in our place. These claims have gained enough traction to be echoed by several newspapers, and it has been noted that the usual supporters of the Commissary Royal have instead chosen to highlight the advantages of such an absurd idea, rather than refuting it. The tragic actors, who have faced criticism since M. Taylor's arrival with no clear reason until recently, have been attacked in these same publications with unusual severity, under the slogan, The public doesn’t want any more tragedies. It's undeniable that tragedy no longer brings in the large sums it used to during the prosperous times of Talma and the first fifteen years of my theatrical career; however, without arguing its importance and necessity, the ticket sales—those not from the Commissary Royal, but the actual sales recorded in the registre des pauvres (which I'm currently retrieving for publication)—indicate that tragedy could see a revival if the Government granted it the protection it deserves, rather than targeting the actors and writers who still back it. It would be hard to list all the instances of M. Taylor's hostility; here are a couple that will suffice. Three young actors from the Odéon showed some talent and interest in tragedy. M. Taylor tried to push them away from the Comédie-Française. He succeeded with MM. Ligier and Victor; and if M. David has stayed with us, it was due to a court decision that overturned the Commissary Royal. M. Beauvallet, a young man who inspired great hopes among supporters of dramatic art, has been forced to take a position at a lesser theater. Moreover, my presence and that of M. Lafond blocked the execution of the Romantic school’s plans. Thus, this winter, we received a hint, almost a[Pg 376] command, to leave Paris for a year, without having asked for anything of the sort, as certain misinformed journals have reported. Under these circumstances, sir, respected literary figures who, through their connections with actors, understand the situation at the Théâtre-Français far better than many article writers, felt compelled to present a petition to the King—not to exclude the new style of drama (a mockery made up by M. Taylor's allies to undermine a perfectly reasonable action), but to seek equal protection for authors of the Classical school and the actors who support them, at least equal to that granted to the Romantic school."
"I beg you, monsieur, to have the goodness to announce that I have just cited MM. Taylor and the Vicomte de la Rochefoucauld before the courts to answer for their violation of the rules of our company, by means of which they have prorogued a committee for the past four years, a third part of which, according to the terms of our statutes, ought to have been renewed annually. I beg you also to be so good as to announce, in my name, that the article contained in the Journal de Paris of this morning is incorrect in all its statements and in all its calculations, and that I shall hasten to put the proofs of this statement before the public with the least possible delay. Allow me at the same time to contradict the false statement that any one of those who signed the petition wished to withdraw or to disown his signature; on the contrary, I know that several of our most distinguished authors are preparing to make public their adhesion to the memorial to the King.—I am, etc.,
"I kindly ask you, sir, to inform everyone that I’ve just taken MM. Taylor and the Vicomte de la Rochefoucauld to court for violating our company’s rules, which they’ve extended to form a committee for the past four years. According to our statutes, a third of that committee should have been renewed each year. I also request that you state, in my name, that the article in this morning’s Journal de Paris is completely inaccurate in all its claims and calculations, and I will swiftly provide evidence to the public as soon as possible. At the same time, I want to refute the false claim that anyone who signed the petition wants to withdraw or disown their signature; on the contrary, I know that several of our most prominent authors are preparing to publicly support the memorial to the King.—I am, etc.,"
J. DUCHESNOIS"
J. DUCHESNOIS"
We said before that under a clever ministry everybody, even the king, has his wits sharpened.
We mentioned earlier that with a smart government, everyone, even the king, gets their thinking improved.
The king made answer to his petitioners as follows:—
The king replied to his petitioners as follows:—
"GENTLEMEN,—I cannot do anything in the matter you desire; I only occupy one seat in the theatre, like every other Frenchman."
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,—I can't help you with what you're asking; I only have one seat in the theater, just like every other Frenchman."
Now, I shall be asked how it was that M. Arnault reconciled this demand directed against me with his friendliness towards me? How could he receive me intimately at his house and[Pg 377] table every Sunday, while he was doing his best to have me driven away from the theatre? Oh! be quite easy on that score! M. Arnault had a more logical mind than that. On the Sunday following the production of Henri III.—namely, the very next day—I found Madame Arnault quite alone in the house, and she said to me, in course of conversation—
Now, you might wonder how M. Arnault could be friendly towards me while also trying to kick me out. How could he invite me over to his home and[Pg 377] dinner every Sunday when he was working hard to push me out of the theatre? Don’t worry about that! M. Arnault was more logical than that. The Sunday after the performance of Henri III.—the very next day—I found Madame Arnault all alone in the house, and she said to me, during our conversation—
"Dumas, when you intend dining with us, tell us beforehand; for otherwise you will run the risk of dining tête-à-tête with me, as to-day, which is not very entertaining for you."
"Dumas, when you plan to have dinner with us, please let us know in advance; otherwise, you might end up having dinner tête-à-tête with me, like today, which isn't very entertaining for you."
I took the hint, and I never returned there again.
I got the message, and I never went back there again.
The success of Henri III., therefore, it will be seen, brought in its train all the advantages and all the drawbacks of great successes. I was the fashionable author for the rest of the winter of 1829; I received invitations innumerable, and M. Sosthène de la Rochefoucauld, Minister of the King's Household, wrote me a letter, giving me free entry to all the royal theatres, being shrewd enough to see that, if he did not give me the privilege, I was just the sort of man to take it. Devéria made a lithograph of me; David d'Angers, a medallion. It will be seen that nothing was wanting to complete my triumph, not even the ridiculous side which always accompanies a rising reputation.
The success of Henri III. clearly brought both the benefits and the downsides that come with significant victories. I became the trendy author for the rest of the winter of 1829; I received countless invitations, and M. Sosthène de la Rochefoucauld, the Minister of the King's Household, sent me a letter granting me free access to all the royal theaters, realizing that if he didn’t, I would be the type of person to assert that right anyway. Devéria created a lithograph of me; David d'Angers made a medallion. It’s clear that nothing was missing to complete my success, not even the silly aspects that always accompany a growing reputation.
Then a crowd of anecdotes were related about me, each more absurd than the last. It was said that, after the representation of Henri III., when the lights in the house had all been put out, a sabbatical dance took place round the bust of Racine (it is set against the wall!), by the light of the dying fires in the green-room, similar to Boulanger's magnificent dance; that the spectral dancers were heard to utter the sacrilegious refrain, "Racine is fallen!" and that even shouts for blood were raised by a young fanatic of the name of Amaury Duval, who demanded the heads of the Academicians—a parricidal cry, since this unfortunate creature was the son of M. Amaury Duval of the Institut, and nephew of M. Alexandre Duval of the Académie française.
Then a bunch of outrageous stories about me were shared, each one more ridiculous than the last. People said that after the performance of Henri III., when the house lights were all turned off, a wild dance happened around the bust of Racine (which is set against the wall!), lit by the dying embers in the green-room, much like Boulanger's spectacular dance; that the ghostly dancers were heard chanting the blasphemous refrain, "Racine is fallen!" and that even calls for blood were shouted by a young fanatic named Amaury Duval, who demanded the heads of the Academicians—a parricidal outcry, considering this unfortunate guy was the son of M. Amaury Duval of the Institut and the nephew of M. Alexandre Duval of the Académie française.
Further, a rabid Romantic, to whom God had sent one of the seven plagues of Egypt in punishment for his sins, was[Pg 378] accused—and this story might well be true—of saying in a burst of frenzied scratching, "Racine was a regular scoundrel!"
Further, a crazed Romantic, whom God had punished with one of the seven plagues of Egypt for his sins, was[Pg 378] accused—and this story might actually be true—of declaring in a fit of wild scratching, "Racine was a total scoundrel!"
This fanatic was called Gentil.
This fanatic was named Gentil.
Stories like these, told by the fireside, were enough, it may well be imagined, to make the hair of all respectable people stand on end, and the Constitutionnel, which has always been the literary and political representative of respectable people, was particularly shocked.
Stories like these, shared around the campfire, were enough, one can easily imagine, to make the hair of all decent folks stand on end, and the Constitutionnel, which has always represented the literary and political interests of respectable people, was especially appalled.
It was from this period that every worthy man gave himself up to hatred of all ideas which did not date back a half-century, and of every author who was not at least sixty years of age—a style of writing which lasted from 1830 to 1850—the vigorous style of hatred to which Alceste refers, and which, we think, eats far more readily into the hearts of weak-minded, wicked and jealous people, than into the hearts of men of goodwill.
It was during this time that every respectable person turned against any ideas that weren’t at least fifty years old, along with any author who wasn’t at least sixty—a style of writing that lasted from 1830 to 1850—the intense style of resentment that Alceste mentions, which we believe affects weak-minded, wicked, and jealous people more easily than those with good intentions.
People waited in daily expectation of a new St. Bartholomew's Eve, and poor M. Auger, who had just killed himself under such sad circumstances, was congratulated on having escaped a general massacre by means of suicide. So great was the consternation that the whole of the Classical party only produced one play—which was a failure. This was Elisabeth d'Angleterre, by M. Ancelot. For we do not call Casimir Delavigne's Marino Faliero, pompously christened a melodrama in verse, a classical production. The very choice of subject, Marino Faliero, and the imitation of Byron's principal scenes, formed a twofold concession to foreign genius and to modern taste.
People waited each day for a new St. Bartholomew's Eve, and poor M. Auger, who had just taken his own life under such tragic circumstances, was congratulated for escaping a mass slaughter through suicide. The shock was so immense that the entire Classical party managed to produce only one play—which flopped. This was Elisabeth d'Angleterre, by M. Ancelot. We don’t consider Casimir Delavigne's Marino Faliero, grandly labeled a melodrama in verse, a classical work. The very subject matter of Marino Faliero and the imitation of Byron's key scenes represented a double concession to foreign talent and modern preferences.
Casimir Delavigne, as we have remarked elsewhere, was born fifteen years too soon to take part whole-heartedly in the new school; his style seemed ever hampered, and incessantly vacillating between Voltaire and Byron, Chénier and Shakespeare, never succeeding in clothing his ideas in a definite manner. Still, nothing had been neglected to make Marino Faliero a success. The papers had made much of the ingratitude of the members of the Comédie-Française and of the transfer of M. Ligier to the Porte-Saint-Martin. It was[Pg 379] announced that the music of the overture was by Rossini, and the costumes by M. Delaroche. Now M. Delaroche was the exact analogy in painting of what Casimir Delavigne was in literature; both at that time enjoyed far too great a reputation to last, and were destined to see it pale and decrease and almost expire during their life-time. However, Rossini had composed the music, and Delaroche had designed the costumes.
Casimir Delavigne, as we noted elsewhere, was born fifteen years too early to fully engage with the new movement; his style always felt constrained, constantly wavering between Voltaire and Byron, Chénier and Shakespeare, failing to express his ideas clearly. Still, everything was done to make Marino Faliero a success. The newspapers highlighted the ingratitude of the members of the Comédie-Française and M. Ligier's move to the Porte-Saint-Martin. It was[Pg 379] announced that the overture's music was by Rossini and the costumes by M. Delaroche. At that time, M. Delaroche was to painting what Casimir Delavigne was to literature; both were enjoying a reputation that was too inflated to last and were destined to see it diminish and nearly fade away during their lifetimes. However, Rossini did compose the music, and Delaroche did design the costumes.
The play was produced on 30 May, and was very successful; but, strange to relate, the author's most elaborately conceived rôle was not the most applauded one, nor did the actor's chief success fall to the share of Ligier or of Madame Dorval: it fell to Gobert, who played the rôle of Israël Bertuccio.
The play premiered on May 30 and was very successful; however, oddly enough, the author's most intricately designed role wasn't the one that received the most applause, nor was the actor's significant triumph attributed to Ligier or Madame Dorval: it went to Gobert, who played the role of Israël Bertuccio.
The work was mounted with great sumptuousness and scrupulous care, especially with regard to the costumes. M. Delaroche, having deemed it desirable, in order to lend a more picturesque effect to his designs, that they should be wafted by the wind, the theatrical costumier devised the ingenious notion of sewing air into the mantles.
The production was done with a lot of luxury and careful attention, especially concerning the costumes. M. Delaroche, wanting to create a more visually appealing look for his designs, suggested that they should flutter in the wind, so the costume designer came up with the clever idea of sewing air into the capes.
I have elsewhere given my opinion of this play.
I have shared my thoughts on this play elsewhere.
CHAPTER III
Mesmerism—Experiment during a trance—I submit to being mesmerised—My observation upon it—I myself start to mesmerise—Experiment made in a diligence—Another experiment in the house of the procureur de la République of Joigny—Little Marie D——Her political predictions—I cure her of fear
Mesmerism—Experimenting while in a trance—I consent to being mesmerized—My insights on the experience—I start to mesmerize other people—An experiment carried out in a carriage—Another experiment at the home of the procureur de la République in Joigny—Little Marie D——Her political predictions—I assist her in facing her fears.
Between the representation of my play and Casimir Delavigne's, the scientific world was much taken up with an important event which established the power of magnetism, that had been under dispute since Mesmer's day.
Between the portrayal of my play and Casimir Delavigne's, the scientific community was heavily focused on a significant event that confirmed the influence of magnetism, which had been debated since Mesmer's time.
One of the cleverest surgeons of the time, Jules Cloquet, had just performed an operation on Madame Pl—— for cancer in the breast, without her feeling the least pain, she having been put into a trance by mesmerism.
One of the smartest surgeons of the time, Jules Cloquet, had just performed an operation on Madame Pl—— for breast cancer, and she didn’t feel any pain at all because she had been put into a trance through mesmerism.
One word about mesmerism. Let us leave actualities and turn to abstractions.
One word about mesmerism. Let's shift from the concrete to the abstract.
Madame Pl——, upon whom this strange experiment had just been made, was between sixty-four and sixty-five years of age; she had been a widow ten years and had suffered for two or three years from glandular swellings on the right breast. Doctor Chap—— was her medical adviser; he had practised magnetism for some time and found himself apt at it. He attempted to apply it to the cure of Madame Pl——, but the disorder had gone too far, and he decided to try if it might be possible to lessen her pain while the operation was being performed. Jules Cloquet was consulted, and it was proposed that he should operate on the sleeping patient. He consented, welcoming the opportunity of seeing for himself a phenomenon concerning which he was sceptical, and also, at the same time, glad to be able to spare the patient the[Pg 381] suffering inevitably connected with one of the most painful of surgical operations. Doctor Chap—— magnetised Madame Pl—— and rendered the whole of her right side completely insensible to pain. The ablation of the breast began by an incision eleven inches long, followed by another nine inches long. By means of these two incisions they could get at several glands under the armpit, which were carefully dissected. During the operation, which lasted ten minutes, the patient gave no signs of sensibility. To use the surgeon's own words—
Madame Pl——, on whom this unusual experiment had just been conducted, was around sixty-four or sixty-five years old; she had been a widow for ten years and had been experiencing glandular swellings on her right breast for two or three years. Doctor Chap—— was her doctor; he had been practicing magnetism for a while and found himself quite skilled at it. He tried to use it to treat Madame Pl——, but her condition had progressed too much, so he decided to see if he could ease her pain during the operation. Jules Cloquet was brought in, and it was suggested that he operate on the unconscious patient. He agreed, seizing the chance to observe a phenomenon he was skeptical about, while also happy to spare the patient the[Pg 381] pain that usually comes with one of the most difficult surgical procedures. Doctor Chap—— magnetized Madame Pl—— and made her entire right side completely numb to pain. The removal of the breast began with an incision eleven inches long, followed by another nine inches long. These two cuts allowed access to several glands under the armpit, which were carefully removed. During the ten-minute operation, the patient showed no signs of feeling anything. To quote the surgeon—
"It seemed as though he were operating on a dead body; save that, when the operation was over and the patient's wound was being bathed with a sponge, she twice cried out, without coming out of her state of trance, 'Be quick and finish, and do not tickle me like that!'"
"It felt like he was operating on a dead body; except that, once the operation was done and the patient’s wound was being cleaned with a sponge, she shouted twice, still in her trance, 'Hurry up and finish, and don’t mess with me like that!'"
When the operation was over, Madame Pl—— was brought out of her trance: she did not remember anything, had not felt any pain and showed profound astonishment that the operation was over. The dressing was done in the usual way, and the wound showed every symptom of quick healing. At the end of a week's time Madame Pl—— drove out in a carriage. The suppuration was decreased and the wound was making rapid progress towards healing, when, about the evening of the fifteenth day, the patient complained of feeling great oppression, and swellings began to show in the lower extremities.
When the procedure was finished, Madame Pl—— was brought out of her trance: she couldn’t remember anything, hadn’t felt any pain, and was deeply surprised that it was all done. The dressing was done as usual, and the wound showed all signs of healing quickly. After a week, Madame Pl—— went out in a carriage. The swelling had gone down and the wound was healing rapidly, but on the evening of the fifteenth day, the patient started to feel a lot of pressure, and swelling began to appear in her legs.
All this is nothing but the simple truth: now comes in the marvellous. Madame Pl—— had a daughter who came from the country to nurse her mother. Dr. Chap——, having seen that she had a very clear mind, put her into a magnetic sleep and consulted her about her mother's condition. At the first attempt she made to see, her face grew troubled and tears rose to her eyes.
All of this is nothing but the simple truth: now comes the amazing part. Madame Pl—— had a daughter who came from the countryside to take care of her mother. Dr. Chap——, seeing that she had a very sharp mind, put her into a hypnotic state and asked her about her mother's condition. At the first attempt she made to see, her face became worried and tears filled her eyes.
Then she announced that the peaceful but inevitable death of her mother would take place the next morning. When questioned upon the internal state of her mother's chest, she said that the right lung was quite dead, that it was empty, suppurating on the side nearest the lower portion of the spine and bathed in serous fluid; that the left lung was sound and alone supported life. As for the abdominal viscera, the liver,[Pg 382] according to her, was whitish and wrinkled; but the intestines were sound.
Then she announced that her mother would peacefully but inevitably pass away the next morning. When asked about her mother's chest, she explained that the right lung was completely dead, empty, suppurating near the lower part of the spine, and filled with serous fluid; while the left lung was healthy and the only one sustaining life. As for the abdominal organs, the liver, [Pg 382] as she described, was pale and wrinkled; but the intestines were in good condition.
These depositions were taken down in the presence of witnesses.
These statements were recorded in front of witnesses.
The next day, at the given hour, Madame Pl—— died. The autopsy was made in the presence of deputies from the Académie, and the state of the body was found to conform precisely with the description given by the mesmerised girl.
The next day, at the appointed time, Madame Pl—— passed away. The autopsy was conducted in front of representatives from the Académie, and the condition of the body matched exactly with the description provided by the mesmerized girl.
This was what was reported in the papers, stated in the official return, related to me and confirmed by Jules Cloquet himself, one day when we were talking together—before the discovery of chloroform—of the great mysteries of nature which baffle human intelligence. Later, when I was preparing my book Joseph Balsamo, being interested to fathom the often debated question of the power or impotence of magnetism, I decided to make some personal experiments, not relying upon those produced by foreigners interested in accrediting magnetism. So I studied magnetism first hand, and the result of my investigations was as follows:—
This is what was reported in the newspapers, stated in the official records, told to me, and confirmed by Jules Cloquet himself, one day when we were chatting—before chloroform was discovered—about the great mysteries of nature that puzzle human understanding. Later, when I was working on my book Joseph Balsamo, I became interested in exploring the often-debated question of the power or lack of power of magnetism, so I decided to conduct some personal experiments, not relying on those done by foreigners trying to promote magnetism. I studied magnetism firsthand, and the results of my investigations were as follows:—
I was endowed with great magnetic powers, and this power, as a rule, took effect on two out of every three persons upon whom I experimented. Let me hasten to state that I never practised it except upon young girls or women. This power in connection with physical phenomena is incontestable. A woman who has once submitted to magnetic sleep is the slave of the man who sent her to sleep. Even after she has waked she remembers or forgets what passed during her sleep, according to the will of the magnetiser. She could be made to kill someone during her sleep and, if he willed that she should be totally ignorant of having committed her crime, she would never know anything about it. The mesmeriser can make his victim feel pain of any kind in any part; he has only to touch the place with the tip of his finger, the end of a stick, or the end of an iron rod. He can cause a sensation of warmth with ice, a sensation of cold with fire; he can cause drunkenness with a glass of water, or even with an empty glass. He can put an arm, a leg or the whole body[Pg 383] into a state of catalepsy, and make it hard and rigid as a bar of iron or as soft and supple as a scarf. He can cause insensibility to the prick of a needle, to the blade of a bistoury or the smart of cautery.
I had amazing magnetic powers, and usually, this power worked on two out of every three people I experimented on. Let me clarify that I only practiced it on young girls or women. This power, when combined with physical phenomena, is undeniable. A woman who has experienced magnetic sleep becomes the servant of the man who induced it. Even after she wakes up, she may remember or forget what happened during her sleep, depending on the will of the magnetizer. She could be made to harm someone in her sleep, and if he wanted her to be completely unaware of her actions, she would never know anything about it. The mesmerizer can make his subject feel pain anywhere by simply touching the spot with his fingertip, the end of a stick, or an iron rod. He can create a feeling of warmth using ice, a feeling of cold using fire; he can induce a sense of drunkenness with a glass of water or even with an empty glass. He can put an arm, a leg, or the whole body[Pg 383] into a state of catalepsy, making it as hard and rigid as an iron bar or as soft and flexible as a scarf. He can cause numbness to the prick of a needle, the blade of a surgical knife, or the sting of cauterization.
I believe all these things come under the domain of physical phenomena. Even the brain can be impelled to such a pitch of excitement as to make an ordinary being a poet, a child of twelve possess the ideas, feelings and manner of expressing them of a person of twenty or twenty-five.
I think all these things fall under the category of physical phenomena. Even the brain can be pushed to such a level of excitement that an ordinary person can become a poet, or a twelve-year-old can have the ideas, feelings, and way of expressing them of someone who's twenty or twenty-five.
In 1848, I made a tour in Burgundy. My daughter and I were in the same coach with a very charming lady of thirty to thirty-two; we only exchanged a few words; it was eleven o'clock at night; and one of the things she had told me was that she never slept when she was travelling. Ten minutes later, she was not only asleep, but asleep with her head on my shoulder. I waked her up; she was extremely surprised to find she had fallen asleep, and fallen asleep in the position in which she found herself. I renewed the experiment two or three times during the night, and my strength of will was sufficient, without my needing to touch my neighbour, to be successful in every instance.
In 1848, I took a trip to Burgundy. My daughter and I were sharing a coach with a lovely lady who looked to be around thirty to thirty-two. We only spoke a few words; it was eleven o'clock at night; and she mentioned that she never slept while traveling. Ten minutes later, not only was she asleep, but she was resting her head on my shoulder. I woke her up; she was very surprised to find she had dozed off and in that position. I tried it a couple more times throughout the night, and my willpower was enough, without even needing to touch her, to make it happen every time.
When the coach stopped at the posting-house and horses were being changed, I woke her abruptly and asked her what time it was; she opened her eyes and tried to pull out her watch.
When the coach stopped at the inn and the horses were being swapped out, I woke her suddenly and asked her what time it was; she opened her eyes and tried to take out her watch.
"Never mind that," I said to her; "tell me the time by your watch without looking at it."
"Forget that," I said to her. "Just tell me the time on your watch without looking at it."
"Three minutes to three o'clock," she replied immediately
"Three minutes until three o'clock," she said right away.
We called the postillion, and by the light of his lantern we verified that it was exactly three minutes to three.
We called the postman, and by the light of his lantern, we confirmed that it was exactly three minutes to three.
These were nearly all the experiments I tried upon that lady; they yielded the results I have just related, and, with the exception of the time being told without looking at the watch, they all appertain to the order of physical phenomena.
These were almost all the experiments I conducted on that lady; they produced the results I just described, and, aside from the ability to tell time without checking a watch, they all relate to physical phenomena.
At Joigny, I made an official call on M. Lorin, the procureur de la République, whom I had never met before. It was just about the time of the publication of Balsamo, which had made magnetism quite the rage. I rarely entered a[Pg 384] salon at that period without being questioned about this great mystery. At Joigny I replied, as I always did—
At Joigny, I officially met M. Lorin, the procureur de la République, for the first time. It was around the time that Balsamo was published, which had turned magnetism into a huge trend. During that time, I hardly entered a[Pg 384] salon without being asked about this big mystery. At Joigny, I answered, as I always did—
"Magnetic power exists; it can be practised, but its scientific basis is not yet known. It is in a similar condition to that of air balloons: we can send them up, but no means of directing them have yet been devised."
"Magnetic power is real; it can be used, but we still don't understand its scientific foundation. It's like how air balloons work: we can launch them, but we haven't figured out how to steer them yet."
Doubts were then expressed by persons present, and especially by women. I asked one of these ladies, Madame B——, if she would allow me to put her to sleep; she refused in such a manner as to convince me that she would not be overweeningly angry if I did it without her leave. Nevertheless, I assumed an attitude of submission to her; but, five minutes later, having got up as though to look at an engraving hanging above her arm-chair, I summoned to my aid all my magnetic power and for five minutes I persistently willed her to go to sleep; at the end of that five minutes she was asleep. Then I began a series of extremely curious experiments on this lady, who was a total stranger to me, in a house which I had never entered before or have since re-entered. Madame B——, in spite of her will, obeyed both my expressed mandates and also my mute wishes. Every ordinary sensation in her was reversed: fire felt like ice, ice like fire. She complained of a bad headache: I bound her forehead with an imaginary bandage which I told her contained snow, and she immediately experienced a delicious sensation of coolness; then, a moment later, she wiped away from her forehead the water from the imaginary bandage, as though the heat of her head were melting the supposititious snow; but, soon, her handkerchief was not enough for the operation; she borrowed a friend's; finally, the demand for a handkerchief was followed by that for a serviette; then, her dress and the rest of her clothes being damp, she asked to be allowed to go to a room to change everything. I let her feel this sensation of cold till she shivered; then, suddenly, I gave the order for her clothes to dry themselves, and they dried themselves. The whole thing, of course, was in the imagination of the lady mesmerised. She had an extremely fine voice, of a fairly wide range, but[Pg 385] which stopped short at the Ionic si. I ordered her to sing as high as re; she sang, and gave the two last notes perfectly—an impossible feat for her in her ordinary state, and one which she tried in vain when I had wakened her from her magnetic sleep. A woman was working in the next room. I put a paper-knife in the somnambulist's hands and made her think it was a real knife. Then I ordered her to go and stab the workwoman. Thereupon what free will she had left in her revolted; she refused, writhed, hung back on the furniture, but I had only to will and to point in the direction I wished her to take, and she obeyed and went up to the workwoman, utterly stupefied, the knife raised.
Doubts were voiced by the people present, especially the women. I asked one of these ladies, Madame B——, if I could put her to sleep; she refused in a way that made it clear she wouldn't be overly upset if I did it without her permission. Still, I acted submissive toward her; but five minutes later, I got up as if to look at an engraving hanging above her armchair, and I summoned all my magnetic power, desperately trying to will her to fall asleep. At the end of those five minutes, she was asleep. Then I started a series of really interesting experiments on this woman, who was a complete stranger to me, in a house I'd never been in before and haven't returned to since. Madame B——, despite her conscious will, followed both my spoken commands and my unspoken desires. Every normal sensation in her was flipped: heat felt like cold, and cold felt like heat. She complained of a terrible headache, so I pretended to wrap an imaginary bandage around her forehead, claiming it contained snow, and she instantly felt a soothing coolness. A moment later, she imagined wiping away the water from the fictional bandage, as if the heat from her head was melting the supposed snow; soon enough, her handkerchief wasn't enough for the task; she borrowed a friend's, and eventually, the need for a handkerchief turned into a request for a napkin. As her clothes became damp, she asked if she could go to another room to change. I let her feel that chill until she shivered; then, suddenly, I commanded her clothes to dry, and they dried. Everything, of course, was purely in the imagination of the lady under hypnosis. She had a beautiful voice with a pretty wide range, but[Pg 385] it stopped notably at the Ionic si. I ordered her to sing as high as re; she sang that and hit the last two notes perfectly—something she could never do in her normal state, and something she struggled with when I woke her up from her magnetic sleep. A woman was working in the next room. I placed a paper knife in the somnambulist's hand and made her believe it was a real knife. Then I commanded her to go stab the worker. At that point, whatever free will she had left revolted; she refused, twisted away, and clung to the furniture, but all I had to do was will it and gesture in the direction I wanted her to go, and she obeyed, walking up to the worker, completely dazed, with the knife raised.
Her eyes were open and her face, which was a very lovely one, assumed an admirable stage expression, as beautiful as that of Miss Faucit when she is acting the sleep-walking scene in Hamlet. The procureur de la République was terrified at the thought of such a power, which could urge a person to a crime, in spite of herself. When I had willed Madame B—— back to calmness, I tried to make her see things at a distance. When Colonel S. M——, who was a friend of mine, had been staying in Joigny with his regiment, she had made his acquaintance, so I asked where the colonel was at that hour, and what he was doing.
Her eyes were open and her face, which was very beautiful, had an impressive expression, just as stunning as Miss Faucit when she performs the sleep-walking scene in Hamlet. The procureur de la République was scared at the thought of such power, which could drive someone to commit a crime, even against their own will. Once I had helped Madame B—— calm down, I tried to get her to see things from a distance. When Colonel S. M——, who was a friend of mine, had stayed in Joigny with his regiment, she had met him, so I asked where the colonel was at that moment and what he was up to.
She replied that Colonel S. M—— was in garrison at Lyons and at that moment, at the officers' café, where he was standing talking with the lieutenant-colonel, near the billiard-table. Then, suddenly, she saw the colonel grow pale, totter and sit down on a bench. He had just been seized with rheumatics in his knee. I touched her on the knee and willed that she should feel the same pain herself: she uttered a cry, grew rigid and shed many tears. We were so alarmed by this fictitious grief, which showed every symptom of real trouble, that I woke her up. As soon as she was awakened, she remembered what I wished her to remember, and forgot the things I commanded her to forget.
She said that Colonel S. M—— was stationed at Lyons and at that moment, he was at the officers' café, where he was standing and talking with the lieutenant colonel near the billiard table. Then, suddenly, she saw the colonel go pale, stagger, and sit down on a bench. He had just been hit with rheumatism in his knee. I touched her on the knee and willed her to feel the same pain: she let out a cry, tensed up, and cried a lot. We were so shocked by this fake sorrow, which showed every sign of real distress, that I woke her up. As soon as she woke up, she remembered what I wanted her to remember and forgot the things I told her to forget.
Then began another series of experiments on the woman when she was awake.
Then another set of experiments started on the woman while she was awake.
I enclosed her within an imaginary circle, which I drew with a stick, and I left the room, forbidding her to quit the circle. In five minutes' time I came back, and found her seated in the centre of the salon, waiting my permission to regain her liberty. She sat in one corner of the room, and I placed myself at the opposite end; I told her to do her utmost to resist coming over to me, and at the same time I commanded her to come to me. She clung tight to her arm-chair, but, drawn by an irresistible force, she was obliged to release her hold; then she sat down on the floor to resist the attraction, but the precaution was useless: she came, dragging herself along. When she was at my feet, I only had to stretch out my hand to her head and slowly lift my hand; she rose obediently, and in spite of her efforts, she stood before me. She asked for a glass of water; she tasted it, and it was really water; then, before she had put the glass down, or it had left her hands, I told her the water was Kirsch: she knew perfectly well it was not, and yet, at the first draught she swallowed, she cried out that it was burning her mouth. Poor woman! She was a charming young creature, who has since experienced an even profounder mystery—that of death! I wonder whether she remembers or has forgotten what happened when she was on the earth?
I drew an imaginary circle around her with a stick and left the room, telling her not to leave the circle. Five minutes later, I came back and found her sitting in the center of the room, waiting for my permission to regain her freedom. She sat in one corner, and I positioned myself at the opposite end. I told her to do her best to resist coming over to me while simultaneously commanding her to come to me. She held tightly to her chair, but, pulled by an irresistible force, she had to let go. Then she sat on the floor to resist the pull, but her efforts were in vain: she came crawling toward me. When she reached my feet, I simply had to stretch out my hand to her head and slowly lift it; she stood up obediently despite her struggles and ended up standing before me. She asked for a glass of water, took a sip, and confirmed it was really water, but before she could set the glass down or it left her hands, I told her it was Kirsch. She knew it wasn’t, yet at the first sip she took, she exclaimed that it was burning her mouth. Poor woman! She was a delightful young lady who has since faced an even deeper mystery—that of death! I wonder if she remembers or has forgotten what happened when she was alive?
I have not yet done with the subject of magnetism; on the contrary, I have another most extraordinary incident of this kind to relate which took place in the presence of twelve to fifteen people. What follows is a simple recital, drawn up in the form of a legal report by two of the witnesses and signed at the time by us all.
I’m not done talking about magnetism yet; actually, I have another incredible event to share that happened in front of about twelve to fifteen people. What follows is a straightforward account, prepared like a legal report by two of the witnesses and signed by all of us at the time.
During my stay at Auxerre, I was received into the house of M. D——. He had two children, a boy of six and a girl of eleven years of age. Marie was the name of the daughter, and she was a lovely child, like an angel, for her cheeks were pale and her eyes were black and almost austere. She was an exquisitely delicate creature, but, of course, she only possessed the intelligence and qualities usual to a child of her age, and I had, accordingly, paid very little attention to her, beyond remarking[Pg 387] to my daughter that she was very pretty. And my daughter, who agreed with me, made a portrait of the child awake. One day we were dining in a room which opened out on the garden. We had reached dessert; the two children had left the table and were playing amidst the shrubs and flowers. We were discussing the everlasting question of magnetism, a subject the constant recurrence of which bored me the more because the usual doubts were expressed which I could only confront with facts; now, as these facts had nearly always taken place in a different locality from that in which the discussion was being held, I was obliged to choose from among those present a subject whom I guessed might be easily hypnotised, and, whether willing or not, to operate on this subject. Now, anyone who has ever practised the hypnotic art knows that the exercise is as fatiguing to the hypnotiser as to the hypnotised. I related several of the incidents I have just recorded in the preceding chapter, but they were received with the utmost incredulity.
During my stay in Auxerre, I was welcomed into M. D——'s home. He had two kids, a six-year-old boy and an eleven-year-old girl. The daughter's name was Marie, and she was a beautiful child, almost angelic, with pale cheeks and dark, serious eyes. She was an extremely delicate little girl, but like any child her age, she only had the typical intelligence and qualities expected. Because of this, I hadn’t paid much attention to her, aside from mentioning to my daughter that she was very pretty. My daughter agreed and even drew a picture of the child while she was awake. One day, we were having dinner in a room that opened up to the garden. By the time we got to dessert, the two kids had left the table and were playing among the shrubs and flowers. We were discussing the ongoing debate about magnetism, a topic that bored me even more because the usual doubts were raised, which I could only respond to with facts. Since these facts had almost always happened elsewhere, I had to pick someone from among those present who I thought might be easily hypnotized and, whether they liked it or not, I planned to work with them. Anyone who has ever practiced hypnosis knows that it can be exhausting for the hypnotizer as well as for the person being hypnotized. I shared several stories from the previous chapter, but they were met with complete disbelief.
"I should not believe in mesmerism," Madame D—— said to me, "unless, for instance (and she tried to think of the most unlikely subject she could find),—unless you could send my daughter Marie into a trance."
"I shouldn't believe in mesmerism," Madame D—— said to me, "unless, for example (and she tried to think of the most unlikely subject she could find),—unless you could put my daughter Marie into a trance."
"Call Mademoiselle Marie and let her sit down to her usual place at the table; give her a biscuit and some fruit, and while she is eating I will try and put her into a trance."
"Call Mademoiselle Marie and let her sit in her usual spot at the table; give her a cookie and some fruit, and while she’s eating, I’ll try to put her in a trance."
"There is no danger, is there?"
"No danger, right?"
"Of what?"
"About what?"
"It will not injure my daughter's health?"
"It won't harm my daughter's health?"
"Not in the least."
"Not at all."
"Marie!"
"Marie!"
They called the child, and she ran up; they put some greengages and a biscuit on her plate and told her to eat them, where she was. Her seat was near me, on my left. While everyone continued talking, as though nothing were going on, I stretched out my hand behind the child's head and was the only one to keep silence, my will being concentrated on making the child go to sleep. In half a minute, she had stopped every[Pg 388] movement, and seemed absorbed in the contemplation of a greengage which she was just going to put into her mouth.
They called the girl over, and she ran up; they put some greengages and a cookie on her plate and told her to eat them right there. Her seat was next to me, on my left. While everyone kept talking as if nothing was happening, I stretched out my hand behind the girl's head and was the only one who stayed quiet, focusing on getting her to sleep. In less than a minute, she had stopped all movement and seemed lost in thought, staring at a greengage she was about to put in her mouth.
"What is the matter, Marie?" asked her mother.
"What’s wrong, Marie?" her mother asked.
The child did not reply: she was asleep.
The child didn’t respond: she was asleep.
The thing had come about so rapidly that I could hardly believe it myself. I made her lean her head against the back of the chair without touching her, just by my power of attraction; her face looked the picture of perfect peace. I made some passes with my hand, up and down in front of her eyes, to make her open them. She opened her eyes, her eyeballs lifted skywards, a light iridescent film appearing beneath them,—the child was in a state of trance. When in this condition the eyelids do not flinch, and objects can be brought quite close to the pupil without causing the slightest movement. My daughter drew her portrait, while she was in this trance, as a companion to the other. There was such a striking likeness in the second portrait to that of an angel, that she added wings to it, and the drawing looked like a study after Giotto's or Perugino's lovely angel-heads. The child was in a trance: it now remained to find out if she could speak. A simple touch of my hand on hers gave her her voice: a simple invitation to get up and walk about endowed her with movement. But her voice was plaintive and toneless; her movements were more like those of an automaton than of a living creature. Whether her eyes were closed or open, whether she walked forward or backward, she moved with the same ease and sense of safety. I began by isolating her from others, so that she only heard me and only replied to me. The voices of her father and mother ceased to reach her; a simple wish on my part I expressed by a sign, changed her state of isolation and put the child again in touch with whatsoever person I chose to select as her interrogator. I transmitted several questions to her, to which she responded so accurately, so intelligently and so concisely that the idea suddenly came into her uncle's head to say to me—
The whole thing happened so quickly that I could barely believe it myself. I made her lean her head against the back of the chair without touching her, just by my power of attraction; her face radiated perfect peace. I moved my hand up and down in front of her eyes to get her to open them. She opened her eyes, looking up, with a light iridescent film appearing beneath them— the child was in a trance. When in this state, her eyelids didn’t flutter, and objects could be brought very close to her pupils without causing any movement. My daughter drew her portrait while she was in this trance, as a complement to the other. The second portrait bore such a striking resemblance to that of an angel that she added wings to it, making the drawing look like a study inspired by Giotto or Perugino's beautiful angel heads. The child was in a trance: it was now time to see if she could speak. A simple touch of my hand on hers restored her voice: a simple invitation to get up and move around gave her motion. But her voice was soft and toneless; her movements resembled those of an automaton more than a living being. Whether her eyes were closed or open, whether she walked forward or backward, she moved with the same ease and sense of safety. I started by isolating her from others, so she only heard me and responded to me. Her parents’ voices faded away; a simple wish of mine expressed through a gesture changed her state of isolation and connected the child again with whoever I chose to be her questioner. I transmitted several questions to her, to which she responded so accurately, intelligently, and succinctly that her uncle suddenly came up with the idea to say to me—
"Question her upon political subjects."
"Ask her about politics."
The child, let me repeat, was eleven years old. All political[Pg 389] questions were therefore perfectly unknown to her; she was equally ignorant of politics and of political personages.
The child, let me say again, was eleven years old. So, all political[Pg 389] questions were completely unfamiliar to her; she knew nothing about politics or political figures.
I will put down an exact account of the proceedings of that strange cross-examination, without putting the least faith in any of the predictions the child uttered; they were predictions, I confess, which I should be extremely sorry to see fulfilled, and I can only attribute them to the feverish state into which the hypnotic sleep had thrown her brain.
I will provide a detailed account of the unusual cross-examination, without believing any of the predictions the child made; they were predictions, I admit, that I would be very unhappy to see come true, and I can only link them to the anxious state that the hypnotic sleep had put her mind in.
I will devote the following pages to the dialogue and give the exact terms in which it was conducted.
I will dedicate the following pages to the conversation and provide the exact words used during it.
"In what social State are we at the present time, my child?"
"In what social state are we right now, my child?"
"We are a Republic, monsieur."
"We're a Republic, sir."
"Can you explain to me what a Republic is?"
"Can you tell me what a Republic is?"
"It is the sharing of rights equally between every class of people of which the nation is composed, without distinction of rank or birth or circumstances."
"It is the equal sharing of rights among all classes of people that make up the nation, without any distinctions based on rank, birth, or circumstances."
We all stared at one another, amazed at this beginning; the answers had come without any hesitation and as though she had learnt them beforehand. I turned to her mother.
We all looked at each other in surprise at this start; the answers came without any doubt, as if she had memorized them. I turned to her mom.
"Shall we proceed any further, madame?" I asked.
"Should we go any further, ma'am?" I asked.
She was almost struck dumb with astonishment.
She was nearly speechless with shock.
"Oh! Heavens!" she said, "I am afraid it will exhaust the poor child too much to answer such questions as those; they are far beyond the range of her age and understanding. The way she answers them," added the mother, "terrifies me."
"Oh my gosh!" she said, "I'm afraid answering questions like those will really tire the poor child out; they're way beyond what she can grasp at her age. The way she responds to them," the mother added, "frightens me."
I turned again to the child.
I turned back to the child.
"Does the hypnotic sleep tire you, Marie?"
"Does the hypnotic sleep make you tired, Marie?"
"Not in the slightest, monsieur."
"Not at all, sir."
"You think, then, that you can answer my questions easily?"
"You think you can just answer my questions easily?"
"Certainly."
"Definitely."
"Yet they are not the usual questions that are addressed to a child of your age."
"Still, these aren't the typical questions asked of someone your age."
"God is willing that I should understand them."
"God wants me to understand them."
We again looked at each other.
We glanced at each other again.
"Continue," said the mother.
"Go on," said the mother.
"Go on," all the rest of the company exclaimed, in eager curiosity.
"Go on," everyone else in the group exclaimed, with eager curiosity.
"Will the present form of government continue?"
"Will the current form of government last?"
"Yes, monsieur; it will last for several years."
"Yes, sir; it will last for several years."
"Will Lamartine or Ledru-Rollin be its bulwark?"
"Will Lamartine or Ledru-Rollin be its stronghold?"
"Neither the one nor the other."
"Neither this nor that."
"Then we shall have a president?"
"Then we'll have a president?"
"Yes."
"Yeah."
"And after this president whom shall we have?"
"And after this president, who will we have?"
"Henri V."
"Henry V."
"Henri V.?... But you know quite well, my child, that he is in exile!"
"Henri V.?... But you know very well, my child, that he’s in exile!"
"Yes, but he will return to France."
"Yeah, but he will go back to France."
"How will he return to France? By force?"
"How will he get back to France? By force?"
"No; by the consent of the French people."
"No; with the approval of the French people."
"And where will he re-enter France?"
"And where will he come back into France?"
"At Grenoble."
"At Grenoble."
"Will he have to fight to gain an entry?"
"Does he have to fight to get in?"
"No; he will come by way of Italy; from Italy he will enter Dauphiné, and one morning it will be reported, 'Henri V. is in the citadel of Grenoble.'"
"No; he will come through Italy; from Italy, he will enter Dauphiné, and one morning it will be reported, 'Henri V is in the citadel of Grenoble.'"
"So there is a citadel at Grenoble?"
"So there's a fortress in Grenoble?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Yes, sir."
"Can you see it?"
"Do you see it?"
"Yes, on a height."
"Yes, up high."
"And the town?"
"And what about the town?"
"The town is low down, in the valley."
"The town is located at the bottom of the valley."
"Is there a river in the town?"
"Is there a river in the town?"
"There are two."
"There are two."
"Are their waters of the same colour?"
"Are their waters the same color?"
"No; one is white and the other is green."
"No; one is white and the other is green."
We looked at each other in still greater astonishment than at first. Marie had never been to Grenoble and they did not think she even knew the name of the capital of Dauphiné when she was in her ordinary senses.
We stared at each other in even more shock than before. Marie had never been to Grenoble, and they didn't think she even knew the name of the capital of Dauphiné when she was in her right mind.
"But are you quite sure that the Duc de Bordeaux will be at Grenoble?"
"But are you really sure that the Duc de Bordeaux will be in Grenoble?"
"As sure as though his name were written here"; and she pointed to her forehead.
"As sure as if his name were written here," she said, pointing to her forehead.
"What does he look like? Come, give us a description of him."
"What does he look like? Come on, tell us what he's like."
"He is of medium height, rather stout; he is auburn; his eyes are blue and his hair is fashioned in the same way as that of the angels drawn by Mademoiselle Marie Dumas."
"He is of medium height, quite stout; he has auburn hair; his eyes are blue and his hair is styled like that of the angels depicted by Mademoiselle Marie Dumas."
"Well, as he passes before your eyes, do you notice anything peculiar about his gait?"
"Well, as he walks by you, do you notice anything unusual about the way he moves?"
"He limps."
"He's limping."
"And where will he go from Grenoble?"
"And where will he go from Grenoble?"
"To Lyons."
"To Lyon."
"Will they not oppose his entrance at Lyons?"
"Are they not going to oppose his entry at Lyons?"
"They will try to do so at first, but I can see a number of workpeople going before him, leading him in."
"They will try to do that at first, but I can see several workers going ahead of him, guiding him in."
"Are there no shots fired?"
"Are there no shots fired?"
"Oh yes, monsieur, several; but not much harm is done."
"Oh yes, sir, several; but not much damage is done."
"Where are those shots fired?"
"Where were those shots fired?"
"On the road from Lyons to Paris."
"On the road from Lyon to Paris."
"By which suburb will he enter Paris?"
"Which suburb will he enter Paris through?"
"By Saint-Martin."
"By St. Martin."
"But, my child, what will be the good of Henri V. becoming King of France, since he has no children...." I added hesitatingly, "and they say that he cannot have any?"
"But, my child, what good will it do for Henri V to become King of France if he has no children...." I added hesitantly, "and they say he can't have any?"
"Oh! that is not his fault, monsieur; it is his wife's."
"Oh! that's not his fault, sir; it’s his wife's."
"It comes to the same thing, my dear Marie, since divorce is not permitted."
"It’s the same thing, my dear Marie, since divorce isn’t allowed."
"Oh yes! but something will happen that is now only known to God and myself."
"Oh yes! But something will happen that only God and I know right now."
"What is it?"
"What's that?"
"His wife will die of consumption."
"His wife will die from tuberculosis."
"And whom will he marry? Some Russian or German princess, I suppose?"
"And who will he marry? A Russian or German princess, I guess?"
"No; he will say, 'I have returned by the will of the French people, so I will marry a daughter of the People.'"
"No; he will say, 'I have come back because the French people wanted me to, so I will marry a daughter of the People.'"
We laughed: divination was beginning to intermingle with prophecy.
We laughed: fortune-telling was starting to blend with prophecy.
"And where will he find this daughter of the People, my child?"
"And where will he find this daughter of the People, my child?"
"He will say, 'Seek the young girl I saw at No. 42 in the faubourg Saint-Martin, where she had climbed up on a street-post ; she was clad in a white dress and was waving a green bough in her hand.'"
"He will say, 'Look for the young girl I noticed at No. 42 in the faubourg Saint-Martin, where she had climbed up on a street pole; she was wearing a white dress and holding a green branch in her hand.'"
"Well, will they go to the faubourg Saint-Martin?"
"Well, are they going to the Saint-Martin neighborhood?"
"Certainly."
"Of course."
"Will they find the young girl?"
"Will they find the girl?"
"Yes, at No. 42."
"Yes, at 42."
"To what family does she belong?"
"Which family does she belong to?"
"Her father is a joiner."
"Her dad is a carpenter."
"Do you know the name of this future queen?"
"Do you know the name of this future queen?"
"Léontine."
"Léontine."
"And the prince will marry this young girl?"
"And the prince is going to marry this young girl?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"He will have a son by her?"
"He’s going to have a son with her?"
"He will have two."
"He'll have two."
"What will the eldest be called—Henri or Charles?"
"What will the oldest be named—Henri or Charles?"
"Neither. Henri V. will say that these two names have brought too much misfortune to those who have borne them: they will call the boy Léon."
"Neither. Henri V. will say that these two names have brought too much bad luck to those who have had them: they will call the boy Léon."
"How long will Henri V. reign?"
"How long will King Henry V rule?"
"Between ten and eleven years."
"10 to 11 years old."
"How will he meet his death?"
"How will he pass?"
"He will die of pleurisy, contracted from drinking cold water from a fountain, one day, when he is out hunting in the forest of Saint-Germain."
"He will die of pleurisy, caught from drinking cold water from a fountain, one day while he is out hunting in the forest of Saint-Germain."
"But remember, my child, that you are making this prophecy before twelve to fifteen people: one of us here may warn the prince and then, if he is told that he will die if he drinks cold water, he will refrain from drinking it."
"But remember, my child, you’re making this prophecy in front of twelve to fifteen people: one of us here might warn the prince, and then, if he hears he will die if he drinks cold water, he’ll avoid it."
"He will be warned, but he will drink it, all the same; for he will say he has eaten many an ice when he was hot, so he can surely drink cold water."
"He will be warned, but he will drink it anyway; because he'll say he's had plenty of ice when he was hot, so he can definitely drink cold water."
"Who will warn him?"
"Who will warn him?"
"Your son, who will be one of his intimate friends."
"Your son, who will be one of his close friends."
"What! my son one of the intimate friends of the prince?"
"What! My son is one of the close friends of the prince?"
"Yes, you are well aware that your son's opinions differ from yours."
"Yes, you know that your son's opinions are different from yours."
My daughter and I exchanged glances and burst out laughing, for Alexandre and I are eternally squabbling over politics.
My daughter and I looked at each other and laughed out loud, because Alexandre and I are always arguing about politics.
"And when Henri V. is dead Léon I. will succeed to the throne?"
"And when Henry V is dead, Léon I will take the throne?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Yes, sir."
"What will happen during his reign?"
"What will happen during his time as king?"
"I cannot see any further: wake me."
"I can’t see any further: wake me up."
I made haste to awake her, but she did not remember anything when she was awakened; I asked her a few questions about Lamartine, Ledru-Rollin, Grenoble, Henri V. and Léon I., and she burst out laughing. I passed two thumbs across her forehead to will her to remember, and she remembered instantly; I begged her to begin the story over again, and she repeated it faithfully, in exactly the same terms, so that the person who had written down my questions and her answers while she uttered them was able to correct the first narration by the second.
I hurried to wake her up, but when she did, she couldn’t remember anything. I asked her a few questions about Lamartine, Ledru-Rollin, Grenoble, Henri V., and Léon I., and she just burst out laughing. I rubbed my thumbs across her forehead to encourage her to recall it, and she instantly remembered. I asked her to start the story over, and she repeated it accurately, in exactly the same words, so the person who had written down my questions and her answers as she spoke was able to fix the first version with the second.
I have since, upon several occasions, carried out other experiments on this child; there seemed to be no limits to the power which mesmerism had in or, rather, upon her; I could make her dumb, blind, or deaf at will; and, by a word, I could give her back all her faculties and excite them to a degree of perfection which seemed to exceed the limits of mortal knowledge. For instance, if I sent her to the piano—asleep or awake, it mattered little—she would begin a sonata; some person present would hum in a low voice to me an air that the child was desired to play, instead of the sonata; the sonata would instantly cease, and directly I stretched out my hand towards her the child would play the required tune. We tried this experiment a score of times before the most incredulous people, and she never failed.
I have since, on several occasions, conducted other experiments on this child; there seemed to be no limits to the power that mesmerism had over her. I could make her mute, blind, or deaf at will; and with just a word, I could restore all her abilities and even enhance them to a level that seemed to go beyond human understanding. For example, if I sent her to the piano—whether she was asleep or awake made no difference—she would start playing a sonata. Someone present would hum softly an air that we wanted her to play instead of the sonata; the sonata would immediately stop, and as soon as I reached out my hand toward her, the child would play the requested tune. We conducted this experiment twenty times in front of the most skeptical people, and she never failed.
Marie's father's house was built on the site of an old cemetery; several burial inscriptions could be deciphered even on the stones of the garden wall; and, because of these,[Pg 394] when night fell, the poor child dared not stir out, but trembled with fear. The night I left, Madame D—— spoke to me of this terror, and so great was my influence over the child, that she asked me if I could not do anything in the matter. I was so accustomed to working miracles that I replied that nothing could be easier and that we would at once make the experiment. So I called the child, and, putting both my hands on her head, willing that all fear should be taken away from her, I said—
Marie's father's house was built on the site of an old cemetery; several burial inscriptions could still be seen on the stones of the garden wall; and because of these, [Pg 394] when night fell, the poor child was too scared to go outside and trembled with fear. The night I left, Madame D—— talked to me about this fear, and I had such a strong influence over the child that she asked me if I could do something about it. I was so used to working miracles that I replied it would be easy and that we would try it right away. So I called the child over, and placing both my hands on her head, wishing all her fear away, I said—
"Marie, your mother has just given me some peaches for my journey; go and fetch me a few vine leaves from the garden to wrap them in."
"Marie, your mom just gave me some peaches for my trip; go and grab me a few grape leaves from the garden to wrap them in."
It was nine o'clock at night, and very dark. The child went out and returned singing; she brought back the vine leaves which she had gathered from the very spot where the tombstones were which caused her such terror by day. From that hour, she showed no hesitation in going into the garden or to any other part of the house, at any time of the night and even without a light.
It was nine o'clock at night, and really dark. The child went out and came back singing; she brought back the vine leaves she had picked from the exact spot where the tombstones scared her during the day. From that moment on, she showed no fear in going into the garden or any other part of the house, whenever it was night, even without a light.
I returned to Auxerre three months later; I had not announced my journey to anyone. Two days before my arrival, they wanted little Marie to have a tooth drawn.
I got back to Auxerre three months later; I hadn't told anyone about my trip. Two days before I arrived, they decided that little Marie needed to have a tooth pulled.
"No, mother dear," she said, "wait; M. Dumas will be here the day after to-morrow: he will take hold of my little finger, while they take out my tooth, and then I shall not feel the pain."
"No, mom," she said, "wait; M. Dumas will be here the day after tomorrow: he will hold my little finger while they take out my tooth, and then I won’t feel any pain."
I came on the day she said; I held the child's hand in mine during the operation, which was accomplished without her feeling the least pang of pain.
I arrived on the day she mentioned; I held the child's hand in mine during the surgery, which was done without her feeling any pain at all.
If I am asked for an explanation of the phenomena I have just related I cannot give any. I simply state what has happened. I am not an advocate of magnetism, I only use it when people compel me to do so, and it always fatigues me excessively. I believe a dishonourable person might put magnetism to evil uses, and I doubt whether a well-intentioned person does the least good by the practice of it. Magnetism is a pastime, it has not yet become a science.
If someone asks me to explain the things I've just described, I can't. I’m just sharing what happened. I’m not a supporter of magnetism; I only use it when people push me to, and it always tires me out a lot. I think a dishonest person could misuse magnetism, and I’m not sure if a well-meaning person really does any good by practicing it. Magnetism is just a hobby; it hasn’t turned into a science yet.
CHAPTER IV
Fresh trials of newspaper editors—The Mouton enragé—Fontan—Harel's witticism concerning him—The Fils de l'Homme before the Police Court—The author pleads his cause in verse—M. Guillebert's prose—Prison charges at Sainte-Pélagie—Embarrassment of the Duc d'Orléans about a historical portrait—The two usurpations
New challenges for newspaper editors—The Mouton enragé—Fontan—Harel's joke about him—The Fils de l'Homme at the Police Court—The author defends himself in verse—M. Guillebert's prose—Prison sentences at Sainte-Pélagie—The Duc d'Orléans's unease with a historical portrait—The two usurpations
We left the Government busy imprisoning Béranger for nine months, about the close of the year 1828; we now find it in July 1829 prosecuting the Corsaire at the Police Court, and sentencing M. Vremiot, its manager, to fifteen days' imprisonment and to a fine of 300 francs, for an article entitled Sottise des deux parts. The same month it prosecuted Fontan for an article in the Album called the Mouton enragé; and Barthélemy for his poem Fils de l'Homme. As both these trials made a great sensation, and as it was the general opinion that, by making it unpopular, they took part in the fall of the Government, we will go into the matter more fully.
We left the government busy imprisoning Béranger for nine months, around the end of 1828; we now find it in July 1829 prosecuting the Corsaire at the Police Court, sentencing M. Vremiot, its manager, to fifteen days in jail and a fine of 300 francs for an article titled Sottise des deux parts. The same month, it prosecuted Fontan for an article in the Album called Mouton enragé; and Barthélemy for his poem Fils de l'Homme. Since both trials caused a significant stir, and it was widely believed that they contributed to the government's unpopularity and eventual downfall, we will delve into the details further.
On 20 June 1829, Fontan, who had had a tragedy called Perkin Warbeck acted at the Odéon a year or two before, published in the old Album, edited by Magallon, an article entitled the Mouton enragé. The Public Minister believed this article was meant as an insult to the person of the king and referred the matter to the Police Court.
On June 20, 1829, Fontan, who had a play called Perkin Warbeck performed at the Odéon a year or two earlier, published an article titled Mouton enragé in the old Album, which was edited by Magallon. The Public Minister thought this article was an insult to the king and sent the issue to the Police Court.
The following passages are those particularly specified in the accusation:—
The following passages are specifically mentioned in the accusation:—
"Picture to your imaginations, a pretty white sheep, combed, curled and washed every morning; with goggle-eyes, long ears, spindle-shanked legs, the lower jaw (or, in other words, the lower lip) heavy and hanging down; in short, a true Berry[Pg 396] sheep. He walks at the head of the flock of which he is pretty nearly the monarch; an immense meadow is his pasture-land and that of his fellow-sheep; some of the acres of this meadow devolved upon him by right. And here grew the tenderest grass, and he waxed fat upon it, which delighted his soul! What a nice thing it is to inherit an estate! Our sheep is called Robin; he responds with gracious salutations to the compliments paid him; and shows his teeth as evidence of his pleasure. In spite of his gentle appearance, he can be disagreeable when roused; he can then bite like any other animal. I have been told that a ewe which was related to him bit him every time she met him, because she considered he did not govern his flock with sufficient despotism. I tell you this under the seal of secrecy,—poor Robin-Mouton is mad! His madness is not apparent; on the contrary, he strives his utmost to conceal it; if he feels a fit approaching, and a longing to satisfy an evil thought, he takes good care to look first to see if anybody is watching him; for Mouton-Robin knows the lot that is destined for animals touched with this malady—he lives in dread of bullets does our Robin-Mouton! And besides, he is conscious of his weakness. If only he were a bull, ah! how he would use his horns! he would soon let you see. How he would insist upon his prerogatives among the sheep-folk of his acquaintance! He might possibly even be brave enough to declare war against a neighbouring flock. But, alas! he comes of a stock that is not very fond of fighting, and however alluring the amenities of conquest may be to him, he arrives at the bitter conclusion that he has but the blood of a sheep running through his veins. This fatal idea makes him desperate.—Never mind, Robin, you have not much to complain of; all you have to do is to lead a luxurious life of idleness. What have you to do from morning to night? Nothing. You eat, you drink, and you sleep: your sheep faithfully carry out your commands and satisfy your smallest caprices; they leap to do your bidding; what more can you desire? Believe what I tell you and do not attempt to quit your state of animal tranquillity; crush these vast ideas of glory, which are too great for that narrow brain of yours; vegetate in the same way your fathers have vegetated before you; Heaven made you a sheep, die a sheep! I tell you frankly you would be quite a charming quadruped if, in petto, you were only sane!"
"Picture a beautiful white sheep, groomed, curled, and washed every morning; with big eyes, long ears, skinny legs, and a heavy, droopy lower jaw; in short, a true Berry[Pg 396] sheep. He leads the flock, practically their king; a vast meadow serves as his and his fellow sheep’s pasture; some of this land is his by right. Here, the softest grass grows, and he enjoys feasting on it, which brings him great joy! Isn’t it wonderful to inherit an estate? Our sheep is named Robin; he graciously responds to compliments and shows his teeth when he’s pleased. Despite his gentle demeanor, he can be unpleasant when provoked; he can bite just like any other animal. I’ve heard that a ewe related to him bites him every time she sees him because she thinks he doesn’t lead his flock with enough authority. I tell you this in confidence—poor Robin-Mouton is mad! His madness isn’t obvious; on the contrary, he tries hard to hide it; if he feels a fit coming on and has a bad thought, he carefully checks to see if anyone is watching him; because Mouton-Robin knows the fate of animals with this condition—he lives in fear of bullets! And he's aware of his own weakness. If only he were a bull, ah! how he would use his horns! You’d soon see how he would assert his rights among the sheep he knows! He might even be brave enough to declare war against a neighboring flock. But unfortunately, he comes from a line that doesn’t care much for fighting, and no matter how tempting the joys of conquest might be, he comes to the harsh realization that he only has the blood of a sheep in his veins. This discouraging thought drives him to despair. But never mind, Robin, you don’t have much to complain about; all you have to do is enjoy a luxurious life of leisure. What’s on your agenda from morning to night? Nothing. You eat, you drink, and you sleep: your sheep obediently follow your commands and cater to your every whim; they eagerly serve you; what more could you want? Believe me and don’t try to give up your peaceful life; suppress those grand ideas of glory that are too big for that little brain of yours; just live the same way your ancestors have lived before you; Heaven made you a sheep, so die a sheep! Honestly, you’d be quite a charming quadruped if, in petto, you were only sane!"
Fontan was condemned to ten years' imprisonment and a fine of 10,000 francs. The sentence was rather too severe, and it caused a great outcry. It will be admitted that the article was not good enough to deserve this severe treatment. The result was to raise Fontan to the height of a martyr. And Fontan, who was of an energetic and headstrong character, made no attempt to justify himself before his judges.
Fontan was sentenced to ten years in prison and a fine of 10,000 francs. The punishment was pretty harsh, and it sparked a huge outcry. It’s clear that the article didn’t merit such a tough response. As a result, Fontan became something of a martyr. And Fontan, being energetic and stubborn, didn’t try to defend himself in front of his judges.
"Messieurs," he said simply, "whether or not I intended my article to bear the interpretation you put upon it, I have the right of withholding any explanation of the subject; I allow no man to examine the inner sanctuary of my conscience. I wished to write an article about a mad sheep and I did it; that is the only explanation I ought or desire to give you."
"Gentlemen," he said plainly, "whether or not I meant for my article to be interpreted the way you have, I have the right to keep any explanation to myself; I won’t let anyone probe into the inner workings of my conscience. I wanted to write an article about a crazy sheep, and I did that; that's the only explanation I need or want to give you."
I used to know Fontan very well at M. Villenave's house—he was a great friend of Théodore—an unpolished sort of man, who nevertheless did not lack some poetic feeling. He was unclean to the point of cynicism, and less aristocratic than Schaunard in the Vie de bohème; instead of having one pipe for continual smoking and a finer one when he went out, he had but one cutty pipe which never left his mouth, which smelt vilely when alight and between his teeth, but which smelt far worse when it was extinguished and in his pocket.
I used to know Fontan really well at M. Villenave's house—he was a good friend of Théodore—an unrefined kind of guy, who still had some poetic vibe. He was filthy to the point of being cynical, and less classy than Schaunard in the Vie de bohème; instead of having one pipe for constant smoking and a nicer one for going out, he only had one cheap pipe that never left his mouth, which smelled horrible when he was smoking it and even worse when it was put out and sitting in his pocket.
This condemnation made Fontan's name notorious. I believe the revolution of July found him at Poissy. He reappeared amidst a certain measure of popularity, but it was only the transient popularity of persecution.
This condemnation made Fontan's name well-known for all the wrong reasons. I believe the July Revolution found him in Poissy. He came back with a degree of popularity, but it was just the temporary attention that comes from being persecuted.
Harel, who was the manager of the Odéon, quickly conceived the notion of turning this popularity to account by asking Fontan to write a play for him. Fontan complied, and wrote Jeanne la Folle, but it was a failure, or, at any rate, only a partial success. Harel came up to me after the representation and said—
Harel, the manager of the Odéon, quickly thought about how to make the most of this popularity by asking Fontan to write a play for him. Fontan agreed and created Jeanne la Folle, but it didn’t do well, or at least, it was only a partial success. After the performance, Harel approached me and said—
"Unmistakably I have been deceived in Fontan. There is more of the prison about him than of talent!"
"Clearly, I have been fooled by Fontan. He has more of a prison vibe than actual talent!"
This was, unfortunately, true. Poor Fontan died quite young and left nothing remarkable behind him; he published a volume of poetry and saw two or three dramas or tragedies put on the stage.
This was, unfortunately, true. Poor Fontan died quite young and left nothing noteworthy behind him; he published a collection of poetry and saw two or three plays or tragedies performed.
Barthélemy's sentence was less severe; he had three months' imprisonment and was fined 1000 francs.
Barthélemy's sentence was lighter; he got three months in jail and was fined 1000 francs.
We will give the reasons that led to his trial. We have already entertained our readers with the débuts of Barthélemy and Méry. They are aware how these two poets came together and how the Villéliade, the Peyronnéide, the Corbiéréide and a host of other pieces were concocted which kept public attention spell-bound for a couple of years. The most important of these poems was Napoléon en Égypte. It took tremendously, and ran into ten editions in less than six months' time.
We will explain the reasons that led to his trial. We have already entertained our readers with the beginnings of Barthélemy and Méry. They know how these two poets came together and how the Villéliade, the Peyronnéide, the Corbiéréide, and many other pieces were created, capturing public attention for a couple of years. The most significant of these poems was Napoléon en Égypte. It was a huge success and went through ten editions in less than six months.
Méry, who had pined for sunshine, had gone to find warmth and sea breezes, those two opposing elements which are, however, admirably combined at Marseilles. Barthélemy, left alone, conceived the idea of going to Vienna to offer a copy of a poem to the young Duke of Reichstadt, wherein his father figured as the hero. To use Benjamin Constant's words, as the father had been allowed to die of political cancer, so the son was by way of being allowed to die of a disease of the chest. A charming dancer and a beautiful archduchess were the two strange doctors that Austria deputed to follow the progress of the prince's malady, which, three years later, became simply a matter of history.
Méry, who had longed for sunshine, went off in search of warmth and sea breezes—two contrasting elements that are perfectly blended in Marseilles. Barthélemy, left by himself, thought about going to Vienna to present a copy of a poem to the young Duke of Reichstadt, where his father was depicted as the hero. To use Benjamin Constant's words, just as the father had been allowed to die from political issues, so the son was on his way to being allowed to succumb to a lung disease. A charming dancer and a beautiful archduchess were the two unusual doctors that Austria assigned to monitor the prince's illness, which, three years later, became simply a part of history.
Barthélemy's journey was, of course, useless: he was not allowed to approach the prince, and he brought back his poem without having been suffered to offer it to him. But Barthélemy's Odyssey had furnished him with the subject of a new poem entitled the Fils de l'Homme, and this was the poem that was denounced by the law. Barthélemy proclaimed beforehand his intention of defending himself in verse. Of course, such a proclamation as this filled the Police Court where this poetical trial was to be held, from eight o'clock in the morning. Barthélemy kept his word. Here are some of the[Pg 399] lines of that singular pleading which is without precedent the annals of justice.
Barthélemy's journey was pointless, really: he wasn't allowed to see the prince and returned with his poem without having had the chance to present it. However, Barthélemy's adventure inspired him to write a new poem called Fils de l'Homme. This was the poem that the law condemned. Barthélemy announced ahead of time that he intended to defend himself in verse. Naturally, this announcement filled the Police Court where this poetic trial was set to take place, starting at eight o'clock in the morning. Barthélemy stayed true to his word. Here are some of the[Pg 399] lines of that unique defense, which has no precedent in the history of justice.
"Messieurs," he began,—
"Gents," he began,—
"Voilà donc mon délit! sur un faible poëme
La critique en simarre appelle l'anathème;
Et ces vers, ennemis de la France et du roi,
Témoins accusateurs, se dressent contre moi!
Hélas! durant les nuits dont la paix me conseille,
Quand je forçais mes yeux à soutenir la veille,
Et que seul, aux lueurs de deux mourants flambeaux,
De ce pénible écrit j'assemblais les lambeaux,
Qui m'eût dit que cette œuvre, en naissant étouffée,
D'un greffe criminel déplorable trophée,
Appellerait un jour sur ces bancs ennemis
Ma muse, vierge encor des arrêts de Thémis?
Peut-être ai-je failli; mais, crédule victime,
Moi-même, j'ai bien pu m'aveugler sur mon crime,
Puisque des magistrats, vieux au métier des lois
M'ont jugé non coupable une première fois.
Aussi, je l'avoûrai, la foudre inattendue,
Du haut du firmament à mes pieds descendue,
D'une moindre stupeur eût frappé mon esprit,
Que le soir si funeste à mon livre proscrit
Où d'un pouvoir jaloux les sombres émissaires
Se montraient en écharpe à mes pâles libraires,
Et, craignant d'ajourner leur gloire au lendemain,
Cherchaient le Fils de l'homme, un mandat à la main.
Toutefois, je rends grâce au hasard tutélaire
Qui, sauvant un ami de mes torts solidaire,
Sur moi seul de la loi suspend l'arrêt fatal.
Triste plus que moi-même, au rivage natal
Il attend aujourd'hui l'heure de la justice.
S'il eût été présent, il serait mon complice.
Éternels compagnons dans les mêmes travaux,
Forts de notre union, frères et non rivaux,
Jusqu'ici, dans l'arène à nos forces permise,
Nos deux noms enlacés n'eurent qu'une devise,
Et jamais l'un de nous, reniant son appui,
N'eût voulu d'un laurier qui n'eût été qu'à lui.
Trois ans, on entendit notre voix populaire
Harceler les géants assis au ministère;
Trois ans, sur les élus du conseil souverain
Nos bras ont agité le fouet alexandrin;
[Pg 400]
Et jamais l'ennemi, froissé de nos victoires,
N'arrêta nos élans par des réquisitoires.
Mais, dès le jour vengeur où, captive longtemps,
La foudre du Château gronda sur les titans,
Suspendant tout à coup ses longues philippiques,
Notre muse plus fière, osant des chants épiques,
Évoqua du milieu des sables africains
Les soldats hasardeux des temps républicains,
Et montra réunis en faisceau militaire,
Les drapeaux lumineux du Thabor et du Caire;
De nos cœurs citoyens là fut le dernier cri;
Notre muse se tut, et, tandis que Méry
Allait sous le soleil de la vieille Phocée
Ressusciter un corps usé par la pensée,
'J'osai, vers le Danube égarant mon essor,
A la cour de Pyrrhus chercher le fils d'Hector.'
Je portais avec soin, dans mes humbles tablettes,
Ces dons qu'aux pieds des rois déposent les poëtes,
Et, poëte, j'allais pour redire à son fils
L'histoire d'un soldat, aux plaines de Memphis.
Voilà tout le complot d'un long pèlerinage.
Un pouvoir soupçonneux repoussa mon hommage,
Et, moi, loin d'un argus que rien n'avait fléchi,
Je repassai le Rhin, imprudemment franchi."
"Here is my offense! over a weak poem
The critic in a robe calls for a curse;
And these lines, enemies of France and the king,
Accusing witnesses, stand against me!
Alas! during the nights when peace advised me,
When I forced my eyes to stay awake,
And alone, by the light of two dying candles,
I gathered the scraps of this difficult writing,
Who would have told me that this work, born stifled,
Would someday call upon this enemy bench
My muse, still untouched by the judgments of Themis?
Maybe I failed; but, gullible victim,
I could have blinded myself to my crime,
Since the magistrates, seasoned in the law,
First judged me not guilty.
So, I will admit, the unexpected thunder,
Descending from the heavens at my feet,
Would have shocked my mind less
Than that fateful evening for my banned book
When shadowy agents of jealous power
Showed up in sashes to my pale publishers,
And fearing to delay their glory to the next day,
Sought The Son of Man, a warrant in hand.
Yet, I am grateful to the protective chance
That, saving a friend who shares my wrongs,
Hangs the fatal judgment of the law over only me.
Sadder than myself, on our native shore
He waits today for the hour of justice.
If he had been present, he would have been my accomplice.
Eternal companions in the same endeavors,
Strong in our unity, brothers and not rivals,
Until now, in the arena permitted to our strengths,
Our two names intertwined had only one motto,
And never would either of us, renouncing his support,
Have wanted a laurel that wasn’t solely his.
For three years, our popular voice
Harassed the giants seated in the ministry;
For three years, we whipped the elected of the sovereign council
With the Alexandrine whip;
[Pg 400]
And never did the enemy, annoyed by our victories,
Stop our momentum with indictments.
But, from the vengeful day when, long captive,
The thunder of the Château rumbled over the titans,
Suspending its long Philippics,
Our prouder muse, daring epic songs,
Evoked from the sands of Africa
The daring soldiers of republican times,
And showed assembled in military array,
The bright flags of Thabor and Cairo;
From our citizen hearts there came the final cry;
Our muse fell silent, and while Méry
Went under the sun of ancient Phocaea
To resurrect a body worn by thought,
'I dared, straying toward the Danube,
To the court of Pyrrhus to seek Hector’s son.'
I carefully carried, in my humble notebooks,
These gifts that poets lay at the feet of kings,
And, as a poet, I went to tell his son
The story of a soldier, in the plains of Memphis.
That was the whole plot of a long pilgrimage.
A suspicious power rejected my homage,
And I, far from a watchful eye that nothing had swayed,
Crossed the Rhine again, unwisely crossed."
The above was his defence as regarded facts. When he had defended its theme Barthélemy went on to its form; he complained of the method of interpretation which judges of all times have pushed to extremes, so that they persecute whether under the elder or the younger branch of the Bourbons, whether under M. Cavaignac or under M. Louis-Bonaparte; he said—
The above was his defense regarding the facts. After defending its theme, Barthélemy moved on to its structure; he criticized the interpretation method that judges throughout history have taken to extremes, leading to persecution whether it was under the older or younger branches of the Bourbons, whether under M. Cavaignac or M. Louis-Bonaparte; he said—
"Pourtant, voilà mon crime! Un songe, une élégie
Me condamne moi-même à mon apologie!
Partout, sur ce vélin, je frissonne de voir
Des vers séditieux soulignés d'un trait noir;
Le doigt accusateur laisse partout sa trace,
Et je suis criminel jusque dans ma préface;
Ah! du moins, il fallait, moins prompt à me juger
Pour me juger, tout lire et tout interroger;
Il fallait, surmontant les ennuis de l'ouvrage,
Jusqu'au dernier feuillet forcer votre courage,
Et, traversant mon livre un scalpel à la main,
Avancer hardiment jusqu'au bout du chemin.
[Pg 401]
Certes, si comme vous on dépeçait un livre,
Combien peu d'écrivains seraient dignes de vivre!
Qu'on pourrait aisément trouver de noirs desseins
Jusque dans l'Évangile et les ouvrages saints!
Ma prose est toujours prête à disculper ma muse;
La note me défend quand le texte m'accuse;
D'un tissu régulier pourquoi rompre le fil?
De quel droit venez-vous, annotateur subtil,
Dédaignant mon histoire, attaquer mon poëme,
Prendre comme mon tout la moitié de moi-même,
Et, fort de ma pensée arrêtée au milieu,
Diviser contre moi l'indivisible aveu?
Mais j'ose plus encor, fort de mon innocence,
Armé du texte seul, j'accepte la défense;
Seulement, n'allez pas, envenimant mes vers,
D'un sens clair et précis extraire un sens pervers!
Gardez-vous de chercher, trop savant interprète,
Sous ma lucide phrase une énigme secrète!
Ainsi, quand vous lirez: 'qu'à mes yeux éblouis,
La gloire a dérobé les fils de saint Louis;
Qu'aveuglément soumis aux droits de la puissance,
Je ne me doutais pas, dans mon adolescence,
Que l'héritier des lys, exilé de Mittau,
Régnait chez les Anglais dans un humble château,
Et que, depuis vingt ans, sa bonté paternelle!
Rédigeait pour son peuple une charte éternelle!'
Lisez de bonne foi comme chacun me lit.
Pourquoi vous tourmenter à flairer un délit,
A tourner ma franchise en coupable ironie,
A voir un seul côté de mon double génie?
Voulez-vous donc me lire aux lueurs du fanal
Dont la sainte Gazette escorte son journal,
Et, serrant vos deux mains à nuire intéressées,
Exprimer du poison en tordant mes pensées?"
"Yet, here's my crime! A dream, an elegy
Condemns me to my own defense!
Everywhere, on this parchment, I shudder to see
Seditious verses underlined in black;
The accusing finger leaves its mark everywhere,
And I'm a criminal even in my preface;
Ah! At least, it should have taken, less quick to judge me
To really judge me, to read everything and question everything;
It should have taken, overcoming the hardships of the work,
To force your courage to the very last page,
And, with a scalpel in hand, crossing through my book,
Bravely move all the way to the end.
[Pg 401]
Surely, if you were to dissect a book like you do,
How few writers would be worthy of living!
One could easily find dark intentions
Even in the Gospel and holy works!
My prose is always ready to clear my muse;
The note defends me when the text accuses me;
Why break the thread of a regular fabric?
By what right do you come, subtle annotator,
Ignoring my story, attacking my poem,
Taking half of me as if it were my whole,
And, with my thoughts interrupted in the middle,
Dividing against me the indivisible admission?
But I dare more, fortified by my innocence,
Armed only with the text, I accept the defense;
Just, don’t go, poisoning my verses,
Extracting a twisted meaning from a clear and precise one!
Beware of searching, overly learned interpreter,
For a secret riddle beneath my lucid phrase!
So, when you read: 'that in my dazzled eyes,
Glory has stolen the threads of Saint Louis;
That blindly submissive to the rights of power,
I had no idea, in my youth,
That the heir of the lilies, exiled from Mittau,
Reigned among the English in a humble castle,
And that, for twenty years, his paternal kindness!
Drafted for his people an eternal charter!'
Read in good faith as everyone reads me.
Why torment yourself to sniff out an offense,
To twist my frankness into guilty irony,
To see only one side of my double genius?
Do you want to read me by the light of the lantern
That the holy Gazette accompanies with its newspaper,
And, with both hands gripping to harm selfishly,
Express poison by twisting my thoughts?"
Those are certainly the well-turned lines of a very clever versifier if not of a great poet. At Athens, before the Areopagitica where Æschylus pleaded his cause, M. Barthélemy would have been acquitted! But what could he expect? We are not Athenians, and our judges are by no means archons.
Those are definitely the well-crafted lines of a very smart poet, if not a great one. In Athens, before the Areopagitica where Æschylus defended himself, M. Barthélemy would have been cleared! But what did he expect? We aren't Athenians, and our judges are far from being archons.
The poet proceeded, nevertheless, although it was easy to read, in the frowning faces of the judges, their want of sympathy with the defence of the accused.
The poet continued, even though it was clear from the scowls of the judges that they were unsympathetic to the defense of the accused.
Again let us listen to Barthélemy:—
Again, let’s hear from Barthélemy:—
"Jusqu'ici, l'on m'a vu, d'un tranquille visage,
Conquérir pour ma cause un facile avantage.
J'ai vengé sans effort, dans mon livre semés,
Quelques vers, quelques mots par Thémis décimés.
Redoublons de courage: un grand effort nous reste;
Abordons sans pâlir ce passage funeste,
De l'un à l'autre bout chargé de sombres croix!
Là, sapant par mes vœux le palais de nos rois,
Ébranlant de l'État la base légitime,
D'un sang usurpateur j'appelle le régime,
J'invoque la Discorde aux bras ensanglantés!
Est-il vrai? Suis-je donc si coupable?... Écoutez!
'Il sait donc désormais, il n'a plus à connaître
Ce qu'il est, ce qu'il fut et ce qu'il pouvait être.
Oh! que tu dois souvent te dire et repasser
Dans quel large avenir tu devais te lancer!
Combien dans ton berceau fut court ton premier rêve
Doublement protégé par le droit et le glaive,
Des peuples rassurés espoir consolateur,
Petit-fils d'un César, et fils d'un empereur,
Légataire du monde, en naissant roi de Rome,
Tu n'es plus aujourdhui rien que le fils de l'homme!
Pourtant, quel fils de roi contre ce nom obscur
N'échangerait son titre et son sceptre futur?
Mais quoi! content d'un nom qui vaut un diadème,
Ne veux-tu rien, un jour, conquérir par toi-même?
La nuit, quand douze fois ta pendule a frémi,
Qu'aucun bruit ne sort plus du palais endormi,
Et que, seul au milieu d'un appartement vide,
Tu veilles, obsédé par ta pensée avide,
Sans doute que parfois sur ton sort à venir
Un démon familier te vient entretenir.
Oui, tant que ton aïeul, sur ton adolescence,
De sa noble tutelle étendra la puissance,
Les jaloux archiducs, comprimant leur orgueil,
Du vieillard tout-puissant imiteront l'accueil;
Mais qui peut garantir cette paix fraternelle?
Peut-être en ce moment la mort lève son aile;
Tôt ou tard, au milieu de ses gardes hongrois,
Elle mettra la faulx sur le doyen des rois.
Alors, il sera temps d'expliquer ce problème
D'un sort mystérieux ignoré de toi-même.
[Pg 403]
Fils de Napoléon, petit-fils de François,
Entre deux avenirs il faudra faire un choix.
Puisses-tu, dominé par le sang de ta mère,
Bannir de ta pensée une vaine chimère,
Et de l'ambition éteindre le flambeau!
Le destin qui te reste est encore assez beau;
Les rois ont grandement consolé ton jeune âge;
Le duché de Reichstadt est un riche apanage,
Et tu pourras, un jour, colonel allemand,
Conduire à la parade un noble régiment!
Qu'à ce but désormais ton jeune cœur aspire;
Borne là tes désirs, ta gloire et ton empire.
Des règnes imprévus ne gardons plus l'espoir,
Ce qu'on vit une fois ne doit plus se revoir!'"
"Until now, I've been seen, with a calm face,
Winning an easy advantage for my cause.
I’ve effortlessly avenged, in my scattered verses,
A few words, a few lines diminished by Themis.
Let’s muster more courage: a great effort remains;
Let’s approach this deadly passage without flinching,
From one end to the other filled with dark crosses!
There, undermining by my wishes the palace of our kings,
Shaking the legitimate base of the state,
I call for the regime of usurped blood,
I summon Discord with her bloodstained arms!
Is it true? Am I really that guilty?... Listen!
'He now knows, he no longer needs to learn
What he is, what he was, and what he could have been.
Oh! you must often tell yourself and go over
How vast your future should have seemed!
How brief was your first dream in your cradle,
Doubly protected by right and the sword,
From the hopes of people, a comforting expectation,
Grandson of a Caesar and son of an emperor,
Heir to the world, born a king of Rome,
Today you are nothing but the son of man!
Yet, what king's son wouldn’t trade that obscure name
For his title and future scepter?
But what! Content with a name worth a diadem,
Do you not want to conquer anything for yourself one day?
At night, when your clock has chimed twelve times,
When no sound comes from the sleeping palace,
And alone in the midst of an empty room,
You keep watch, haunted by your eager thoughts,
Surely sometimes an inner demon comes to speak of
Your future fate.
Yes, as long as your ancestor, over your adolescence,
Extends his noble protection,
The jealous archdukes, suppressing their pride,
Will imitate the old man's powerful welcome;
But who can guarantee this fraternal peace?
Perhaps right now, death is raising her wing;
Sooner or later, amid her Hungarian guards,
She will bring the scythe down on the oldest king.
Then, it will be time to explain this puzzle
Of a mysterious fate unknown to you.
[Pg 403]
Son of Napoleon, grandson of Francis,
You will have to make a choice between two futures.
May you, dominated by your mother's blood,
Banish a vain illusion from your mind,
And extinguish the torch of ambition!
The fate that remains is still quite beautiful;
Kings have greatly consoled your young age;
The duchy of Reichstadt is a rich dukedom,
And one day, as a German colonel,
You could lead a noble regiment in parade!
Let your young heart aim for that goal;
Limit your desires, your glory, and your empire there.
Let’s no longer keep hopes for unexpected reigns,
What we witnessed once should not reappear!'"
Not so, O poet! We shall never see again what we have seen; the phantom child which you have invoked from its premature grave was only to be seen by history as a pale spectre held up to view in a dim poetic distance, as Astyanax or Britannicus; the days that have been we shall know no more. But the future was reserving a still more extraordinary vision for us, which was to confirm the words Dr. Schlegel said to me in 1838: "History has been invented to prove the futility of the examples she sets before us."
Not so, poet! We will never see again what we have seen; the ghostly child you’ve called up from its early grave will only be remembered by history as a faint shadow displayed in a hazy poetic distance, like Astyanax or Britannicus; the days that have passed will remain unknown to us. But the future had an even more extraordinary vision in store for us, which was meant to prove the words Dr. Schlegel told me in 1838: "History has been created to demonstrate the futility of the examples it provides."
Meanwhile Barthélemy was being sentenced to three months' imprisonment and a fine of 1000 francs, in spite of, or perhaps because of, his pleading. But if the prisoner had not done with Justice, neither had Justice done with the prisoner. Barthélemy was hardly inside the prison before he received the following letter from M. Guillebert, Registrar:—
Meanwhile, Barthélemy was sentenced to three months in prison and a fine of 1000 francs, despite, or maybe because of, his pleas. But if the prisoner was not finished with Justice, Justice was not finished with the prisoner either. Barthélemy had barely entered the prison when he received the following letter from M. Guillebert, Registrar:—
"PARIS, 6 May 1830
"PARIS, May 6, 1830
"MONSIEUR,—I had the honour of asking you in my letter of 22 March last, to settle the fines and expenses which you were sentenced to pay by order of the Royal Court on 7 January last, amounting to:—
"SIR,—I was pleased to ask you in my letter dated March 22nd to take care of the fines and costs that you were required to pay by the Royal Court on January 7th, which amount to:—"
Invoice
francs
Fine 1,000.00
Ten percent 100.00
Legal fees and appeal costs 81.45
Total, 1,181.45
"I repeat my request, as I made a mistake in my first application, for 1208 francs 95 centimes. I beg you to discharge these payments by the 10th instant, to avoid the putting into execution of legal methods according to Article 52 of the Code pénal.
"I would like to reiterate my request, as I made an error in my initial application, for 1208 francs and 95 centimes. I kindly ask that you process this payment by the 10th of this month to avoid resorting to legal measures as mentioned in Article 52 of the Code pénal.
"I have the honour to remain
I remain at your service
"GUILLEBERT, Registrar"
"GUILLEBERT, Registrar"
And M. Guillebert, who would have been as polite to any prisoner but would, undoubtedly, not have been so punctilious with him if he had not been a poet, had the complaisance to put that 52nd Article of the Code pénal, to which he alluded so delicately, in a postscript. This is the article which, I suppose, has remained unaltered under the government of King Louis-Philippe I., and under that of M. Bonaparte:—
And M. Guillebert, who would have been polite to any prisoner but definitely wouldn’t have been so formal with him if he wasn’t a poet, kindly added that 52nd Article of the Code pénal, which he hinted at so subtly, in a postscript. This is the article that, I assume, has stayed unchanged under the government of King Louis-Philippe I and under M. Bonaparte:—
Article 52
Article 52
"Distraining for fines, restitutions, damages and interest, and for costs, can be enforced by means of imprisonment."
"Seizing property for fines, restitution, damages, and interest, as well as for costs, can be enforced through imprisonment."
To this letter Barthélemy replied, on 9 May 1830, by an epistle entitled La Bourse ou la Prison. But in comparison with Fontan and Magallon, Barthélemy had nothing to complain of: he was lodged in a palace. The palace was rent free, but he gives us the tariff for the cost of furnishing it:—
To this letter, Barthélemy responded on May 9, 1830, with a piece titled La Bourse ou la Prison. However, compared to Fontan and Magallon, Barthélemy really had no reason to complain: he was staying in a palace. The palace was rent-free, but he shows us the costs for furnishing it:—
francs
Regular bed, two mattresses, sheets, one blanket and
bolster 4 50
For each additional blanket 6 50
One pillow 9 50
One chair 6 50
One table 6 50
Total, 33 50
And it was by these actions that the Government was alienating itself from the people by the scandalous trials of Carbonneau, Pleignies and Tolleron successively; from the army by the executions of Bories, Raoul, Goubin and Pommier; from the high military aristocracy by the assassination[Pg 405] of Brune, Ramel, Ney and Mouton-Duverney; from the middle classes by the dissolution of the National Guard; and was alienating a race far more dangerous still, namely poets, journalists and men of letters, by the sentences which struck successively such men as Paul-Louis Courier, Cauchois-Lemaire, Magallon, Béranger, Fontan and Barthélemy.
And it was through these actions that the Government was distancing itself from the people due to the shocking trials of Carbonneau, Pleignies, and Tolleron one after another; from the army because of the executions of Bories, Raoul, Goubin, and Pommier; from the high military aristocracy through the assassination[Pg 405] of Brune, Ramel, Ney, and Mouton-Duverney; from the middle classes due to the dissolution of the National Guard; and was also alienating a group that was even more dangerous, namely poets, journalists, and writers, through the sentences that targeted such individuals as Paul-Louis Courier, Cauchois-Lemaire, Magallon, Béranger, Fontan, and Barthélemy.
Now, a Government which has the people, the army, the middle classes and literature opposed to it is in a very bad way, and this Government was therefore in a very bad way on 31 July 1829, on which day it pronounced its sentence on Barthélemy; exactly a year later, to the day, it was defunct.
Now, a government that has the people, the military, the middle class, and literature against it is in serious trouble, and this government was indeed in serious trouble on July 31, 1829, the day it delivered its verdict on Barthélemy; exactly one year later, to the day, it was no longer in existence.
Finally, an anecdote I am just about to relate will prove that I partially foresaw the trend of coming events. My new position in the library of the Duc d'Orléans (a post which, as I have already pointed out to my readers, was more honorary than lucrative) possessed the great advantage to me of affording me an immense office, where I could carry on my literary and historical researches nearly as well as, and far more comfortably than, in the Bibliothèque royale. So I was more regular in my attendance than either of my two confrères, Vatout and Casimir Delavigne. Accordingly, one day, when the Duc d'Orléans came in, humming a tune from one of the masses—a habit of his when he was in a good temper, which, I must say, he nearly always was—he remarked:
Finally, a story I'm about to share will show that I somewhat anticipated the direction of future events. My new role in the library of the Duc d'Orléans (a job that, as I've already mentioned to my readers, was more about prestige than financial gain) had the great benefit of giving me a spacious office where I could conduct my literary and historical research almost as effectively, and much more comfortably, than in the Bibliothèque royale. So I was more consistent in my attendance than either of my two colleagues, Vatout and Casimir Delavigne. One day, when the Duc d'Orléans came in, humming a tune from one of the masses—a habit he had when he was in a good mood, which, I must say, was almost always—he noted:
"So! are you by yourself, M. Dumas?"
"So, are you by yourself, M. Dumas?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Yes, sir."
The Duc d'Orléans took two or three turns round the library, still continuing his singing. Then he went on, a moment later—
The Duc d'Orléans took a couple of laps around the library, still singing. Then, a moment later, he moved on—
"Neither Vatout, nor Casimir, nor Tallencourt?..."
"Neither Vatout, nor Casimir, nor Tallencourt?..."
"MM. Vatout and Casimir have not come, monseigneur, and Tallencourt has gone out."
"MM. Vatout and Casimir haven't shown up, Your Grace, and Tallencourt has gone out."
Twice again he perambulated round the library, still humming to himself. He evidently wished to enter into conversation, so I ventured to ask him—
Twice more he strolled around the library, still humming to himself. It was clear he wanted to chat, so I took a chance and asked him—
"Does monseigneur want anything I can do in the absence of the other gentlemen?"
"Does sir need anything I can handle while the other gentlemen are away?"
"No; I wanted to show Vatout an historic portrait and to ask his opinion."
"No; I wanted to show Vatout a historic portrait and ask for his opinion."
"Unhappily, as monseigneur needs advice, I am afraid I am no substitute for M. Vatout."
"Unfortunately, since the monseigneur needs advice, I’m afraid I’m no replacement for M. Vatout."
"Come with me, nevertheless," said the duke.
"Come with me, though," said the duke.
I bowed and followed the prince from the library to the picture gallery.
I bowed and followed the prince from the library to the picture gallery.
Upon an easel rested a portrait that had just been brought back from the framer; it was waiting for the name of the original to be painted on the frame. It was a portrait of the emperor, painted by Manzaisse. To find, in 1829, a portrait of the emperor in the palace of the first prince of the blood royal was such a novel species of boldness that I could do nothing but wonder at it.
Upon an easel sat a portrait that had just been returned from the framer; it was waiting for the name of the original to be added to the frame. It was a portrait of the emperor, painted by Manzaisse. In 1829, discovering a portrait of the emperor in the palace of the first prince of the royal blood was such a shocking act of audacity that I could only marvel at it.
"What do you think of that portrait?" asked the Duc d'Orléans.
"What do you think of that painting?" asked the Duke of Orléans.
"I am "not very fond of the paintings of M. Mauzaisse, monseigneur."
"I don't really like the paintings of M. Mauzaisse, your Excellency."
"Ah, true, I forgot you were a romanticist in painting and in literature. You admire the painting of M. Delacroix?"
"Ah, right, I forgot you were a romantic when it comes to painting and literature. You appreciate M. Delacroix's art?"
"Yes, monseigneur; also of M. Delacroix, M. Scheffer, M. Granet, M. Decamps, M. Boulanger, M. Eugène Devéria—oh! we allow a wide margin!"
"Yes, sir; also of Mr. Delacroix, Mr. Scheffer, Mr. Granet, Mr. Decamps, Mr. Boulanger, Mr. Eugène Devéria—oh! we allow for a lot!"
"Excellent! I am aware you know all about these gentlemen—but that is not to my present purpose. This is a portrait which I have just had painted for my gallery; and there is nothing wanting, as you see, except the insertion of the name. Ought I to put Bonaparte? It would look like affectation only to recognise the First Consul. Ought I to put Napoléon? It would seem an affectation to call him emperor; that was the point on which I wished to consult Vatout."
"Great! I know you’re well-acquainted with these gentlemen—but that’s not my main point right now. This is a portrait I just had painted for my gallery; and as you can see, everything is there except for the name. Should I put Bonaparte? It would seem pretentious to only acknowledge the First Consul. Should I put Napoléon? It would feel like an affectation to call him emperor; that's the issue I wanted to discuss with Vatout."
"But," I replied, "it seems a very simple matter to me; put Napoléon Bonaparte, monseigneur."
"But," I replied, "it seems like a very simple issue to me; put Napoléon Bonaparte, your honor."
"Yes; but that still implies the emperor.... Napoleon, if my memory serves me correctly, was unjust to your family and you have no love for him, I believe."
"Sure, but that still points to the emperor... Napoleon, if I remember right, was unfair to your family, and I take it you don’t have any fondness for him."
"Monseigneur, I must confess that where that great man is[Pg 407] concerned I share Madame Turenne's opinion of him, that of admiration."
"Sir, I have to admit that when it comes to that great man[Pg 407], I agree with Madame Turenne's view of him—it's one of admiration."
"He was a great man; but there were two terrible blots on his character—one was a crime, the other a fault—his assassination of the Duc d'Enghien, and his marriage with Marie-Louise."
"He was a great man, but there were two serious stains on his character—one was a crime, the other a flaw—his assassination of the Duc d'Enghien, and his marriage to Marie-Louise."
"Does monseigneur pardon his usurpation?"
"Does the lord forgive his usurpation?"
"I did not say so."
"I didn't say that."
"Monseigneur knows the Médecin malgré lui?"
"Monseigneur knows the Médecin malgré lui?"
"Yes, I admire it immensely."
"Yes, I really admire it."
"Well, in the Médecin malgré lui Sganarille remarks that there are fagots and fagots."
"Well, in the Médecin malgré lui, Sganarille points out that there are bundles and bundles."
"Meaning, I presume ...?"
"Meaning, I assume ...?"
"That there are usurpations and usurpations."
"That there are takeovers and takeovers."
"Bah!"
"Ugh!"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Yes, my lord."
"I do not understand your meaning."
"I don't understand what you mean."
"I mean to say—and you who are so fair-minded, monseigneur, will readily understand me—that there is a usurpation which substitutes one dynasty for another dynasty by the instrumentality of violence, breaking up all the roots of the old dynasty throughout the country, all the interests connected with it, leaving raw open wounds for long enough among the aristocracy and the middle and lower classes, which are slow to heal; and there is the usurpation which purely and simply substitutes one man for another, a green bough for a withered branch, and popularity for unpopularity—that is what I mean, monseigneur, by my two usurpations."
"I want to say—and I know you, who are so fair-minded, monseigneur, will understand me—that there’s a usurpation that replaces one dynasty with another through violence, tearing out all the roots of the old dynasty across the country, disrupting all the interests tied to it, and leaving serious wounds in the aristocracy and the middle and lower classes that take a long time to heal; and then there’s the usurpation that simply replaces one person with another, a fresh branch for a dead one, and popularity for unpopularity—that’s what I mean, monseigneur, by my two usurpations."
The Duc d'Orléans laughingly lifted up his hand, as though to stop me; but he let me finish, all the same.
The Duc d'Orléans chuckled and raised his hand, as if to stop me; but he still let me finish.
"M. Dumas," he said to me, "that is a somewhat subtle question, and one which, if you must have it answered, should be referred to a council and not to a prince of the blood. However, you are right about the portrait; I will put Napoléon Bonaparte."
"M. Dumas," he said to me, "that's a pretty tricky question, and if you really want it answered, it should go to a council and not to a prince of the blood. Still, you’re correct about the portrait; I will put Napoléon Bonaparte."
I bowed and withdrew to the library.
I bowed and left for the library.
The duke remained in the picture gallery lost in thought.
The duke stood in the picture gallery, deep in thought.
CHAPTER V
The things that are the greatest enemies to the success of a play—The honesty of Mademoiselle Mars' as an actress—Her dressing-room—The habitués at her supper-parties—Vatout—Denniée—Becquet—Mornay—Mademoiselle Mars in her own home—Her last days on the stage—Material result of the success of Henri III.—My first speculation—The recasting of Christine—Where I looked for my inspiration—Two other ideas
The main challenges to a play's success—Mademoiselle Mars' integrity as an actress—Her dressing room—The usual guests at her dinner parties—Vatout—Denniée—Becquet—Mornay—Mademoiselle Mars in her personal space—Her last days on stage—The concrete results of the success of Henri III.—My initial investment—The revision of Christine—Where I looked for inspiration—Two other ideas
At the thirty-fifth representation of Henri III. Mademoiselle Mars was obliged to take her holiday. She did her utmost to persuade the Comédie-Française to compensate her for this holiday; she gave them every possible facility, but the Comédie-Française would not listen to anything. The success of Henri III. served certain interests but wounded certain amour-propres. At the Comédie-Française one suffers from a peculiarity unknown, or very nearly so, in any other theatre. The author whose piece is being acted makes enemies of all the actors who are not taking part in it.
At the thirty-fifth performance of Henri III. Mademoiselle Mars had to take her break. She tried her best to convince the Comédie-Française to compensate her for this time off; she offered every possible option, but the Comédie-Française wouldn’t listen to a word. The success of Henri III. benefited some interests but hurt others' egos. At the Comédie-Française, there's a unique situation that's almost unheard of in other theaters. The author of the play being performed ends up making enemies with all the actors who aren’t involved in it.
Towards the close of the run of Henri III. I noticed Monrose, an excellent comedian whose talents should have raised him above the paltry jealousies of those of lesser genius, come into the green-room, rubbing his hands together and exclaiming gleefully—
Towards the end of the run of Henri III. I spotted Monrose, a fantastic comedian whose skills should have lifted him above the petty jealousies of those with lesser talent, walk into the green room, rubbing his hands together and joyfully exclaiming—
"Ah! we have taken five hundred francs less to-night than at the last representation!"
"Ah! We've taken five hundred francs less tonight than at the last performance!"
I was present—he had not perceived me at first, and, when he caught sight of me, he pretended not to have seen me, and went away.
I was there—he didn't notice me at first, and when he finally saw me, he acted like he hadn't and walked away.
Mademoiselle Mars was on the point of renouncing her holiday, so reluctant was she to interrupt the success of the run.
Mademoiselle Mars was about to give up her vacation, so unwilling was she to disrupt the success of the show.
Mademoiselle Mars was an exceedingly straightforward, honest actress, I nearly said an honest man, and punctiliously accurate; everyone did his duty when connected with her, because she did hers as carefully as a pupil during her first year at a boarding-school. Once only was she a few minutes late at a rehearsal.
Mademoiselle Mars was an incredibly straightforward, honest actress; I almost said an honest man; and very precise. Everyone made sure to do their part when working with her because she approached her role as carefully as a student in their first year at a boarding school. She was only a few minutes late to a rehearsal once.
"I beg your pardon for being a quarter of an hour late," she said as she came in; "but I have just lost forty thousand francs.... Let us be quick and begin." And she rehearsed as though nothing had happened.
"I’m sorry for being fifteen minutes late," she said as she walked in; "but I just lost forty thousand francs... Let’s hurry up and get started." And she practiced as if nothing had happened.
Once, when she was going on the stage, she had a sort of apoplectic fit; but, instead of interrupting the play, as any other actress would have done, she sent for leeches, and between the first and third acts she took advantage of the second act, in which she did not have to appear, to apply them to her chest. When I entered her dressing-room after the play, she was covered with blood down to her slippers.
Once, when she was about to go on stage, she had something like a stroke; but instead of stopping the show like any other actress would have, she called for leeches and used the second act, when she didn’t have to appear, to apply them to her chest during the break between the first and third acts. When I walked into her dressing room after the performance, she was covered in blood all the way down to her slippers.
Mademoiselle Mars had a very large room—the same that Mademoiselle Rachel now has. At the end of each performance the room was always filled with people. Mademoiselle Mars did not trouble herself in the least about her visitors being present; she would undress and take off her paint and rouge with a modest dexterity quite remarkable: she had in particular a way of changing her chemise while talking, without showing anything of her person beyond her finger tips, that was a tour de force. When her toilet was complete, those who wished to accompany her home went with her and found a supper ready. The regular attenders at these suppers were Vatout, Romieu, Denniée, Becquet and myself, among men, and Julienne, her lady-companion—a character—the beautiful Amigo, the fair Madame Mira, and sometimes an old lady named Fusil.
Mademoiselle Mars had a really large room—the same one that Mademoiselle Rachel occupies now. After every performance, the room was always packed with people. Mademoiselle Mars didn't mind at all having visitors around; she would undress and take off her makeup with a remarkable skill: she had a specific way of changing her chemise while talking, managing to cover up everything but her fingertips, which was quite a feat. Once she was dressed, those who wanted to walk her home would join her and find a supper waiting for them. The regular guests at these dinners included Vatout, Romieu, Denniée, Becquet, and me, along with Julienne, her lady companion—a character in her own right—beautiful Amigo, the lovely Madame Mira, and sometimes an old lady named Fusil.
Mornay called every evening to conduct Mademoiselle Mars to the theatre, or saw her safely home.
Mornay called every evening to take Mademoiselle Mars to the theater or to make sure she got home safely.
My readers are acquainted with Romieu; I introduced him in company with his friend Rousseau. So as I have nothing fresh to tell about him, I will pass him over.
My readers know Romieu; I introduced him along with his friend Rousseau. Since I don’t have anything new to say about him, I’ll skip over him.
But I have hardly as yet described Vatout; Madame Valmore took him off well when she dubbed him a "butterfly in top-boots." Vatout was full of small defects and great qualities. He would superciliously hold out a finger to you if you offered to shake hands with him, and he put on the airs of a grand seigneur without ever succeeding in being mistaken for a grand seigneur. He had a good heart in spite of his uppish manners; and a charming mind behind his awkward appearance. He had a way of saying certain things that did not sit at all well on him. One of his monstrous affectations was to try and resemble the Duc D'Orléans; I have even been assured that, in confidence, he let people draw conclusions about this resemblance. The Duc d'Orléans was very fond of him and, when king, maintained his friendship with him. At the Cour Citoyenne they quoted his quips and sang his chansons. There was one in particular about the Mayor of Eu, which became the rage. Will our modest readers allow us to insert it here? for, to our way of thinking, it constituted his worthiest claim to the Académie. Do not let us do injustice to poor Vatout.
But I’ve hardly described Vatout yet; Madame Valmore summed him up perfectly when she called him a "butterfly in top-boots." Vatout had a mix of small flaws and significant strengths. He would haughtily extend a finger if you tried to shake hands with him and acted like a wealthy nobleman without ever truly being mistaken for one. He had a good heart despite his snobbish demeanor and a charming mind behind his awkward looks. He had a habit of saying things that really didn’t suit him. One of his outrageous pretensions was trying to look like the Duc d'Orléans; I’ve even been told that, in private, he allowed people to draw connections to this resemblance. The Duc d'Orléans was very fond of him and maintained their friendship when he became king. At the Cour Citoyenne, they quoted his jokes and sang his songs. There was one in particular about the Mayor of Eu that became hugely popular. Will our modest readers allow us to include it here? Because, in our opinion, it was his best case for joining the Académie. Let’s not do a disservice to poor Vatout.
LE MAIRE D'EU
AIR—à faire
"L'ambition, c'est des bêtises;
Ça vous rend triste et soucieux;
Mais, dans le vieux manoir des Guises.
Qui ne serait ambitieux?...
Tourmenté du besoin de faire
Quelque chose dans ce beau lieu,
J'ai brigué l'honneur d'être maire,
Et l'on m'a nommé maire d'Eu!
Notre origine n'est pas claire ...
Rollon nous gouverna jadis;
Mais César fut-il notre père,
Où descendons-nous, de Smerdis?
Dans l'embarras de ma pensée,
Un mot peut tout concilier:
Nous sommes issus de Persée;
Voyez plutôt mon mobilier!
[Pg 411]
Je ne suis pas fort à mon aise:
Ma mairie est un petit coin,
Et mon trône une simple chaise
Qui me sert en cas de besoin;
Mes habits ne sentent pas l'ambre:
Mon équipage brille peu;
Mais que m'importe! un pot de chambre
Suffit bien pour un maire d'Eu!
On vante partout ma police;
Ce qu'on fait ne m'échappe pas.
A tous je rends bonne justice;
J'observe avec soin tous, les cas.
On ne peut ni manger ni boire
Sans que tout passe sous mes yeux;
Mais c'est surtout les jours de foire
Qu'on me voit souvent sur les lieux.
Grâce aux roses que l'on recueille
Dans mon laborieux emploi,
Je préfère mon portefeuille
A celui des agents du roi.
Je brave les ordres sinistres
Qui brise leur pouvoir tout net;
Et, plus puissant que les ministres,
J'entre, en tout temps, au cabinet.
Je me complais dans mon empire;
Il ne me cause aucun souci;
Moi, j'aime l'air que l'on y respire;
On voit, on sent la mer d'ici!
Partout l'aisance et le bien-être;
Ma vie est un bouquet de fleurs..
Aussi j'aime beaucoup mieux être
Maire d'Eu que maire d'ailleurs!
Beau château bâti par les Guises,
Mer d'azur baignant le Tréport,
Lieux où Lauzun fit des bêtises,
Je suis à vous jusqu'à la mort;
Je veux, sous l'écharpe française,
Mourir en sénateur romain,
Calme et tranquille sur ma chaise
Tenant mes papiers à la main!'
THE MAYOR OF THE EU
Air—to do
"Ambition is just foolishness;
It makes you sad and anxious;
But in the old mansion of the Guises,
Who wouldn’t be ambitious?...
Tormented by the need to accomplish
Something in this beautiful place,
I sought the honor of being mayor,
And they made me the mayor of Eu!
Our origins are unclear ...
Rollon ruled us long ago;
But was Caesar our father,
Or do we descend from Smerdis?
In the confusion of my thoughts,
A single word can reconcile everything:
We are descended from Perseus;
Just look at my furniture!
[Pg 411]
I’m not exactly at ease:
My office is a small corner,
And my throne is just a simple chair
That I use when needed;
My clothes don’t smell of amber:
My carriage isn’t impressive;
But who cares! A chamber pot
Is enough for a mayor of Eu!
Everywhere, they rave about my governance;
I notice everything that happens.
I deliver good justice to all;
I carefully observe all cases.
You can’t eat or drink
Without it all passing under my watch;
But it’s especially on market days
That you’ll see me often around.
Thanks to the roses I gather
In my laborious role,
I prefer my wallet
To that of the king’s agents.
I defy the grim orders
That abruptly curtail their power;
And, more powerful than the ministers,
I can enter the cabinet at any time.
I take pleasure in my domain;
It doesn’t cause me any concern;
I love the air we breathe here;
You can see and feel the sea from here!
Everywhere ease and comfort;
My life is a bouquet of flowers..
So I much prefer being
Mayor of Eu than mayor elsewhere!
Beautiful castle built by the Guises,
Azure sea bathing Tréport,
Places where Lauzun indulged in folly,
I am yours until death;
I want, under the French sash,
To die a Roman senator,
Calm and relaxed in my chair
Holding my papers in my hand!"
Vatout was also the author of the famous mot said to an official who, accompanying the king down a by-street which the latter was determined to penetrate, made excuses at each step for the obstructions they encountered. Many hens had laid there, of the type of which Henri IV. had remarked, "Stop, stop, mother! I much prefer to see the hen than the egg!"
Vatout was also the author of the famous quote said to an official who, accompanying the king down a narrow street that the king was determined to walk through, made excuses at every step for the obstacles they faced. Many hens had laid there, like the kind Henri IV. once remarked, "Stop, stop, mother! I much prefer to see the hen than the egg!"
"Oh, sire," said the poor fellow,—"oh, sire, had I only known your Majesty intended passing this way, I would have had them all cleared away."
"Oh, sir," said the poor man, "oh, sir, if I had only known you were coming this way, I would have had everything cleared out."
"You would not have had the right to do that, M. le maire," Vatout gravely remarked; "they have their papers!"
"You shouldn't have done that, Mayor," Vatout said seriously; "they have their paperwork!"
Between 1821 and 1822 Vatout wrote a book which was an enormous success. It was about the adventures of la Charte and was entitled Histoire de la fille d'un Roi. Later, he wrote Idée fixe, which was scarcely read; then, some sort of a novel called the Conspiration de Cellamare; finally, various publications about the royal châteaux. In all, nothing very striking; but nevertheless he was consumed with the desire to become an Academician, Scribe urging him to it. He reached his goal, poor fellow; but in the interval between his nomination and his reception, being as faithful to the royal cause during its exile as he had been in the heyday of its powerfulness, he went to pay a visit to the exiles at Claremont, where he was taken ill after dinner, and died twenty-four hours later! He died without having had the joy of sitting once in the Académie! Poor Vatout! No one, I am sure, did him greater justice or regretted him more than I did. I obtained Hugo's vote for him with much difficulty.
Between 1821 and 1822, Vatout wrote a book that was hugely successful. It was about the adventures of la Charte and was titled Histoire de la fille d'un Roi. Later, he wrote Idée fixe, which hardly anyone read; then, he produced a sort of novel called Conspiration de Cellamare; finally, various publications related to the royal châteaux. Overall, nothing particularly remarkable; but he was still driven by a strong desire to become an Academician, with Scribe pushing him towards it. He achieved his goal, poor guy; but in the time between his nomination and his acceptance, remaining loyal to the royal cause during its exile just as he had been during its time of power, he went to visit the exiles at Claremont, where he fell ill after dinner and died twenty-four hours later! He passed away without ever having the joy of sitting in the Académie! Poor Vatout! No one, I’m sure, appreciated him more or felt his loss deeper than I did. I managed to get Hugo’s vote for him with great difficulty.
The whole of Parisian society knew Denniée, ex-ordonnateur-general, who, man of wit and pleasure-seeker as he was, talked as though his mouth were full of nutshells, and told a host of stories and anecdotes, each more strange and amusing than the last, with such a defective pronunciation that they acquired a convincing air of originality. He worshipped Mademoiselle Mars, who was very fond of him in return. If three days went Dy without Denniée being seen at her house,[Pg 413] one asked what had become of him; for nothing but illness or an accident could, it was supposed, account for so long an absence.
The entire Parisian society knew Denniée, the former general manager, who, being a witty and pleasure-seeking man, spoke as if his mouth were full of nutshells. He shared a ton of odd and entertaining stories, each stranger and funnier than the last, with such a unique way of pronouncing words that they seemed genuinely original. He admired Mademoiselle Mars, who also had a strong fondness for him. If three days went by without Denniée being spotted at her place,[Pg 413] people would wonder where he was because only illness or some accident could explain such a long absence.
Becquet was as well known as Denniée: perhaps he was even better known. He was one of the weekly contributors to the Journal des Débâts. He was exceedingly clever; but, as he got drunk regularly once a day, his intellect gradually became dulled. Two often quoted sayings of his will serve to illustrate the sort of respect and filial affection he had for his father. Once when Becquet the elder took his son to task concerning his unfortunate habit of drunkenness, saying to him.
Becquet was as well known as Denniée; maybe even more so. He contributed weekly to the Journal des Débâts. He was really smart, but since he drank heavily every day, his mind slowly started to dull. Two often-quoted sayings of his will show the kind of respect and affection he had for his father. One time, when Becquet the elder scolded his son about his unfortunate drinking habit, he said to him...
"See, you wretch, how it is ageing you; you will be taken for my father, and I shall outlive you by ten years!"
"Look at you, miserable soul, see how it's making you age; people will mistake you for my father, and I'll outlive you by ten years!"
"Ah!" Becquet languidly retorted, "why do you always say such disagreeable things to me?"
"Ah!" Becquet said lazily, "why do you always say such unpleasant things to me?"
Becquet possessed another habit, that of contracting debts. He owed money to everybody, and this widespread indebtedness reduced his father to despair.
Becquet had another habit: he accumulated debts. He owed money to everyone, and this extensive debt drove his father to despair.
"Wretch!" he said to him, on another occasion,—this was old Becquet's usual term for his son, sometimes used as an adjective, at others as a substantive,—"Wretch!" he said, "by God and the devil, I cannot conceive how you can live like this."
"Wretch!" he said to him on another occasion—this was old Becquet's usual term for his son, sometimes used as an adjective, at other times as a noun—"Wretch!" he said, "by God and the devil, I can't understand how you can live like this."
"Stay, father," Becquet replied, "you have just mentioned the only two powers to whom I do not owe anything."
"Wait, Dad," Becquet said, "you’ve just named the only two people I don’t owe anything to."
The day his father died—it is sad to relate that it was a festival-day for Becquet, who made merry in heart and purse—he dined at the café de Paris and ordered his menu like a man who is regardless of cost; but, when it came to the wine, he called the waiter; some doubt had probably arisen in his mind, and he wished the opinion of an expert.
The day his father died—it’s unfortunate to say that it was a celebration for Becquet, who was in high spirits and doing well financially—he had dinner at the café de Paris and ordered his meal like someone who didn’t care about the expense; however, when it came to the wine, he called the waiter over; he probably had some doubts and wanted the advice of an expert.
"Waiter," he asked, "is the Bordeaux in mourning?"
"Waiter," he asked, "is the Bordeaux sad?"
Two hours later, they carried Becquet home.
Two hours later, they brought Becquet home.
One night, I met Becquet in one of those marvellous states of intoxication that he alone could carry off in such lordly style. It was on the 21st of January.
One night, I ran into Becquet in one of those amazing states of intoxication that only he could pull off so gracefully. It was on January 21st.
"What!" said I to him, "drunk on this day of all days, Becquet?"
"What!" I said to him, "drunk on this day of all days, Becquet?"
"May I ask if there is, perchance, any day on which a man may not be drunk if he likes?" asked the author of Mouchoir bleu in amazement.
"Can I ask if there's any day when a guy can't get drunk if he wants to?" asked the author of Mouchoir bleu in surprise.
"Certainly, I should have thought there was, especially for you who are a Royalist, it being the anniversary of the death of Louis XVI."
"Of course, I should have thought there was, especially for you as a Royalist, since it’s the anniversary of Louis XVI's death."
Becquet seemed to reflect for an instant over the gravity of my observation; then, placing a hand on my shoulder—
Becquet seemed to think for a moment about the seriousness of what I had said; then, putting a hand on my shoulder—
"If they had not cut off the head of good King Louis XVI., do you suppose he would be dead now?"
"If they hadn't executed good King Louis XVI., do you think he would be dead now?"
"It is more than probable."
"It's very likely."
"Well, then," said Becquet, carelessly snapping his fingers, "how can you say anything to me?"
"Well, then," said Becquet, casually snapping his fingers, "how can you even say anything to me?"
And off he went with the aplomb of the drunkard, who, from long practice, has learnt to be superior to the general run of drinkers in being always able to walk straight when intoxicated.
And off he went with the confidence of a drunk, who, through long experience, has learned to be better than the average drinkers by always being able to walk straight when he’s had too much to drink.
It was when dead-drunk, after having left the house of Mademoiselle Mars, that Becquet wrote the famous article for the Journal des Débats which concluded with the following words, and which overthrew the monarchy:—
It was when he was completely drunk, after leaving Mademoiselle Mars' house, that Becquet wrote the famous article for the Journal des Débats which ended with the following words, and which toppled the monarchy:—
"Malheureuse France! Malheureux roi!" "Unfortunate France! Unfortunate King!"
"Poor France! Poor King!"
Becquet died of drink and died whilst drinking. For the last six months of his life he was never sober: his eyes became dull and expressionless; his actions were involuntary and instinctive; his hand mechanically felt for the bottle to pour wine into his glass, which he had not sufficient strength to empty. To the last moment, Mademoiselle Mars received him with the whole-hearted friendship that was one of her finest virtues. When Becquet died, she had not the heart to regret him although she shed tears at the news.
Becquet died from drinking and while drinking. For the last six months of his life, he was never sober: his eyes grew dull and lifeless; his actions were automatic and instinctual; his hand would mechanically reach for the bottle to pour wine into his glass, which he didn't have the strength to finish. Until the very end, Mademoiselle Mars welcomed him with the genuine friendship that was one of her greatest strengths. When Becquet passed away, she didn't have the heart to mourn him, even though she shed tears upon hearing the news.
Mornay formed a singular contrast to all those of whom I have been speaking. Mornay was elegant and aristocratic, he[Pg 415] was the gentry personified, and, in addition to all these qualifications, he had as much wit as all the rest of us put together. When Mornay was appointed plenipotentiary, and left first for the grand-duchy of Baden, and afterwards for Sweden, Mademoiselle Mars lost the brightest star of her salon. There are minds which possess the qualities of well-seasoned tinder, and set fire to all around with whom they come in contact; Mornay was one of these; the rest of us served him for flint. When, perchance, he happened to be too fatigued to use his own wits, he counted on our supplying his deficiency. Mornay had no fortune; but Mademoiselle Mars left him an income of 40,000 livres per annum at her death. He took down a portrait of her, which he carried away with him, remarking, "That is the only thing to which I have a right here," and he left the 40,000 livres per annum to the heirs of Mademoiselle Mars.
Mornay stood out completely compared to everyone I've mentioned. He was elegant and aristocratic; he was the essence of the gentry, and on top of all that, he had more wit than all of us combined. When Mornay was appointed as plenipotentiary and first went to the Grand Duchy of Baden, and then to Sweden, Mademoiselle Mars lost the brightest star of her salon. Some people have minds that act like well-seasoned tinder, igniting everyone they come into contact with; Mornay was one of those people, and the rest of us were just flint for his spark. If he happened to be too tired to think for himself, he relied on us to fill in the gaps. Mornay didn’t have any wealth, but after Mademoiselle Mars died, she left him an annual income of 40,000 livres. He took down a portrait of her to carry with him, saying, “That’s the only thing I have a right to here,” and he left the 40,000 livres a year to Mademoiselle Mars's heirs.
Mademoiselle Mars at the theatre, and Mademoiselle Mars in her private home, were two quite different beings. On the stage, her voice was entrancing, almost like a song, and her looks were endearing and soft, full of bewitching charm. At home, her voice was harsh, she looked almost hard and her movements were brusque and impatient. Her theatrical voice was acquired, an instrument on which she had been taught to play and which she played marvellously well, but she rightly mistrusted it when she had to express great crises of passion, or to give effect to great heights of poesy; she was afraid then of straining her gentle notes, and she almost envied Madame Dorval her hoarse, raucous voice which enabled her to utter piteous cries that went straight to the heart. I never knew anyone who was more modest about her talents than was Mademoiselle Mars: she never spoke of herself, her triumphs, or her creations; she admired her father, Mouvel, profoundly; she was his pupil, and it gave her evident pleasure to talk of him. She was also a great admirer of Mademoiselle Contat, and it was odd to hear her confessing her inferiority to this great actress, in regard to certain points of art. I cannot say if all the tales told about the age of Mademoiselle[Pg 416] Mars be true, but I know she never concealed a week of it from her friends. She had a marble sculpture by Boule, in her salon, which had been given by Queen Marie-Antoinette to her mother because they had both been confined on the same day. Therefore, Mademoiselle Mars must have been exactly the same age as the Duchesse d'Angoulême, who was born on 19 December 1778. When Mademoiselle Mars liked, she could be charming, for she possessed a great fund of humour; her voice was just the voice that could imitate, and when she criticised the members of the Comédie-Française, from Mademoiselle Plessy to Ligier, it was tersely but capitally done. She showed much kindness towards and interest in persons whom she thought to possess talent, and would help them with her advice, her talent and her influence. She once rescued a clown who was performing in the square at Metz and never rested until she had found a small position for him. She recommended him to me in 1833 or 1834, but I had no opportunity of giving him a part for fifteen or eighteen years, when I entrusted him with the rôle of Lorrain in the Barrière de Clichy. The man's name was Patonnelle and he was one of the best riders at the Cirque.
Mademoiselle Mars at the theater and Mademoiselle Mars at home were two completely different people. On stage, her voice was enchanting, almost like singing, and her appearance was warm and soft, filled with captivating charm. At home, her voice was abrasive, she looked almost cold, and her movements were abrupt and restless. Her theatrical voice was something she had developed, a skill she had been taught to master and excelled at, but she was rightly skeptical of it when it came to expressing intense emotions or conveying deep poetry; she feared straining her delicate tones, and she almost envied Madame Dorval’s rough, gravelly voice, which allowed her to deliver heart-wrenching cries that touched the soul. I never met anyone more humble about her abilities than Mademoiselle Mars: she never spoke of herself, her successes, or her creations; she held her father, Mouvel, in deep admiration; she was his student, and she genuinely enjoyed talking about him. She also greatly admired Mademoiselle Contat, and it was surprising to hear her admit that she felt inferior to this great actress in certain artistic aspects. I can't say if all the stories about Mademoiselle Mars' age are true, but I know she never hid it from her friends. She had a marble sculpture by Boule in her living room, which Queen Marie-Antoinette had given to her mother because they had both given birth on the same day. This means Mademoiselle Mars must have been exactly the same age as the Duchesse d'Angoulême, who was born on December 19, 1778. When Mademoiselle Mars wanted to, she could be delightful, as she had a great sense of humor; her voice was perfect for imitating, and when she critiqued members of the Comédie-Française, from Mademoiselle Plessy to Ligier, it was done succinctly but brilliantly. She showed a lot of kindness towards and interest in those she thought had talent, and she would assist them with her advice, her talent, and her influence. She once rescued a clown performing in the square at Metz and didn’t rest until she found him a small job. She recommended him to me in 1833 or 1834, but I didn't have the chance to cast him for fifteen or eighteen years, when I gave him the role of Lorrain in the Barrière de Clichy. The man's name was Patonnelle, and he was one of the best riders at the Cirque.
In common with Talma, Mademoiselle Mars saw her reputation go on increasing to the very day on which she finally left the stage. Her last creation, Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle, was one of her happiest performances. I was her latest supporter at the theatre and, in all probability, I had the good fortune of prolonging her career for two or three years.
In line with Talma, Mademoiselle Mars watched her reputation continue to grow right up until the day she left the stage for good. Her final role, Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle, was one of her best performances. I was her most recent fan at the theater and, most likely, I had the luck of extending her career by two or three years.
The latter days of her period at the Comédie-Française were tinged with bitterness. One day, at an extra performance, someone threw a crown of immortelles at her feet, such as are placed upon tombs. It had been put together in one of the very boxes of the theatre, and I could, if I chose, mention in whose. When she left the stage the same thing occurred as after the loss of Talma. Everyone believed himself capable of replacing Talma, and everyone hoped to replace Mademoiselle Mars: they attempted it in their old rôles; they invented new ones. Managers and papers did[Pg 417] their part by puffing and praising budding reputations. They had Turenne's money;—had they even the money of Mademoiselle Mars?...
The last days of her time at the Comédie-Française were filled with bitterness. One day, during an extra performance, someone tossed a wreath of immortelles at her feet, similar to those placed on graves. It had been crafted in one of the theater's boxes, and I could, if I wanted, reveal whose it was. When she left the stage, the same thing happened as after Talma's passing. Everyone thought they could take Talma's place, and everyone hoped to take Mademoiselle Mars's: they tried to do it in their old roles and came up with new ones. Managers and media played their part by promoting and praising emerging talents. They had Turenne's money; did they even have Mademoiselle Mars's money?...
Although Henri III. did not bring any very great wealth to our household, it had, nevertheless, produced a considerable change: first and foremost it had freed us from debt; it had repaid Porcher and M. Laffitte; it had permitted us to quit our humble lodgings in the rue Saint-Denis and to hire for my mother a set of rooms on the ground floor, with a garden, at No. 7 rue Madame. She had been recommended to have air and exercise, and I chose that street and quarter so as to be close to Mesdames Villenave and Waldor, who from family reasons had left their house in the rue de Vaugirard and taken a suite of apartments at No. 11 rue Madame. I had hired a separate room for myself, on the fourth floor, at the corner of rue de l'Université and the rue du Bac, and, as my new position brought me visitors from among the ladies and gentlemen of the Théâtre-Français, I made this room as pretty as I could afford.
Although Henri III. didn’t bring a huge amount of money into our household, it still made a significant difference: first and foremost, it got us out of debt; it paid back Porcher and M. Laffitte; it allowed us to leave our modest place in rue Saint-Denis and rent a set of rooms on the ground floor, with a garden, at No. 7 rue Madame. My mother had been advised to get fresh air and exercise, so I chose that street and area to be close to Mesdames Villenave and Waldor, who, for family reasons, had left their home in rue de Vaugirard and rented a suite of apartments at No. 11 rue Madame. I rented a separate room for myself on the fourth floor, at the corner of rue de l'Université and rue du Bac, and since my new position brought visitors from the ladies and gentlemen of the Théâtre-Français, I decorated this room as nicely as I could afford.
As I had learnt from past experience never to trust too much to the future, I had compounded for my food for one year, paying 1800 francs in advance; or, to be more exact, I paid for 365 breakfast coupons and 365 dinner tickets, wine not included. Unluckily, a month after I had made this arrangement, the Café Desmares went bankrupt, and I lost my year's payment and meals. It was my first speculation, and it turned out badly, it will be seen.
As I had learned from past experience not to rely too much on the future, I prepaid for my meals for a year, putting down 1800 francs upfront; to be precise, I bought 365 breakfast coupons and 365 dinner tickets, excluding wine. Unfortunately, a month after I made this deal, the Café Desmares went bankrupt, and I lost my entire year's payment and meals. It was my first investment, and it didn't go well, as you will see.
Meanwhile, I had been receiving reproaches from an exceedingly charming young lady at the Théâtre-Français, who grumbled because, after having had an insignificant part in Henri III. there was none at all for her in Christine—for I still flattered myself with the hope that my Christine would yet be played at the Théâtre-Français, in spite of the delay owing to M. Brault, who had died meanwhile; and now the Comédie-Française was not in a hurry to take up either. Her reproaches went home, as they were deserved, and I felt I owed her a double reparation. I therefore replied—
Meanwhile, I had been getting an earful from a very charming young lady at the Théâtre-Français, who complained that after having a small role in Henri III., she didn’t have any role in Christine—since I was still holding on to the hope that my Christine would eventually be performed at the Théâtre-Français, despite the delay caused by the death of M. Brault; and now the Comédie-Française wasn't rushing to take it up either. Her complaints hit home, as they were justified, and I felt I owed her a double apology. So, I replied—
"Set your mind at rest: I will recast Christine in order to make it more dramatic and up to date, and something shall come out of the transformation that will, I hope, satisfy you."
"Don't worry: I will update Christine to make it more dramatic and relevant, and I hope the changes will be something that satisfies you."
The mind of a worker is often full of singular prejudices, which are sometimes odd enough to border upon mania: at times he imagines he can only conceive his schemes in such and such a place; at others, that he can only write his play on some special kind of paper. I got it into my head that I could only evolve a fresh Christine out of my old Christine if I took a short journey, and was rocked by the motion of a carriage. As I was not yet rich enough to go in a carriage, I chose a diligence; it did not matter where the diligence was going, provided I had the coupé, the inside or the rotonde to myself. I went to the cour des Messageries and, after a couple of hours' waiting, I found what I wanted, a coach with no passenger in the coupé. The diligence was bound for Havre. This was, indeed, a chance for me, for I had never been to a seaport, and I should be killing two birds with one stone. In those days it took fully twenty hours to go from Paris to Havre; this, again, suited me well enough. Inspiration would have plenty of time to work, or it would never come at all. I set off and, as imagination, naturally, plays a principal part in works of art, when my imagination had what it wanted in the way of external conditions for working, it began to work. By the time I reached Havre, my play was recast; I had divided the scenes between Stockholm, Fontainebleau and Rome, and the character of Paula rose out of this fresh genesis. It meant a complete overhauling and rewriting of the entire play, and very little was left of the original one. Although I was in great haste to set to work, I did not start back again to Paris before I had seen the sea. I stayed at Havre just long enough to eat some oysters, to have a sail on the sea, and to buy a couple of china vases which I could have got cheaper in Paris, and then I got into the diligence. In seventy-two hours I had been my journey and reconstructed my play.
The mind of a worker is often filled with strange biases, sometimes so odd they start to seem like madness: sometimes he thinks he can only come up with his ideas in a specific place; other times, he believes he can only write his play on a certain type of paper. I convinced myself that I could only develop a new Christine from my old Christine if I took a short trip and was swayed by the motion of a carriage. Since I wasn’t rich enough to go by carriage, I opted for a stagecoach; it didn’t matter where it was headed, as long as I had the coupé, the inside, or the rotonde to myself. I went to the cour des Messageries and, after waiting a couple of hours, I found what I was looking for: a coach with no other passenger in the coupé. The stagecoach was headed for Havre. This was actually a great opportunity for me since I had never been to a seaport, and it allowed me to do two things at once. Back then, it took a solid twenty hours to travel from Paris to Havre, which suited me just fine. Inspiration would have plenty of time to develop, or it wouldn’t come at all. I set off, and as imagination plays a crucial role in creating art, once my imagination had the right external conditions to work, it began to flow. By the time I reached Havre, my play was completely reimagined; I had divided the scenes between Stockholm, Fontainebleau, and Rome, and the character of Paula emerged from this new creation. It required a total overhaul and rewrite of the entire play, leaving little of the original behind. Although I was eager to get to work, I didn’t head back to Paris until I had seen the sea. I stayed in Havre just long enough to eat some oysters, take a sail on the sea, and buy a couple of china vases that I could have found cheaper in Paris, and then I got back on the stagecoach. In seventy-two hours, I made my journey and reconstructed my play.
I have spoken of the strange prejudices which imperiously[Pg 419] impose certain conditions under which work shall be fulfilled. No one is less of a maniac than myself; nobody who acquires the habit of working incessantly, as I did, could work with greater ease than I, and yet, three times, I have felt absolutely compelled to obey a caprice. The first occasion I have just related; the second was over the composition of Don Juan de Marana, and the third was connected with Capitaine Paul. I was possessed with the notion that I could only conceive my fantastic drama to the sound of some music. I asked for tickets from my friend Zimmermann, for the Conservatoire, and, in the corner of a box together with three strangers, my eyes closed as though I were asleep, soothed into semi-unconsciousness by Beethoven and Weber, I composed the principal scenes of my drama in two hours.
I’ve talked about the strange biases that impose certain conditions on how work should be done. No one is less of a maniac than I am; no one who gets used to working nonstop, like I did, could find it easier to work than I do, yet three times, I have felt completely compelled to follow a whim. I just mentioned the first occasion; the second was while writing Don Juan de Marana, and the third was related to Capitaine Paul. I had this idea that I could only create my quirky drama while listening to some music. I asked my friend Zimmermann for tickets to the Conservatoire, and in the corner of a box with three strangers, my eyes closed as if I were asleep, lulled into a semi-conscious state by Beethoven and Weber, I wrote the main scenes of my drama in two hours.
It was different in the case of Capitaine Paul: I needed sea, a wide horizon, clouds scudding across the sky, and breezes whistling through the rigging and masts of ships. I went a voyage to Sicily and anchored my little boat for a couple of hours at the entrance to the Straits of Messina. In two days' time Capitaine Paul was finished.
It was different with Capitaine Paul: I needed the ocean, a vast horizon, clouds moving quickly across the sky, and breezes whistling through the rigging and masts of ships. I took a trip to Sicily and anchored my small boat for a couple of hours at the entrance to the Straits of Messina. In two days, Capitaine Paul was complete.
On my return, I found a letter from Hugo. The success of Henri III. had inspired him with the desire to write a drama, and he invited me to go and hear it read at the house of Devéria. That drama was Marion Delorme.
On my return, I found a letter from Hugo. The success of Henri III. had inspired him to write a play, and he invited me to come and hear it read at Devéria's house. That play was Marion Delorme.
CHAPTER VI
Victor Hugo—His birth—His mother—Les Chassebœuf and les Comet—Captain Hugo—The signification of his name—Victor's godfather—The Hugo family in Corsica—M. Hugo is called to Naples by Joseph Bonaparte—He is appointed colonel and governor of the province of Avellino—Recollections of the poet's early childhood—Fra Diavolo—Joseph, King of Spain—Colonel Hugo is made a general, count, marquis and major-domo—The Archbishop of Tarragona—Madame Hugo and her children in Paris—The convent of Feuillantines
Victor Hugo—His birth—His mother—Les Chassebœuf and les Comet—Captain Hugo—The meaning of his name—Victor's godfather—The Hugo family in Corsica—M. Hugo is called to Naples by Joseph Bonaparte—He is appointed colonel and governor of the province of Avellino—Memories of the poet's early childhood—Fra Diavolo—Joseph, King of Spain—Colonel Hugo is promoted to general, count, marquis, and major-domo—The Archbishop of Tarragona—Madame Hugo and her children in Paris—The convent of Feuillantines
We will now devote a few pages to the author of Marion Delorme, Notre-Dame de Paris and Orientales; for we deem he is well worth the digression.
We will now spend a few pages on the author of Marion Delorme, Notre-Dame de Paris, and Orientales; because we believe he is definitely worth the diversion.
Victor Hugo was born on 26 March 1803. Where and under what conditions the poet himself tells us on the first page of his Feuilles d'Automne:—
Victor Hugo was born on March 26, 1803. He describes where and under what circumstances on the first page of his Feuilles d'Automne:—
"Ce siècle avait deux ans; Rome remplaçait Sparte;
Déjà Napoléon perçait sous Bonaparte,
Et du premier consul, trop gêné par le droit,
Le front de l'empereur brisait le masque étroit.
Alors, dans Besançon, vieille ville espagnole,
Jeté comme la graine au gré de l'air qui vole,
Naquit, d'un sang breton et lorrain à la fois,
Un enfant sans couleur, sans regard et sans voix;
Si débile, qu'il fut, ainsi qu'une chimère,
Abandonné de tous, excepté de sa mère,
Et que son cou, ployé comme un frêle roseau,
Fit faire, en même temps, sa bière et son berceau.
Cet enfant que la vie effaçait de son livre,
Et qui n'avait pas même un lendemain à vivre,
C'est moi...."
"Two years into this century; Rome was replacing Sparta;
Already Napoleon was emerging from Bonaparte,
And the first consul, too constrained by the law,
The emperor's forehead shattered the narrow facade.
At that time, in Besançon, an old Spanish town,
Thrown like seed to the whims of the flying air,
Was born, of both Breton and Lorraine blood,
A colorless child, without sight and without voice;
So frail that he was, like a chimera,
Abandoned by all, except for his mother,
And his neck, bent like a delicate reed,
Made his coffin and cradle at the same time.
This child that life was erasing from its pages,
And who had not even a tomorrow to live,
It’s me...."
The child was, indeed, so weak that, fifteen months after his birth, he could not even hold up his head on his shoulders,[Pg 421] but, as though it were already weighted with all the thoughts of which it only possessed the germ, it persistently fell forward on his breast.
The child was, in fact, so weak that, fifteen months after his birth, he couldn't even lift his head off his shoulders,[Pg 421] as if it were already heavy with all the thoughts he only had the seeds of, and it kept drooping forward onto his chest.
The poet continues:—
The poet goes on:—
Je vous dirai peut-être, quelque jour,
Quel lait pur, que de soins, que de vœux, que d'amour,
Prodigués pour ma vie, en naissant condamnée,
M'ont fait deux fois le fils de ma mère obstinée."
I might tell you one day,
What pure milk, what care, what wishes, what love,
Was lavished on my life, condemned from birth,
That made me twice the son of my stubborn mother."
His mother, of Breton blood, who persevered in battling with death for the life of her child, like a true mother and a Bretonne, was the daughter of a rich ship-owner of Nantes, and granddaughter of one of the leaders of the bourgeoisie in that land of opposition. Furthermore, she was cousin-german to Constantin François, Count of Chassebœuf, who renounced that grand feudal name, reminiscent of the barons pasteurs of the Middle Ages, for that of Volney, which would merely remind one of the name of a provincial comedian, if the gentleman who had the strange fancy of taking that name had not made it famous by putting it at the beginning of his Voyage en Égypte, and at the end of his Ruines; she was, besides, cousin of another imperial celebrity, Comte Cornet, who was less literary in his tastes than political. Comte Cornet, whose name is now, perhaps, forgotten, was deputy for Nantes and one of the Conseil des Cinq-Cents; he took part in the doings of the famous 18 brumaire, which changed the aspect of France for half a century. Instead of defending the privileges of the Assembly, he supported Bonaparte's pretensions; and Napoleon, ont of gratitude, made him senator—the usual reward for such services—then count; and so that he should possess everything—in quantity if not in quality—that the members of the old nobility possessed, who had rallied round the Empire, he gave him a coat of arms; but, through one of those pleasantries which a crowned soldier sometimes permits himself, this coat of arms, which recalled the somewhat plebeian origin of the person whom it was intended to ennoble, was azure with three cornets argent.
His mother, of Breton descent, who fought tirelessly against death for her child's life, like a true mother and a Breton woman, was the daughter of a wealthy shipowner from Nantes and the granddaughter of a leader of the bourgeoisie in that region known for its opposition. Additionally, she was a close cousin of Constantin François, Count of Chassebœuf, who gave up that grand feudal name, reminiscent of the baronial pastors of the Middle Ages, in favor of Volney, a name that might only remind one of a provincial comedian if the man who chose that name hadn’t made it famous by using it at the start of his *Voyage en Égypte* and at the end of his *Ruines*; furthermore, she was also a cousin of another notable figure, Count Cornet, who was less interested in literature than in politics. Count Cornet, whose name is perhaps now forgotten, served as a deputy for Nantes and was a member of the Conseil des Cinq-Cents; he participated in the events of the famous 18 Brumaire, which transformed France for half a century. Rather than defending the privileges of the Assembly, he supported Bonaparte's ambitions; and Napoleon, out of gratitude, made him a senator—the typical reward for such loyalty—then a count; to ensure that he possessed everything—in quantity if not in quality—that the members of the old nobility who had rallied around the Empire had, he granted him a coat of arms; but, as a whimsical touch that a crowned soldier sometimes allows himself, this coat of arms, which hinted at the somewhat common origins of the person it was meant to elevate, was blue with three silver cornets.
Madame Hugo's name was Sophie Trébuchet. She had, as we have seen, two peerages in her family, that of Comte Volney and that of Comte Cornet. Please remember this fact, for we shall have occasion again to refer to it. The Lorraine blood of which the poet sings came from his father, Joseph-Léopold-Sigisbert Hugo. From this side noble descent was quite undoubted; it sprang from an ancient German source.
Madame Hugo's name was Sophie Trébuchet. As we’ve noted, she had two noble titles in her family: that of Comte Volney and that of Comte Cornet. Keep this in mind, as we will refer to it again. The Lorraine heritage that the poet speaks of came from his father, Joseph-Léopold-Sigisbert Hugo. On this side, the noble lineage was clearly established; it traced back to an ancient German origin.
His grandfather, Georges Hugo, was captain of the guards to some duke of Lorraine, and had been ennobled in 1531, by letters patent dated at Lillebonne, in Normandy, by this duke, who bestowed on him as coat of arms, on a field azure, au chef d'argent, two martlets in sable. Three martlets are, as is well known, the arms of the House of Lorraine. So the duke could not have done more for his captain; another martlet, and he would have put him on the same level with himself. But those who wish for fuller details than we give on this subject, and a greater authority, should consult Hozier, register IV., under the heading of Hugo. However, as we believe in the magic of names, we will give some information that Hozier does not give—namely, that the old German word hugo is equivalent to the Latin word spiritus, and means breath, soul, spirit!
His grandfather, Georges Hugo, was the captain of the guards for a duke of Lorraine and was granted nobility in 1531 through letters patent issued in Lillebonne, Normandy, by this duke, who awarded him a coat of arms featuring a blue field with two black martlets on a silver chief. Everyone knows that three martlets represent the House of Lorraine. The duke couldn’t have honored his captain more; if he’d given him one more martlet, they would have been on the same level. For those who want more detailed information and a stronger source on this topic, check Hozier, register IV, under the heading Hugo. But since we believe in the significance of names, we’ll share something Hozier doesn’t mention—specifically, that the old German word hugo is equivalent to the Latin word spiritus, meaning breath, soul, spirit!
The feebler a babe is, the more need there is for haste to baptize it. Major Sigisbert Hugo, in command at that time at Besançon, which was the depot of a Corsican regiment, seeing his third son was so delicate, looked round and selected Victor Faneau de la Horie for godparent, who was shot in 1812 for being the instigating spirit of the conspiracy of which Mallet was the active agent. And from him the poet received his Christian name of Victor, which, added to his surname, no matter whether it precedes or follows it, can be translated in no other way than to mean—
The weaker a baby is, the more urgent it becomes to baptize them. Major Sigisbert Hugo, who was in charge at that time in Besançon, the base for a Corsican regiment, noticed that his third son was very fragile. He looked around and chose Victor Faneau de la Horie to be the godparent, who was executed in 1812 for being the main instigator of the conspiracy involving Mallet as the active participant. This is how the poet got the name Victor, which, whether it comes before or after his last name, can only be translated as—
"Conquering spirit—triumphant soul—victorious breath!"
"Conquering spirit—triumphant soul—victorious breath!"
The poet never thought of calling himself by any other name than the accident of his birth had decreed, as had his maternal cousin Chassebœuf, and we shall even see later that, when the addition would have been useful to him, he declined to call himself Hugo-Cornet.
The poet never considered using any name other than the one given to him at birth, just like his maternal cousin Chassebœuf. Later on, we’ll see that when a different name could have been beneficial for him, he chose not to call himself Hugo-Cornet.
Victor's father was one of the rough champions bred by the Revolution; he took up arms in 1791, and did not sheathe his sword until 1815. Others kept theirs in use until 1830 and 1848, but it was rarely that it brought them good fortune. In 1795 he was a lieutenant and fought in the Vendéan War. It was his company which formed part of the detachment, led by Commandant Muscar, that took Charette in the forest of la Chabotière. By a strange coincidence, it was Colonel Hugo who captured Fra Diavolo in Calabria, and General Hugo who took Juan Martin, otherwise known as the Empecinado, on the banks of the Tagus; they were the three principal leaders of that great period of wars which lasted more than a quarter of a century. Of course it will be well understood that we do not compare the noble and loyal Charette with the Calabrian brigand or the Spanish bandit. Charette was shot, Fra Diavolo hung and Juan Martin garroted. After the peaceful settlement of la Vendée the lieutenant got his captaincy, left the Loire for the Rhine and civil war for foreign campaigns, and became attached to the general staff of Moreau, with whom he made the campaign of 1796; he next went into Italy, to serve in Masséna's army corps.
Victor's father was one of the tough champions shaped by the Revolution; he took up arms in 1791 and didn’t put down his sword until 1815. Others kept fighting until 1830 and 1848, but it rarely brought them good luck. In 1795, he was a lieutenant and fought in the Vendéan War. His company was part of the unit led by Commandant Muscar that captured Charette in the forest of la Chabotière. Interestingly, it was Colonel Hugo who captured Fra Diavolo in Calabria, and General Hugo who took Juan Martin, also known as the Empecinado, on the banks of the Tagus; these were the three main leaders of that long period of wars that lasted over twenty-five years. Naturally, it’s understood that we don't compare the noble and loyal Charette with the Calabrian brigand or the Spanish bandit. Charette was shot, Fra Diavolo was hanged, and Juan Martin was garrotted. After the peaceful resolution of la Vendée, the lieutenant achieved his captaincy, left the Loire for the Rhine, switched from civil war to foreign campaigns, and joined the general staff of Moreau, with whom he fought in the 1796 campaign; he then went to Italy to serve in Masséna's army corps.
In connection with my father, I have mentioned what an antipathy Bonaparte felt towards officers who came to him already distinguished by their actions in the armies of the West and the Pyrenees and the North. Captain Sigisbert Hugo was yet another instance. At the battle of Caldiero, he was commanded by Masséna to hold the head of the bridge, with his company, and he was the pivot on which the fate of the whole battle turned; Masséna accordingly expected to be able to recompense this magnificent feat of arms by obtaining Captain Hugo his majority (chef de bataillon). But he had not reckoned for the general-in-chief's hatred. Bonaparte asked whence Captain Hugo had come, and when he learnt that he had belonged to the Army of the Rhine, he cancelled the nomination. King Louis-Philippe did pretty much the same injustice to the general as Bonaparte had to the captain: the name of the battle of Caldiero is on the Triumphal Arch at[Pg 424] Étoile, but that of General Hugo is not there. The poet avenged this strange oversight in the last line of his final stanza on the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile:—
In relation to my father, I've pointed out the strong dislike Bonaparte had for officers who were already recognized for their deeds in the armies of the West, the Pyrenees, and the North. Captain Sigisbert Hugo is another example. During the battle of Caldiero, he was ordered by Masséna to secure the head of the bridge with his company, and he became the key figure upon which the entire battle depended; therefore, Masséna hoped to reward this incredible display of bravery by promoting Captain Hugo to the rank of major (chef de bataillon). However, he hadn't anticipated the general-in-chief's animosity. When Bonaparte learned that Captain Hugo came from the Army of the Rhine, he blocked the promotion. King Louis-Philippe committed a similar injustice to the general as Bonaparte did to the captain: the name of the battle of Caldiero is inscribed on the Triumphal Arch at[Pg 424] Étoile, but General Hugo's name is absent. The poet sought to rectify this overlooked detail in the last line of his final stanza on the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile:—
"Quand ma pensée ainsi, vieillissant ton attique,
Te fait de l'avenir un passé magnifique,
Alors, sous ta grandeur je me courbe effrayé;
J'admire! et, fils pieux, passant que l'art anime,
Je ne regrette rien devant ton mur sublime,
Que Phidias absent, et mon père oublié!"
"Whenever my thoughts, aging your attic,
Turn the future into a glorious past,
Then, under your greatness, I bow in fear;
I admire! And, pious son, with the art that inspires,
I regret nothing before your sublime wall,
Except for the absent Phidias, and my forgotten father!"
However, as Captain Hugo was not among the number of those who are beaten in their career, he obtained his majority at last, but under what circumstances I am not aware. However that may be, he was a major, and happened to be in garrison at Lunéville when the conferences for the ratification of the treaty of Campo-Formio were begun in that town. At these conferences Joseph Bonaparte, who was later King of Naples, then King of Spain and the Indies, was plenipotentiary of the Republic. I knew this King of Naples and Spain well at Florence. His disposition was more gentle than elevated, more placid than bold; like his brothers Louis and Lucien, and we might even say like his brother Napoleon, he had had at first a passion for literature; the others had written memoirs, comedies and epic poems, he had written novels. His daughter, Princess Zenaïde, who is now Princess of Canino, was, I believe, named after one of her father's heroines. Joseph Bonaparte, as plenipotentiary, became intimate with Major Hugo, who, as we have mentioned, joined the depot of the Corsican regiment at Besançon when the conferences were concluded. And we have also stated that it was there the famous poet was born of whom we are now writing.
However, since Captain Hugo was not among those who failed in their careers, he eventually achieved his majority, though I’m not sure under what circumstances. Regardless, he was a major and happened to be stationed in Lunéville when the talks for ratifying the treaty of Campo-Formio started in that town. During these talks, Joseph Bonaparte, who later became King of Naples and then King of Spain and the Indies, served as the Republic's representative. I knew this King of Naples and Spain well while in Florence. His temperament was gentler than lofty, more calm than daring; like his brothers Louis and Lucien, and we might even say his brother Napoleon, he initially had a passion for literature. While the others wrote memoirs, comedies, and epic poems, he focused on writing novels. His daughter, Princess Zenaïde, who is now the Princess of Canino, was, I believe, named after one of her father's heroines. As the representative, Joseph Bonaparte became close with Major Hugo, who, as we've mentioned, joined the depot of the Corsican regiment in Besançon after the talks ended. We have also noted that it was there the famous poet, of whom we are now writing, was born.
Some months after his birth, the depot of which his father was in command received orders to undertake garrison duty on the isle of Elba. And on that island, where Napoleon began his decline and fall, the author of the Ode à la Colonne, or, rather, of the Odes à la Colonne, began to grow strong.
Some months after his birth, the station his father was in charge of got orders to provide garrison duty on the island of Elba. And on that island, where Napoleon started his decline and fall, the writer of the Ode à la Colonne, or, more accurately, the Odes à la Colonne, began to grow strong.
The first tongue that the child, who was predestined to be so[Pg 425] celebrated, learnt to talk was Italian; and the first word he pronounced—after those two words with which all human voices, lips and tongues begin, papa and mamma—was an apostrophe to his governess: "cattiva!" he called out one day, before anyone knew he had learnt the meaning of the word. Perhaps it may not be generally known that cattiva means naughty. Of the isle of Elba the child remembers nothing, and nothing of his early sojourn among his fellow-men; nothing of this earliest halt on the threshold of his existence has remained in his memory.
The first language that the child, who was destined to be so[Pg 425] celebrated, learned to speak was Italian; and the first word he said—after the two words that all human voices, lips, and tongues start with, papa and mamma—was an exclamation to his governess: "cattiva!" he shouted one day, before anyone realized he had understood the meaning of the word. It may not be widely known that cattiva means naughty. The child remembers nothing of the island of Elba, and nothing of his early time among other people; nothing from this first pause at the beginning of his life has stayed in his memory.
In 1806 the plenipotentiary Joseph was made King of Naples; he then remembered his friend the major of Lunéville; he inquired what had become of him, learnt that he was living on the isle of Elba, and that he had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant-colonel, or, as it was still called in 1806, gros-major. He wrote to him and proposed he should come and join fortunes with him, and aid him in the establishment of his throne in the beautiful city which all ought to see before they die, and leave in order to die as soon as they have seen it. But no one dared venture on such military escapades without the permission of the master. Lieutenant-Colonel Hugo asked leave of the Emperor Napoleon to attach himself to King Joseph. The Emperor Napoleon condescended to reply that he not only authorised this change of service, but that he should be pleased to see a French element in his brother's armies, which were only the wings of his own army.
In 1806, the ambassador Joseph was made King of Naples; he then remembered his friend, the major from Lunéville. He asked what had happened to him and found out that he was living on the Isle of Elba and had been promoted to lieutenant-colonel, or as it was still known in 1806, gros-major. He wrote to him proposing that he come and join him, to help establish his throne in the beautiful city that everyone should see before they die, and leave in order to die as soon as they have seen it. But no one dared to embark on such military adventures without the master’s permission. Lieutenant-Colonel Hugo asked Emperor Napoleon for permission to join King Joseph. The Emperor kindly replied that he not only authorized this change in service but that he would be pleased to see a French presence in his brother's armies, which were essentially part of his own forces.
Frenchmen never take service in a foreign army without certain feelings of regret, but this army was destined to be one of the wings of the National Army. And to ameliorate so far as he could the hardships of this exile, the newly made king promoted gros-major Hugo a colonel, made him an aide-de-camp and appointed him governor of the province of Avellino. When installed in his governorship, the husband sent for his wife and children, whom he longed to have near him. So, in 1807, Madame Hugo and her three sons set out for Naples; and the child continued the life of wandering which had begun in his cradle, and which, continued through[Pg 426] his youth, was to be his lot to the threshold of manhood. It is to these long journeys taken in his dawning days that the poet alludes in the following lines:—
Frenchmen never join a foreign army without some feelings of regret, but this army was meant to be part of the National Army. To ease the hardships of this exile as much as he could, the newly appointed king promoted gros-major Hugo to colonel, made him an aide-de-camp, and appointed him governor of the province of Avellino. Once he was settled into his role as governor, he called for his wife and children, whom he longed to be near. So, in 1807, Madame Hugo and her three sons set off for Naples; and the child continued the wandering life that had started in his cradle, which would continue through[Pg 426] his youth and would be his fate until he reached adulthood. The poet refers to these long journeys taken in his early days in the following lines:—
"Enfant, sur un tambour ma crèche fut posée;
Dans un casque pour moi l'eau sainte fut puisée;
Un soldat, m'ombrageant d'un belliqueux faisceau
De quelque vieux lambeau d'une bannière usée,
Fit les langes de mon berceau.
Parmi les chars poudreux, les armes éclatantes,
Une muse des camps m'emporta sous les tentes.
Je dormis sur l'affût des canons meurtriers;
J'aimai les fiers coursiers aux crinières flottantes,
Et l'éperon froissant les rauques étriers.
Avec nos camps vainqueurs, dans l'Europe asservie,
J'errai; je parcourus la terre avant la vie,
Et, tout enfant encor, des vieillards recueillis
M'écoutaient, racontant d'une bouche ravie
Mes jours si peu nombreux et déjà si remplis.
Je visitai cette île en noirs débris féconde,
Plus tard premier degré d'une chute profonde!
Le haut Cenis, dont l'aigle aime les rocs lointains,
Entendit, de son antre où l'avalanche gronde,
Ses vieux glaçons crier sous mes pas enfantins.
Vers l'Adige et l'Arno, je vins des bords du Rhône;
Je vis de l'Occident l'auguste Babylone:
Rome, toujours vivante au fond de ses tombeaux,
Reine du monde encor sur un débris de trône,
Avec une pourpre en lambeaux.
Puis Turin; puis Florence, aux plaisirs toujours prête;
Naple, aux bords embaumés où le printemps s'arrête,
Et que Vésuve en feu couvre d'un dais brûlant,
Comme un guerrier jaloux qui, témoin d'une fête,
Jette, au milieu des fleurs, son panache sanglant?"
"Childhood, my cradle was placed on a drum;
In a helmet, holy water was drawn for me;
A soldier, shading me with a warlike bundle
Of some old rag from a worn-out banner,
Made the swaddling cloth of my cradle.
Among the dusty chariots, the shining weapons,
A muse of the camps carried me under the tents.
I slept on the carriage of deadly cannons;
I loved the proud steeds with flowing manes,
And the spurs crunching against the rough stirrups.
With our victorious camps, in enslaved Europe,
I wandered; I roamed the earth before living,
And, still a child, gathered old men
Listened to me, recounting with delighted mouths
My days so few yet already so full.
I visited that island rich in dark debris,
Later the first step of a deep fall!
The high Cenis, where the eagle loves distant crags,
Heard, from its lair where the avalanche roars,
Its old glaciers scream under my childish steps.
Towards the Adige and the Arno, I came from the Rhône;
I saw from the West the majestic Babylon:
Rome, still alive deep in its tombs,
Queen of the world again on a fragment of throne,
With a tattered purple.
Then Turin; then Florence, always ready for pleasure;
Naples, with its fragrant shores where spring stops,
And that Vesuvius in fire covers with a burning canopy,
Like a jealous warrior who, witnessing a celebration,
Throws, amidst flowers, his bloody plume?"
Happy, a hundred times happy, is the man who is able to embroider the web of his life with such magic characters! I too have had recollections similar to those of my literary[Pg 427] brother, but I have expressed mine in humble prose, and I rejoice to find them expressed again in his splendid and sonorous poetry. Thence ascend the earliest recollections of the child, indelible recollections, which still shine clearly when extreme old age has come upon us, as a mirage reflects a vanished oasis.
Happy, a hundred times happy, is the person who can weave the fabric of their life with such magical symbols! I have also had memories similar to those of my literary[Pg 427] brother, but I've shared mine in simple prose, and I’m thrilled to see them captured again in his beautiful and powerful poetry. From there rise the earliest memories of childhood, unforgettable memories that still shine bright when we reach old age, just like a mirage reflecting a lost oasis.
Hugo, who had only once been across beautiful Italy, often talked to me about the grand pictures of it that remained on his memory; they were as present to his mind as though he had been my companion during my fifteen or twenty journeys therein! But he never remembered things in their normal conditions; they always recurred to him in connection with some momentary incident or accident that happened to have changed their ordinary aspect. Thus, Parma was remembered as surrounded by a flood; Acquapendente's volcanic peak stood out lit with the lightnings of a storm; the Trajan column in connection with the excavations that were being carried on round it. And yet his recollection was as exact as it could be. Florence, with its embattled inns, its massive palaces, its granite fortresses; Rome, with its leaping fountains, its obelisks which make it look like a town of ancient Egypt, and its colonnade of Bernino, twin-sister to that of the Louvre; Naples, with its promenades, its Pausilippe, its rue de Toledo, its bay, its isles and its Vesuvius. The three children had amused themselves on the long journey by making crosses with straw and putting them in the cracks between the glass doors and the grooves they ran in. When the Italian peasants, especially those who lived in the neighbourhood of Rome, saw these simple Calvaries, faithful in their worship of images, they would kneel down or at least make the sign of the Cross. The young travellers had been much terrified at the sight of bandits' heads stuck on poles by the roadsides, shrivelling up in the sun. For a long time the poor children refused to believe they were really human heads, and persisted that they were bewigged masks like those hung outside all hairdressers' shops at that period; but when they were taken down and shown them, in all their hideous[Pg 428] reality, they remained very deeply engraved on Victor's memory.
Hugo, who had only been to beautiful Italy once, often shared with me the vivid images he had etched in his mind; they felt as real to him as if he had been with me on my fifteen or twenty trips there! But he never recalled things in their usual state; they always came back to him connected with some random event or incident that changed their normal appearance. For instance, he remembered Parma as being surrounded by a flood; Acquapendente's volcanic peak stood out illuminated by lightning during a storm; and the Trajan column was tied to the excavations happening around it. Still, his recollections were as accurate as they could be. Florence, with its fortified inns, massive palaces, and granite fortresses; Rome, with its soaring fountains, obelisks that made it look like an ancient Egyptian city, and Bernini's colonnade, a twin to that of the Louvre; Naples, with its promenades, Pausilippe, rue de Toledo, its bay, its islands, and Vesuvius. The three children entertained themselves during the long journey by making straw crosses and placing them in the cracks between the glass doors and the grooves they ran in. When the Italian peasants, especially those near Rome, saw these simple Calvaries, devoted in their worship of images, they would kneel down or at least make the sign of the Cross. The young travelers were quite frightened by the sight of bandits' heads on poles by the roadside, shriveling in the sun. For a long time, the poor kids refused to believe they were real human heads, insisting they were just wigged masks like those hung outside hairdressers' shops at the time; but when they were shown the heads in all their horrifying reality, they became deeply impressed on Victor's memory.
In the case of a man like Hugo, a genius out of the common run, who has already played and will still play a great part in the literary and political history of his country, it is the duty of those who knew him to depict him for his contemporaries and successors, in the light and shade which formed the character of the man and the genius of the poet. Let us hope that the genius of the poet will stand out flawless throughout our narrative: the character of the man will speak for itself by his line of conduct and his accomplished actions.
In the case of a man like Hugo, a true genius who stands out from the rest and has already made and will continue to make a significant impact on the literary and political history of his country, it's our responsibility to portray him for those who live now and those who will come after, highlighting both the light and the dark aspects that shaped him as a person and a poet. We hope that the brilliance of his poetry will shine through in our story, while his character will reveal itself through his actions and accomplishments.
A home for Madame Hugo and her sons was not prepared for them at Naples, but at Avellino, capital of the province over which Colonel Hugo had been appointed governor. This home was in a palace, a palace of marble, like most palaces in that country, where marble is more common than stone; but this palace possessed a strange peculiarity which was certain to attract the attention and to remain in the memory of a child.
A home for Madame Hugo and her sons wasn't ready for them in Naples, but instead in Avellino, the capital of the province where Colonel Hugo had been made governor. This home was in a marble palace, like most palaces in that country, where marble is more common than stone; but this palace had a unique feature that was sure to catch the eye and stick in the memory of a child.
One of those shocks of earthquake which are common in the Italian peninsula had just shaken Calabria from end to end; the marble palace of Avellino had been shaken like the rest of the buildings; yet, being on a more solid foundation than they, after oscillating and trembling in the balance for a moment, it kept upright, but remained cracked from roof to base. The crack extended diagonally across the wall of Victor's bedroom, so that he could see the country through this most original opening almost as plainly as through his window. The palace was built on a sort of precipice, lined with great nut trees, which produce the enormous nuts called avelines (filberts) from the name of the district in which they are grown. When these nuts reached maturity, the children spent their days wandering among the trees, hung over the abyss, to gather the bunches. No doubt this taught Hugo that familiarity with high places, that scorn of precipices and that indifference to empty space, which he possessed beyond[Pg 429] most men and which filled me with admiration, for I turn giddy on the balcony of a first storey.
One of those earthquake shocks that are common in Italy had just rocked Calabria from one end to the other; the marble palace of Avellino trembled like all the other buildings, but since it was built on a more solid foundation, it wavered for a moment and then stood upright, though it remained cracked from roof to base. The crack ran diagonally across the wall of Victor's bedroom, allowing him to see the countryside through this unique opening almost as clearly as through his window. The palace was perched on a kind of cliff, surrounded by large nut trees that produce the big nuts called avelines (filberts), named after the region where they grow. When the nuts were ready to harvest, the children spent their days wandering among the trees, hanging over the edge to gather the clusters. This surely taught Hugo that familiarity with heights, that disregard for cliffs, and that indifference to empty space, which he had more than[Pg 429] most people and which amazed me, since I get dizzy on the balcony of a first floor.
About this time, one of the bitterest enemies of the French was Michel Pezza, nicknamed Fra Diavolo, about whom my confrère Scribe composed a comic opera, although the life of the original was a most terrible drama! Fra Diavolo had begun as a brigand chief, something after the fashion of Cartouche, but with more cruelty. He practised that romantic profession, until Cardinal Ruffo, another brigand chief, only in a higher sphere of society, conceived the idea of reconquering Naples for his beloved sovereign Ferdinand I., who had abandoned his capital, disguised as a lackey, in consequence of the French invasion, which was provoked by his insolent proclamations.
Around this time, one of the fiercest enemies of the French was Michel Pezza, known as Fra Diavolo. My colleague Scribe even wrote a comic opera about him, although the real story was quite tragic! Fra Diavolo started out as a bandit leader, somewhat like Cartouche, but even more ruthless. He continued in that dramatic line of work until Cardinal Ruffo, another bandit leader but from a higher social class, came up with the idea of reclaiming Naples for his beloved ruler Ferdinand I. Ferdinand had fled his capital, disguised as a servant, due to the French invasion, which was instigated by his arrogant proclamations.
Everyone knows the terrible story of the Two Sicilies, the orgies of blood presided over by two courtesans, in which a whole generation disappeared, and in which, in order to prevent the ruin of the State, they were obliged to give fixed salaries to the executioners, who had been having ten ducats per execution.
Everyone knows the tragic tale of the Two Sicilies, the bloodshed led by two courtesans, during which an entire generation vanished, and to avoid the collapse of the State, they were forced to pay the executioners a set salary, who had previously received ten ducats per execution.
Fra Diavolo joined his band to Cardinal Ruffo's army, with which he marched upon Naples, recapturing it in company with the cardinal, and finally being made colonel (and even count, so I understand) by Ferdinand I. Nevertheless, Ferdinand I. returned to Sicily later, not only a fugitive before the French invasion, but also before a brother of the emperor; and Fra Diavolo, with his rank of colonel and his title of count, started afresh his guerilla warfare and his brigandage. Colonel Hugo was commissioned to take him, and the price of 20,000 ducats was put on his head. He had already escaped once through a prodigious feat of audacity and address. He was pursued, hounded out and hemmed in on every side, with two hundred and fifty to three hundred men, the remnant of his band; but he hoped to be able to escape by a defile that he believed was known only to himself. So he had directed his course towards this defile, but, to his great surprise, he found this final way of escape guarded like the rest. His last hope had vanished![Pg 430] He had no means of turning back; they had tried every gorge and found a wall of bayonets barring the way.
Fra Diavolo joined Cardinal Ruffo's army and marched on Naples, retaking the city alongside the cardinal, and was eventually made a colonel (and even a count, I hear) by Ferdinand I. However, Ferdinand I later fled to Sicily not just to escape the French invasion but also from a brother of the emperor. Meanwhile, Fra Diavolo, now a colonel and a count, resumed his guerrilla warfare and banditry. Colonel Hugo was tasked with capturing him, and a bounty of 20,000 ducats was placed on his head. Fra Diavolo had already escaped once with an incredible act of bravery and skill. He was pursued and cornered on all sides with only two hundred fifty to three hundred men left from his band; however, he still hoped to escape through a narrow pass he believed only he knew. He headed towards this pass, but to his shock, he found it guarded just like the others. His last hope was gone![Pg 430] There was no way to turn back; they had tried every route and encountered a wall of bayonets blocking the way.
"Come along, then; we have but one way left us!..." exclaimed Fra Diavolo. "Perhaps they may let us take it! Bind me hand and foot to a horse.... You have taken me prisoner, and are leading me to the French colonel to obtain your twenty thousand ducats, the price of my head. Leave the rest to my lieutenant and do as he does."
"Come on, then; we have only one option left!..." exclaimed Fra Diavolo. "Maybe they'll let us take it! Tie me up to a horse.... You've captured me and are taking me to the French colonel to collect your twenty thousand ducats, the bounty on my head. Leave everything else to my lieutenant and follow his lead."
They had to hasten, for they were within sight of the French detachment, which was growing uneasy as to who the troop of men might be; moreover, they were accustomed, especially in desperate circumstances, to follow Fra Diavolo's instructions with blind obedience. In a second he was strapped and bound down, like Mazeppa, on a horse, and the cortège continued its way, making straight for the French detachment. This detachment was composed of five or six hundred men and was commanded by a major. When they saw the troop marching to them, the French battalion marched to meet it and the two corps came to close quarters. The Calabrian troop halted within a hundred feet of the French, and only the lieutenant, clad like a simple peasant, stepped forward out of the ranks and advanced towards the major.
They had to hurry because they were close enough to see the French detachment, which was starting to get nervous about who the group of men might be; besides, they were used to following Fra Diavolo's orders without question, especially in desperate situations. In a moment, he was strapped down, like Mazeppa, on a horse, and the procession continued on, heading straight for the French detachment. This detachment consisted of five or six hundred men and was led by a major. When they spotted the troop approaching, the French battalion moved to meet them, and the two groups came face to face. The Calabrian troop stopped within a hundred feet of the French, and only the lieutenant, dressed like an ordinary peasant, stepped forward from the ranks and walked toward the major.
"What is your business and who is the man you have strapped there?" demanded the major.
"What’s your business and who’s the guy you’ve got tied up there?" the major asked.
"That strapped man is Fra Diavolo," replied the lieutenant, "whom we have caught ... and we want the twenty thousand ducats promised for his head."
"That guy in the straps is Fra Diavolo," the lieutenant said, "whom we’ve captured... and we want the twenty thousand ducats promised for his head."
Instantly, the name of Fra Diavolo was passed from mouth to mouth.
Instantly, everyone was talking about Fra Diavolo.
"You have taken Fra Diavolo?" exclaimed the major.
"You've caught Fra Diavolo?" the major exclaimed.
"Yes," the lieutenant went on, "and, as proof, there he is, bound hand and foot and strapped to the horse."
"Yes," the lieutenant continued, "and to prove it, there he is, tied up hand and foot and strapped to the horse."
Fra Diavolo's eyes flashed fire.
Fra Diavolo's eyes lit up.
"How did you take him?" asked the major.
"How did you capture him?" asked the major.
The lieutenant invented a fable, to the effect that Fra Diavolo, hunted, pursued, hemmed about, had sought shelter in a village which he believed to be friendly to him; but he[Pg 431] had been arrested, seized and bound during the night, and the whole village had formed his escort for fear he should escape.
The lieutenant came up with a story that Fra Diavolo, who was being hunted and surrounded, had taken refuge in a village he thought would help him. However, he[Pg 431] was captured, grabbed, and tied up during the night, and the entire village had become his escort out of fear that he might escape.
"Bandits! wretches! traitors!" exclaimed Fra Diavolo.
"Bandits! Wretches! Traitors!" shouted Fra Diavolo.
The explanation was all sufficient for the major; besides, the chief thing was that Fra Diavolo was caught; any accompanying explanations concerning the capture were mere questions of curiosity.
The explanation was more than enough for the major; what really mattered was that Fra Diavolo was caught. Any additional details about the capture were just matters of curiosity.
"Very good!" he said; "hand me over your bandit."
"Great!" he said. "Give me your bandit."
"Certainly; but first hand over to us the twenty thousand ducats."
"Sure; but first give us the twenty thousand ducats."
"How is it likely I should have twenty thousand ducats with me?" retorted the major.
"How is it possible that I should have twenty thousand ducats with me?" the major shot back.
"In that case," said the lieutenant, "no money, no Fra Diavolo!"
"In that case," said the lieutenant, "no money, no Fra Diavolo!"
"Humph!..." said the major.
"Humph!" said the major.
"Oh! I am well aware that you are the stronger force," remarked the lieutenant, "and that you can take us if you wish; but, if you do take us, you will have stolen twenty. thousand ducats from our pockets."
"Oh! I know you're the stronger force," the lieutenant said, "and that you can take us if you want; but if you do take us, you'll have stolen twenty thousand ducats from our pockets."
The major was a logical soul, and he realised the justice of the reasoning.
The major was a rational person, and he understood the correctness of the reasoning.
"Very well," he said, "take your prisoner to the headquarters; I will give you a hundred men to accompany you."
"All right," he said, "take your prisoner to headquarters; I'll send a hundred men with you."
The lieutenant and Fra Diavolo exchanged a sly glance which implied that the major had played into their hands.
The lieutenant and Fra Diavolo exchanged a knowing look that suggested the major had fallen right into their trap.
The hundred men of the escorting party and the two hundred and fifty Calabrian peasants set off for the headquarters six leagues away. But the headquarters never received news of Fra Diavolo, and the hundred men of the escort never reappeared. When a defile was reached, the hundred Frenchmen were slaughtered, and Fra Diavolo and his two hundred and fifty men regained the mountains! Colonel Hugo meant to go on with the pursuit; and, from henceforth, there was a constant series of outwittings and marches and counter-marches between him and the Calabrian chief, which ended in Fra Diavolo being defeated. Taken a second time, Fra Diavolo was sent to Naples, where his[Pg 432] trial was to take place, and the 20,000 ducats were immediately paid over to those who had taken him. One morning Colonel Hugo learnt that Fra Diavolo was condemned to be hung.
The hundred men in the escort party and the two hundred and fifty Calabrian peasants set off for the headquarters six leagues away. However, the headquarters never heard from Fra Diavolo, and the hundred men in the escort never returned. When they reached a narrow pass, the hundred Frenchmen were killed, and Fra Diavolo and his two hundred and fifty men went back into the mountains! Colonel Hugo planned to continue the chase; from then on, there was a constant back-and-forth of tactics and movements between him and the Calabrian chief, which ultimately ended in Fra Diavolo's defeat. After being captured a second time, Fra Diavolo was sent to Naples, where his[Pg 432] trial was set to happen, and the 20,000 ducats were immediately paid to those who captured him. One morning, Colonel Hugo learned that Fra Diavolo was sentenced to be hanged.
"Hung!" The word sounded odd to French ears. Colonel Hugo at once started off for Naples and obtained an audience of the king, from whom he wished to solicit a commutation, not of the penalty, but of the manner of execution. He asked that, as Fra Diavolo had been a soldier, he might be shot. Unluckily, Fra Diavolo had been a bandit before he became a soldier, and he had served his own ends before enlisting in the services of Cardinal Ruffo and Ferdinand I. The documentary evidence shown to Colonel Hugo by King Joseph was so crammed with wilful crimes, murders and incendiary fires that Colonel Hugo was the first to withdraw his proposition. Consequently, Colonel Michel Pezza, otherwise Fra Diavolo, and Count of I know not what title, was summarily hung.
"Hung!" The word sounded strange to French ears. Colonel Hugo immediately set off for Naples to request an audience with the king, hoping to ask for a change, not in the penalty itself, but in the method of execution. He requested that, since Fra Diavolo had been a soldier, he should be shot. Unfortunately, Fra Diavolo had been a bandit before becoming a soldier, and he had served his own interests before joining the ranks of Cardinal Ruffo and Ferdinand I. The evidence presented to Colonel Hugo by King Joseph was filled with deliberate crimes, murders, and arson that made Colonel Hugo withdraw his suggestion. As a result, Colonel Michel Pezza, also known as Fra Diavolo, and Count of I don't know what title, was quickly hanged.
In 1808, Napoleon having declared that the Bourbons of Spain had ceased to reign, Joseph Bonaparte passed from the throne of the Two Sicilies to that of Spain, where Colonel Hugo followed him. Upon his arrival in Madrid, Colonel Hugo was made brigadier-general, governor of the Cours de Tagus, first major-domo and first aide-de-camp to the king, a grandee of Spain, Count of Cogolludo and Marquis of Cifuentes and of Siguença! These were high proofs of favour; but there was one among them all which Colonel Hugo accepted with some aversion: and that was the title of marquis.
In 1808, after Napoleon announced that the Bourbons of Spain were no longer in power, Joseph Bonaparte moved from the throne of the Two Sicilies to that of Spain, with Colonel Hugo following him. Upon arriving in Madrid, Colonel Hugo was appointed brigadier-general, governor of the Cours de Tagus, first major-domo, and first aide-de-camp to the king, and he became a grandee of Spain, Count of Cogolludo, and Marquis of Cifuentes and Siguença! These were significant signs of favor, but there was one title among them that Colonel Hugo accepted with some reluctance: the title of marquis.
"Sire," he said to Joseph, when the King of Spain condescended to announce his intentions towards him, "I thought that the emperor had abolished the title of marquis?"
"Sire," he said to Joseph, when the King of Spain lowered himself to share his plans with him, "I thought the emperor had done away with the title of marquis?"
"Not in Spain, my dear colonel ... only in France."
"Not in Spain, my dear colonel ... only in France."
"Sire," insisted the new general, "if the emperor has only abolished it in France, Molière has abolished it everywhere else."
"Sire," pressed the new general, "if the emperor has only ended it in France, Molière has ended it everywhere else."
And General Hugo contented himself with using the title of count, and never bore that of marquis. But, in spite of[Pg 433] this, he was none the less be-marquised and be-majordomoed. Among the privileges which accompanied this latter office was that of presenting people to the king. On one occasion the new major-domo had to present to King Joseph the Archbishop of Tarragona, who had come to profess his allegiance to the king. The Archbishop of Tarragona had a reputation for ugliness, which left far behind it that which General Hugo's son later bestowed on the bell-ringer of Notre-Dame. So, when the major-domo looked at the worthy prelate and recognised that his ugliness had not only not been exaggerated but that it was, perhaps, even worse than people had said, ignorant that the archbishop could speak and understand French, he could not refrain from adding, after he had pronounced the all-important formula in pure Castilian, "Señor, presento á vuestra Magestad el se señor arzobispo de Tarragona," the following words in French: "The most villainous-looking brute in your Majesty's kingdom!"
And General Hugo was fine with just using the title of count and never claimed the title of marquis. However, even so, he was still treated like a marquis and a major-domo. One of the perks of this latter position was the responsibility of introducing people to the king. On one occasion, the new major-domo had to present the Archbishop of Tarragona to King Joseph, who had come to pledge his loyalty to the king. The Archbishop of Tarragona was known for his ugliness, which surpassed the reputation that General Hugo's son later gave the bell-ringer of Notre-Dame. So, when the major-domo looked at the worthy prelate and realized that his ugliness was not only as bad as people had said but possibly even worse, unaware that the archbishop could speak and understand French, he couldn't help but add—after he had pronounced the crucial introduction in pure Castilian, "Señor, presento á vuestra Magestad el se señor arzobispo de Tarragona,"—the following words in French: "The most villainous-looking brute in your Majesty's kingdom!"
The archbishop respectfully saluted the king; then, turning to the major-domo, he said in the purest French, with a faultless accent—
The archbishop respectfully greeted the king; then, turning to the head servant, he spoke in flawless French, with perfect accent—
"I thank you, general!"
"Thanks, General!"
In the precarious state of unsettlement through which Spain was then passing, General Hugo felt it to be out of the question, when he left Naples, to bring his family with him. So Madame Hugo, Abel, Eugène and Victor returned to France. Directly Madame Hugo returned to Paris, she took an old convent that had belonged to the Feuillantines; for, during the two years spent in the palace of Avellino, she had learnt to appreciate the effect on the health of her children of an airy residence, where they had room to run wild and play at liberty. We shall see, later, in connection with this convent, what recollections its large garden, its glorious sunshine and its cool shade left on the mind of the poet. Here the three children were allowed full liberty, as I had been allowed in the great park of Saint-Remy whose splendours I have described. Here Hugo managed to avoid going through the university treadmill, and learnt his Latin fairly well and his[Pg 434] Greek scarcely at all, thanks to the care of a married priest, an ex-Oratorian, named Larivière.
In the unstable situation that Spain was experiencing at the time, General Hugo found it impossible to bring his family when he left Naples. So, Madame Hugo, along with Abel, Eugène, and Victor, returned to France. As soon as Madame Hugo got back to Paris, she took over an old convent that had belonged to the Feuillantines; during the two years spent in the palace of Avellino, she had come to appreciate how beneficial an airy home was for her children's health, where they had space to run freely and play without restrictions. We will later see, in relation to this convent, what memories its large garden, bright sunshine, and cool shade left on the poet's mind. The three children had complete freedom here, similar to the freedom I had in the grand park of Saint-Remy, which I have described. Here, Hugo avoided the traditional university path, learned Latin reasonably well, and hardly learned any Greek, all thanks to a married priest, an ex-Oratorian named Larivière.
"Il savait le latin très-bien, très-mal le grec!" his pupil said of him, in a scrap of verse yet unpublished.
"He knew Latin really well, but Greek not so much!" his student said about him in a piece of verse that hasn’t been published yet.
Madame Hugo dwelt in this retreat, which sheltered her fine brood, from 1808 until 1811. In the early part of 1811 she received a letter from her husband. The government of King Joseph seemed settled, and therefore it became necessary to go to Madrid, where her three children could be attached to the court as pages.
Madame Hugo lived in this retreat, which sheltered her lovely family, from 1808 until 1811. In early 1811, she received a letter from her husband. The government of King Joseph seemed stable, so it became necessary to go to Madrid, where her three children could serve as pages at the court.
CHAPTER VII
Departure for Spain—Journey from Paris to Bayonne—The treasure—Order of march of the convoy—M. du Saillant—M. de Cotadilla—Irun—Ernani—Salinas—The battalion of écloppés (cripples)—Madame Hugo's supplies of provisions—The forty Dutch grenadiers—Mondragon—The precipice—Burgos—Celadas—Alerte—The queen's review
Leaving for Spain—Journey from Paris to Bayonne—The treasure—Order of march for the convoy—Mr. du Saillant—Mr. de Cotadilla—Irun—Ernani—Salinas—The battalion of écloppés (cripples)—Madame Hugo's food supplies—The forty Dutch grenadiers—Mondragon—The cliff—Burgos—Celadas—Alerte—The queen's review
As we are about to see, it was then a great business to travel to Madrid. First, there was France to cross from Paris to Bayonne. This was merely a question of time. A century ago it took five weeks, and forty years ago it took nine days, to cover a distance that, later, was accomplished in fifty hours, and now is done in fifteen or eighteen. One used to sleep at Blois, at Angoulême and at Bordeaux. Then there was Spain to cross, from Bayonne to Madrid. In due course, we shall see what an uncomfortable business it was to cross Spain from Bayonne to Madrid in the year of grace 1811, in the seventh year of the reign of Napoleon. Madame Hugo hired the whole diligence to take herself, her children and her servants across France. Diligences, at that time, and during the whole of the period, bore the emperor's livery; they were large coaches, painted green; the interior held six and the cabriolets de cuir three seats—a total of nine places. The whole of the luggage was put behind and above. Six persons only occupied the vast ark, which started on its journey at the accustomed hour, and rolled heavily away towards the frontier. At Poitiers, two passengers wished to take their seats in the coach, a Frenchman and a Spaniard. They were told that the whole diligence was taken by a French lady; but they appeared to be so disappointed that Madame Hugo offered[Pg 436] both of them seats on condition that they did not pay anything, and they accepted her offer. Madame Hugo kept the interior of the coach for herself, Abel, Eugène, the servant and her chambermaid; Victor declined to be dispossessed of his seat on the cabriolet, and he stayed there with the two strange passengers. He kept an ineffaceable recollection of one of the travellers whose name was Isnel, because he stuffed him and his brothers with cakes and sweetmeats the whole of the journey. At last, on the ninth day, they reached Bayonne; but there they were obliged to stop: they could not go into Spain with what was called treasure. This is a curious bit of history. Joseph was King of Spain, but his sovereignty was confined to Madrid, and to those parts occupied by the French army. All the remaining portions of the country were in a state of insurrection. When any army corps entering the country made an inlet through the insurrectionary forces, the latter, after opening before it, closed up behind it again, and the army became a sort of floating island—a Delos, constantly buffeted by the waves of revolt. There are no means of levying contributions under such circumstances. So the King of Spain and of the Indies, who, in reality, was no more in possession of Spain than of the Indies, not only was unable to maintain the splendours of his court, but would even have died of starvation at Madrid, if Napoleon had not sent this prefect of the empire his income four times a year. King Joseph's income was 48,000,000 francs. Therefore, every three months they sent him a consignment of 12,000,000 francs. And this was called the treasure. Of course, it will be readily understood that this treasure trove was lovingly coveted by Spanish guerilleros, and a strong escort had therefore to accompany it, to keep these gentlemen as much at a distance as possible. Travellers who had to go to Madrid put themselves under the protection of this escort just as pilgrims to Mecca put themselves under the protection of caravans. But, in spite of every precaution, and the escort of two or three thousand men, the treasure and the pilgrims were not always safe; the preceding convoy had been attacked, pillaged and slain at Salinas,[Pg 437] with frightful atrocity. General Lejeune, if I remember rightly, painted a picture of this attack, which was exhibited in the Salon of 1824 or 1825. Notwithstanding this, however, it was much safer to go with the convoy, and our party therefore waited nearly a month for it at Bayonne. It arrived about the end of April.
As we’re about to see, traveling to Madrid was quite an undertaking back then. First, you had to get across France from Paris to Bayonne, which took different amounts of time over the years. A hundred years ago, it took five weeks, forty years ago it took nine days, later it was done in fifty hours, and now it can be done in fifteen or eighteen. People used to sleep in Blois, Angoulême, and Bordeaux. After that, you had to cross Spain from Bayonne to Madrid. We’ll look at how uncomfortable that journey was from Bayonne to Madrid in 1811, during Napoleon's seventh year as emperor. Madame Hugo rented the entire coach to take her, her kids, and her servants across France. The diligences at that time were painted green and had the emperor’s livery; they were large coaches with six seats in the main cabin and three in the leather cabriolet, totaling nine seats. They loaded all the luggage behind and on top. Just six people filled the spacious coach, which set off at the usual hour and rolled heavily toward the border. In Poitiers, two passengers—a Frenchman and a Spaniard—tried to get on. They were told the whole coach was booked by a French lady, but since they looked so disappointed, Madame Hugo offered them seats for free, and they accepted. Madame Hugo kept the main cabin for herself, Abel, Eugène, her servant, and her chambermaid; Victor refused to give up his spot in the cabriolet and stayed there with the two new passengers. He always remembered one of the travelers named Isnel, because he kept feeding him and his brothers snacks throughout the journey. Eventually, on the ninth day, they arrived in Bayonne, but they had to stop there because they couldn't enter Spain with what was called "treasure." This part of history is quite interesting. Joseph was the King of Spain, but his control was limited to Madrid and the areas occupied by the French army. The rest of the country was in revolt. Whenever an army corps managed to push through the rebel forces, the rebels would quickly close up behind them, making the army like a floating island—constantly tossed about by the waves of rebellion. Under such conditions, it was impossible to collect taxes. So the King of Spain and the Indies, who was in reality just as far from truly ruling Spain as he was from ruling the Indies, could not maintain the lavish lifestyle of his court and would have starved in Madrid if Napoleon hadn’t sent him his income four times a year. King Joseph’s income was 48,000,000 francs, so every three months, they sent him 12,000,000 francs, which was referred to as the "treasure." It’s easy to see why this treasure was highly desired by Spanish guerrillas, necessitating a strong escort to keep them at bay. Travelers going to Madrid relied on this escort just like pilgrims to Mecca relied on caravans for safety. However, despite all the measures taken and the escort of two or three thousand soldiers, the treasure and the travelers were not always safe; the previous convoy had been attacked, looted, and brutally killed at Salinas. General Lejeune, if I remember correctly, painted a depiction of this attack that was shown in the Salon of 1824 or 1825. Still, it was much safer to travel with the convoy, so our group waited almost a month for it in Bayonne. It finally arrived around the end of April.
Meantime, Madame Hugo had had plenty of time to complete her preparations; she had purchased a carriage, the only one, moreover, there was for sale in Bayonne. It was one of those large trunk-like conveyances only to be seen nowadays in the drawings of Piranesi and also, perhaps, occasionally in the procession of a pontifical gala in the streets of Rome. Picture to yourself an enormous chest, hung between two poles, upon colossal straps, with steps united to these poles, so that you began to climb over the pole, and ended by descending into the carriage. This vehicle had one advantage, however, since, at a push, it could be converted into a fortress, its sides being shot-proof, and only destructible by bullets or grape-shot. Before starting, grave dispute arose concerning the course to take during the march. There were about three hundred carriages and five or six hundred passengers waiting, like Madame Hugo, for the reassuring escort; and it was no easy matter to enforce rules of etiquette in such a crowd as this, composed, besides, almost exclusively of men or women attached to the highest offices in the State, or members of the oldest families of Spain.
Meanwhile, Madame Hugo had plenty of time to finish her preparations; she had bought a carriage, the only one for sale in Bayonne. It was one of those large, trunk-like vehicles that you usually only see in Piranesi's drawings or, perhaps, occasionally in the processions of a papal gala in the streets of Rome. Imagine a gigantic chest, suspended between two poles on massive straps, with steps connecting these poles so you started by climbing over a pole and ended up descending into the carriage. This vehicle did have one advantage, though; with a little effort, it could be turned into a fortress, as its sides were bulletproof and could only be damaged by bullets or grapeshot. Before setting off, a serious debate broke out about which route to take during the journey. There were about three hundred carriages and five or six hundred passengers waiting, like Madame Hugo, for the reassuring escort; and it was no easy task to enforce rules of etiquette in such a crowd, which was mostly made up of men and women from the highest offices in the State or members of the oldest families in Spain.
Casting a glance over the order of the march, it will be seen that the desirable places, concerning which everyone put forth his own special claims, possessed a value which make the persistency with which they were quarrelled for excusable. This is how the march of the convoy was arranged, with its escort of a detachment of three thousand men:—
Casting a glance over the order of the march, it will be seen that the desirable positions, about which everyone made their own special claims, had a value that made the persistence with which they were argued over justifiable. This is how the march of the convoy was arranged, with its escort of a detachment of three thousand men:—
First, at the head as advance-guard, marched five hundred men, with loaded arms. Next came the waggons containing the treasure, twenty-five or thirty carriages, surrounded by a thousand men placed five deep. Then came the travellers, according to their rank, title, grade and, especially, according to[Pg 438] the seniority of their titles to nobility. These travellers who, as we have said, might easily number some six hundred, filled three hundred carriages, some drawn by four and some by six mules, forming a line a league in length. This line could not be defended so energetically as the treasure; it would have needed ten thousand men instead of three to protect it. So the carriages were only guarded by a single line of soldiers, instead of five abreast. Finally, the convoy was completed by five hundred more men dragging a piece of cannon forming the extremity of this immense reptile, which could bite with its head, and sting with its tail. The consequence of this disposition was that, to be properly guarded, you had to be quite sure you were of that portion of the convoy which was immediately behind the waggons containing the treasure. Therefore, it was not simply a question of etiquette, who came first, second or third, but a matter of life or death.
First, leading the way as the advance guard, marched five hundred armed men. Next came the wagons carrying the treasure, twenty-five or thirty carriages, surrounded by a thousand men arranged five deep. Then came the travelers, organized by their rank, title, grade, and especially by [Pg 438] the seniority of their noble titles. These travelers, who, as mentioned, could easily number about six hundred, filled three hundred carriages, some pulled by four and others by six mules, forming a line a league long. This line couldn’t be defended as strongly as the treasure; it would have needed ten thousand men instead of three to protect it. So, the carriages were only guarded by a single line of soldiers instead of five abreast. Finally, the convoy was completed by another five hundred men hauling a piece of cannon, making the end of this immense assembly, which could strike with its head and sting with its tail. As a result, to be properly protected, one had to be certain they were part of the portion of the convoy right behind the treasure wagons. Therefore, it wasn’t just about etiquette regarding who went first, second, or third; it was a matter of life or death.
Madame Hugo, who had to protect herself and her three children at the same time, advanced her claim not as a fearful woman, but as an anxious mother. Several grand ladies of Spain of very old family, and, among them, the Duchess of Villa-Hermosa, had a right, if they had chosen to enforce it, of taking precedence over Madame Hugo; but as Madame Hugo was the wife of a French general, aide-de-camp to the king, she took precedence of all others and went first, in spite of the protests, recriminations and complaints of the grandees of Spain, male and female, her superiors. She had, also, been wonderfully helped in her claim by the arrival at Bayonne of an aide-de-camp from her husband, M. le Marquis du Saillant, son of that sister of Mirabeau whom the famous orator loved and held in sufficiently high esteem to acquaint with his political sayings and doings, in one of the most curious letters he has written.
Madame Hugo, who needed to protect herself and her three kids, presented her case not as a scared woman, but as a worried mother. Several esteemed noblewomen from old Spanish families, including the Duchess of Villa-Hermosa, had a right to assert precedence over Madame Hugo. However, since Madame Hugo was the wife of a French general who served as an aide-de-camp to the king, she took priority over everyone else, despite the protests, accusations, and complaints from the Spanish aristocracy, both men and women, who were her superiors. Additionally, her claim was significantly supported by the arrival in Bayonne of an aide-de-camp from her husband, M. le Marquis du Saillant, who was the son of Mirabeau's sister, a woman the famous orator valued enough to share his political insights with in one of the most intriguing letters he wrote.
The escort was commanded, first, by the Duc de Cotadilla, a man of noble name, great fortune and huge appetite, who had thrown in his lot with Joseph; and, secondly, by Colonel de Montfort, a young man of thirty, who looked charming in his hussar's uniform, and belonged to the race of curled[Pg 439] darlings who were nevertheless brave young colonels; amongst whom were Colonels Lefèvre, Bessières and Moncey—all sons of marshals who had been left killed or mutilated on the battlefields of the Empire; Colonel Moncey was, probably, the only one who survived that ten years' tempest of shot and shell, and saw the Restoration. The Duke of Cotadilla and M. de Montfort produced a very different impression on the youthful imagination of the future poet. Twenty years later we find a reminiscence in Claude Gueux of the impression made by the Duc de Cotadilla's appetite.
The escort was led, first, by Duc de Cotadilla, a man of noble name, great wealth, and a huge appetite, who had aligned himself with Joseph; and, second, by Colonel de Montfort, a young man of thirty, who looked charming in his hussar uniform and belonged to the lineage of pampered darlings who were nonetheless brave young colonels; among them were Colonels Lefèvre, Bessières, and Moncey—all sons of marshals who had been killed or maimed on the battlefields of the Empire; Colonel Moncey was probably the only one who survived that decade of gunfire and chaos and witnessed the Restoration. The Duke of Cotadilla and M. de Montfort left a very different impression on the youthful imagination of the future poet. Twenty years later, we find a memory in Claude Gueux of the impression made by Duc de Cotadilla's appetite.
"Claude Gueux was a great eater; it was a peculiarity of his constitution; he possessed a stomach made in such a fashion that the food supply for two men was hardly sufficient to last him one day. M. de Cotadilla had a similar appetite and laughed at it: but what may be a matter of mirth to a grand-duke of Spain who possessed 500,000 sheep is a burden to a working man and a misfortune to a prisoner."
"Claude Gueux had a huge appetite; it was just how he was built. He had a stomach that could barely handle the food meant for two men in a single day. M. de Cotadilla had a similar appetite and found it amusing: but what might be funny to a grand duke of Spain with 500,000 sheep is a struggle for a working man and a tragedy for a prisoner."
There is no other mention either before or after this paragraph of the Duc de Cotadilla in Claude Gueux; so we see that this illustrious Spanish grandee left a very special mark on Victor Hugo's memory.
There’s no other reference to the Duc de Cotadilla in Claude Gueux either before or after this paragraph; so it’s clear that this notable Spanish noble left a unique impression on Victor Hugo’s memory.
I do not know whether Hugo has anywhere spoken of Colonel Montfort; but he will do so, some day or other, for the earliest memories of childhood are bound to break forth sooner or later.
I don’t know if Hugo has ever talked about Colonel Montfort, but he will eventually, because the earliest memories of childhood are bound to surface sooner or later.
The Marquis du Saillant was a man of fifty or fifty-five, who loved taking life easily, always courageous, but bravest of all if anyone disturbed him at a meal or during his sleep, since nothing being more disagreeable to him than to be disturbed, he thereupon did his very best to make the enemy suffer for disturbing him.
The Marquis du Saillant was a man in his fifties, around fifty or fifty-five, who enjoyed taking life easy. He was always brave, but he was especially fierce if anyone interrupted him while he was eating or sleeping. Nothing annoyed him more than being disturbed, so he would do his best to make anyone who interrupted him pay for it.
Well, at last the huge cavalcade was set in motion and crossed the Bidassoa in view of the isle des Faisans, the famous political and matrimonial island. The first night they slept at Irun. The child's mind was vividly impressed by the fresh style of architecture, strange manners and different tongue. He ever remembered that halt at Irun, and[Pg 440] revisited it in his poetical dreams, as well as the towns of Burgos, Vittoria and of Valladolid, noted in other ways:—
Well, finally, the huge procession got moving and crossed the Bidassoa, in view of the isle des Faisans, the famous island for politics and marriage. They spent their first night in Irun. The child was deeply impressed by the new style of architecture, unusual customs, and different language. He always remembered that stop in Irun, and[Pg 440] revisited it in his poetic dreams, along with the towns of Burgos, Vittoria, and Valladolid, known for other reasons:—
"L'Espagne me montrait ses couvents, ses bastilles;
Burgos, sa cathédrale aux gothiques aiguilles;
Irun, ses toits de bois; Vittoria, ses tours;
Et toi, Valladolid, tes palais de familles,
Fiers de laisser rouiller des chaînes dans leurs cours.
Mes souvenirs germaient dans mon âme échauffée;
J'allais chantant des vers d'une voix étouffée,
Et ma mère, en secret observant tous mes pas,
Pleurait et souriait, disant: 'C'est une fée
Qui lui parle et qu'on ne voit pas!'"
"Spain showed me its convents, its fortresses;
Burgos, its cathedral with sharp Gothic spires;
Irun, its wooden rooftops; Vittoria, its towers;
And you, Valladolid, your family palaces,
Proudly letting chains rust in their courtyards.
My memories sprouted in my heated soul;
I walked humming verses in a muffled voice,
And my mother, secretly watching every step I took,
Cried and smiled, saying: 'It’s a fairy
Talking to him, though we can’t see her!'"
The manner of travelling, too, made a deep impression on the brain of the child who, as a man, was to possess the descriptive faculty in the very highest degree! How well one can picture the five hundred men who formed the advance-guard; the thousand escorting the heavy, noisy waggons; the great carriage with its gilding half worn off, that came next, drawn by six mules, reinforced, in difficult places, by two and even four oxen, led by a mayoral,[1] escorted by two zagales![2] Think of the burning sun, the parching dust, the arms sparkling in the glowing atmosphere, of villages laid waste and the hostile and threatening populations, the unspeakably terrible and bloody recollections which seemed to belong rather to the isles of the Pacific than to a European continent!—and we shall have some idea of scenes which we cannot attempt to describe, which only Hugo himself could relate.
The way of traveling made a strong impact on the child's mind, who, as an adult, would have an exceptional ability to describe things! One can easily imagine the five hundred men leading the way; the thousand who were escorting the heavy, noisy wagons; the grand carriage, its gold almost completely worn off, that followed, pulled by six mules, sometimes helped in tough spots by two or even four oxen, led by a mayoral,[1] accompanied by two zagales![2] Picture the blazing sun, the dry dust, the glinting arms in the heated air, devastated villages, and the hostile, threatening crowds, the indescribably horrific and bloody memories that seem more fitting for the Pacific islands than a European continent!—and we’ll get a sense of scenes that we can’t fully describe, which only Hugo himself could tell.
The first day they went three leagues! The second day, they halted for the night at the village of Ernani. In the poet's recollections, the name of the village is changed to that of a man. Everyone knows the romantic bandit, lover of Doña Sol, adversary of Charles V., and rival of Ruy Gomez. On the third day, a curious spectacle met the travellers' gaze: a battalion of écloppés. A battalion of écloppés was a gathering of soldiers of all arms, the débris of a score of combats, or, may be,[Pg 441] of a single battle; for, in those days, battles were barbarously conducted: often, two, three or four regiments were wiped out; as many as a thousand, fifteen hundred or two thousand wounded would be picked up from the field of battle; a leg would be cut off here, an arm there, a bullet extracted from one, splinters pulled ont of another. All these would go to the rear and, when cured, or nearly so, from the débris of four or five different regiments would be formed a battalion of écloppés (cripples), which was sent back to France and left to defend itself on the way thither. The poor fellows had to extricate themselves from the terrible game of war as best they could.
The first day they traveled three leagues! On the second day, they stopped for the night at the village of Ernani. In the poet's memories, the village's name is changed to that of a man. Everyone knows the romantic bandit, lover of Doña Sol, opponent of Charles V, and rival of Ruy Gomez. On the third day, a strange sight greeted the travelers: a battalion of écloppés. A battalion of écloppés was a gathering of soldiers from different forces, the remnants of many battles or possibly[Pg 441] from a single fight; because, back then, battles were fought brutally: often, two, three, or four regiments would be wiped out; as many as a thousand, fifteen hundred, or two thousand wounded would be taken from the battlefield; a leg would be amputated here, an arm there, a bullet removed from one, splinters pulled from another. All of these would be taken to the rear, and when they had healed, or were close to it, a battalion of écloppés (the injured) would be formed from the remnants of four or five different regiments, sent back to France and left to fend for themselves on the journey. The poor guys had to escape the horrors of war as best they could.
Our cortège, then, met one of these battalions at Salinas. It was composed of Light Infantry, Cuirassiers, Carabineers and Hussars. Not a man among them but had lost an arm or a leg, a nose or an eye; but they were gay, and sang and shouted "Vive l'empereur!" The children were particularly struck by the fact that every man carried a parroquet or a monkey on his shoulder or at his saddle-bow; some even had both. They had come from Portugal, where they had left their limbs behind them, and whence they had brought this menagerie.
Our procession encountered one of these battalions at Salinas. It was made up of Light Infantry, Cuirassiers, Carabineers, and Hussars. Every soldier had lost an arm or a leg, a nose or an eye; yet they were cheerful, singing and shouting "Long live the emperor!" The children were especially amazed that every man had a parrot or a monkey on his shoulder or at his saddle; some even had both. They had come from Portugal, where they had left their limbs behind, and brought this little zoo with them.
At Mondragon, two or three leagues before Salinas, thanks to the devotion of the soldiers, they escaped a very serious danger. By "they," I mean Madame Hugo and her three children. But a slight explanation will be necessary before giving an account of this incident. The soldiers received their rations every three days; according to their usual custom, they consumed the three days' rations in the first twenty-four hours, or flung away what food burdened them; so that the whole cortège usually fasted one day, at least, out of three. This fast was the more painful to bear—especially in the matter of liquids, which were not thrown away but usually consumed prematurely—as they journeyed over arid plains, under a burning sun and in suffocating air. They started at break of day, to avail themselves of the cool air, halted at noon, to eat and drink and then they set off again and travelled till nightfall. The soldiers camped round the waggons; the officers and travellers lodged in the villages or towns on billet;[Pg 442] Madame Hugo was generally lodged with the Alcade. There, her distribution of rations was made her every night: it was the same allowance as that given to her husband when he was on campaign, namely, twenty rations. Now these portions were very large; great mountains of bread and meat and more wine than she could possibly consume, were piled up before her every night. The soldiers who marched to right and left of her carriage, by the side of the six mules and the immense chariot, amounted to about forty men. They were Dutch grenadiers; for the French army, at that time, like the Roman legions of the time of Augustus, was a mixture of all the nations of Europe. These forty men shared the rations of Madame Hugo, who had no need of twenty portions of bread, meat and wine for herself, her children and her servants, since she and they were nearly always supplied with meals by the host with whom they lodged; neither did the mayoral and the two zagales need any, since they lived on a glass of water, a piece of bread smeared with garlic and the smoke of their cigarettes. The forty Dutchmen were accordingly deeply grateful to Madame Hugo, and their gratitude found expression on two occasions. We will relate the first at once: the second will come in due course.
At Mondragon, two or three leagues before Salinas, thanks to the dedication of the soldiers, they escaped a serious danger. By "they," I mean Madame Hugo and her three children. But a little explanation is needed before recounting this incident. The soldiers received their rations every three days; as usual, they consumed all three days' worth of food in the first twenty-four hours or tossed aside what food felt like a burden. This meant that the whole group usually fasted at least one day out of three. This fast was especially tough, particularly when it came to liquids, which weren't discarded but were usually consumed too soon, as they traveled across dry plains under a scorching sun and suffocating air. They set off at dawn to take advantage of the cool air, paused at noon to eat and drink, then continued traveling until nightfall. The soldiers camped around the wagons; the officers and travelers stayed in villages or towns on assignment; Madame Hugo typically found lodgings with the Alcade. Each night, her rations were distributed to her: it was the same amount given to her husband when he was on campaign, namely twenty rations. These portions were very large; huge piles of bread and meat and more wine than she could ever drink were placed before her every night. The soldiers marching to the right and left of her carriage, alongside the six mules and the enormous chariot, numbered around forty men. They were Dutch grenadiers, because the French army at that time, like the Roman legions of Augustus, was made up of all nations in Europe. These forty men shared Madame Hugo's rations, as she had no need for twenty portions of bread, meat, and wine for herself, her children, and her servants since they were almost always provided meals by the host they stayed with; nor did the mayor and the two zagales need any, as they survived on a glass of water, a piece of bread smeared with garlic, and the smoke of their cigarettes. The forty Dutchmen were accordingly very thankful to Madame Hugo, and their gratitude showed itself on two occasions. We will share the first right away: the second will come in due course.
Mondragon is left by a dark and steep tunnel which forms the gate of the town; the roadway through this tunnel takes a sudden turn on the right, by the side of a precipice. Some slight palings were placed at the edge of the roadway to give any vehicles being carried over the abyss a last chance to pull themselves up, if they happened, by chance, to knock up against one of these barriers. Whether the mayoral and zagales were unacquainted with the geography of the district, or whether they were unable to control the heavy coach, when the vehicle came out of the dark tunnel it was advancing at a rapid pace, carried away by its own weight, towards the precipice, when the Dutch grenadiers, perceiving Madame Hugo's danger, rushed to the heads of the mules and, forcing them quickly to turn round, stopped the carriage just as one of the wheels had begun to roll over the edge of the[Pg 443] precipice. For one instant the travellers were literally suspended between life and death. But life gained the day. Two or three soldiers were nearly flung off by the shock; but some of them clung to the traces and others to the poles. And, as it happened, the only injuries were a few bruises and sores, which did not prevent them making merry that night with Madame Hugo's distribution of rations. The Duc de Cotadilla, who was very gallant, in spite of his sixty years, and who cantered by Madame Hugo's carriage door throughout the journey, added some bottles of rum to that distribution, and there was a regular feast.
Mondragon is approached through a dark and steep tunnel that serves as the town's entrance; the road through this tunnel takes a sharp turn to the right, next to a cliff. Some low fences were put at the edge of the road to give any vehicles sliding toward the drop a last chance to pull back if they happened to bump into one of these barriers. Whether the mayor and the young men were unaware of the area's geography, or if they couldn't control the heavy coach, when the vehicle exited the dark tunnel, it was speeding towards the cliff due to its own weight. The Dutch grenadiers, noticing Madame Hugo's peril, rushed to the mules' heads and quickly turned them around, stopping the carriage just as one of the wheels was about to go over the edge of the[Pg 443] cliff. For a brief moment, the travelers were literally hanging between life and death. But life won out. Two or three soldiers were almost thrown off by the jolt; however, some managed to hang on to the traces and others to the poles. Ultimately, the only injuries were a few bruises and scrapes, which didn't stop them from celebrating that night at Madame Hugo's food distribution. The Duc de Cotadilla, who remained quite gallant despite being sixty years old and who rode alongside Madame Hugo's carriage the whole journey, added some bottles of rum to the distribution, leading to a real feast.
After about twelve or fourteen days' journey, they reached Burgos. They had had frequent alarms since they left Bayonne, but had often found that what they took for guerilleros were only quiet mule-drivers, united into bands for their own protection. This mistake was easily made, since the mule-drivers were armed almost like soldiers and could not be distinguished from such, on account of the dust raised round them, except at close quarters, when it would be seen they rode mules, not horses. At Burgos a halt of three or four days was made, and Madame Hugo took the opportunity these days offered to show her children the cathedral, that wonderful pile of Gothic architecture, the gate of Charles V. and the tomb of the Cid.
After about twelve or fourteen days of traveling, they arrived in Burgos. They had faced multiple scares since leaving Bayonne, but they often realized that what they thought were guerillas were just local mule drivers, banded together for their own safety. It was an easy mistake to make since the mule drivers were armed almost like soldiers and could not be distinguished from them because of the dust around them, except up close, when it became clear they were riding mules, not horses. In Burgos, they took a break for three or four days, and Madame Hugo used this time to show her children the cathedral, that amazing example of Gothic architecture, the gate of Charles V, and the tomb of the Cid.
Of the tomb of the Cid, the soldiers had made a rifle-target. The child left Burgos dazed and breathless with wonder. Young as he was, he already possessed a passionate admiration for the chefs-d'œuvre of architecture; and the cathedral of Burgos, with its sixty or eighty bell-towers, is, indeed, a masterpiece of its kind. By a strange coincidence, General Hugo, who was in command of the Spanish retreat in 1813, knocked down three of these bell-towers when he blew up the citadel of the town of Burgos, of which he was the last governor.
Of the tomb of the Cid, the soldiers had turned it into a target for their rifles. The child left Burgos feeling amazed and breathless with wonder. Even at his young age, he had a deep admiration for the chefs-d'œuvre of architecture; and the cathedral of Burgos, with its sixty or eighty bell towers, is truly a masterpiece. Interestingly, General Hugo, who was in charge of the Spanish retreat in 1813, knocked down three of these bell towers when he blew up the citadel of Burgos, where he was the last governor.
The farther they advanced, the more frequent did traces of destruction become apparent. After Burgos, they stopped at a village which had once been Celadas; it was a heap of ruins from one end to the other; and, as though it had been feared that the place might revive, the ruins had been thoroughly set[Pg 444] fire to. Nothing could be sadder than to see that fire-destroyed village in the middle of the sunburnt plains. A few wall sides stood crumbling and roofless and, of these, the children belonging to the caravan made a fortress, soon dividing their small party into besiegers and besieged. War, which was, in those days, the trade of the fathers, was the play of the children. Little Victor and his two brothers formed part of the besieging party. Just when they were scaling a breach to enter the town, and Victor, who always loved high places, was running along the top of a wall, doubtless to make a diversion during the attack, he lost his footing and fell head foremost from the top of the wall into an uncovered cellar, and his head struck against the corner of a stone with such violence that he was stunned and lay where he fell. No one had seen him fall: his descent had been effected too rapidly for him to cry out. So the assault was carried on as though the besiegers had not lost one of their number. When the town was taken, vanquishers and vanquished counted their numbers, and only then did they discover that one of them, young Victor Hugo, was left gloriously on the field of battle. They began to search for him, Abel and Eugène at the head, and so carefully did they hunt into every nook and corner, that they soon discovered the wounded victim in the depths of a cellar. They thought he was dead, as he did not give any signs of life, and they rushed off with him amidst great lamentations to Madame Hugo, who soon saw he was still alive.
The further they went, the more signs of destruction became clear. After Burgos, they stopped at a village that used to be Celadas; it was just a heap of ruins from one end to the other. It seemed like they were afraid the place might come back to life, so the ruins had been completely set[Pg 444] on fire. Nothing was sadder than seeing that fire-ravaged village in the middle of the parched plains. A few crumbling walls stood without roofs, and the children from the caravan turned one of them into a fortress, quickly splitting into attackers and defenders. War, which was the responsibility of their fathers back then, became the game of the children. Little Victor and his two brothers were part of the attacking team. Just as they were climbing over a breach to get into the town, Victor—who always loved being up high—was running along the top of a wall, likely to create a distraction during the attack. He lost his balance and fell headfirst into an open cellar, hitting his head on a stone corner with such force that he was stunned and lay where he fell. No one saw him fall; it happened too quickly for him to shout out. So they continued the attack as if they hadn’t lost anyone. When the town was captured, the victors and the defeated counted themselves, and only then did they realize that one of them, young Victor Hugo, was left gloriously on the battlefield. Abel and Eugène led the search, and they combed every nook and cranny until they soon found the injured boy in the depths of a cellar. They thought he was dead since he showed no signs of life, and they hurried him back to Madame Hugo with great cries of distress, who soon realized he was still alive.
We have forgotten to mention that there were specimens of all kinds of humanity in the convoy, including six or eight Councillors of State, whom Napoleon was sending ready-made to his brother! So a doctor was easily found. The doctor attended to the child and, luckily, the shock had been worse than the actual blow; the wound was therefore more terrifying to look at than dangerous and, although the mark of the cut can even to-day be plainly seen, where Hugo parts his hair, by the next day the child had forgotten all about it; and like Kléber after the capture of Alexandria, he was ready to take part in besieging a fresh town.
We forgot to mention that there were all kinds of people in the convoy, including six or eight Councillors of State that Napoleon was sending, all set for his brother! So, it was easy to find a doctor. The doctor took care of the child, and fortunately, the shock was worse than the actual injury; the wound was more shocking to see than dangerous. Even though the scar is still clearly visible today where Hugo parts his hair, by the next day, the child had completely forgotten about it. Like Kléber after the capture of Alexandria, he was ready to join in on the siege of another town.
So far, nothing serious had disturbed the march of the caravan. Occasionally, a bullet from a hidden guerillero would bury itself in the thickness of the panels of one of the carriages, or break the glass of a door; and Colonel Montfort would send a score of hussars to search among the undergrowth from whence the stray shot had come; but it was easy enough in that part of the country through which the travellers were then passing for the culprit to slip down the sides of a ravine or gain a mountain gorge and put himself beyond reach.
So far, nothing serious had interrupted the caravan's journey. Occasionally, a bullet from a hidden guerrilla would embed itself in the thick panels of one of the carriages or smash the glass of a door; and Colonel Montfort would send a group of hussars to search the bushes where the stray shot came from. But in that part of the country the travelers were moving through, it was easy for the shooter to slip down a ravine or hide in a mountain gorge and get away.
One night, however, they had a genuine alarm, and expected this time that they were really face to face with a formidable enemy. They had traversed nearly two-thirds of their way and had reached the small town of Valverde, a collection of sombre-looking houses with high walls and no windows, looking like a nest of fortresses of the time of Louis XIII. As usual, the escort had set up its camp at the entrance to the town, sentinels had been posted in all directions and the travellers and officers had received their billeting papers for the houses of the principal inhabitants. Madame Hugo, as usual, lodged with the Alcade. As he left her, the Duc de Cotadilla said—
One night, though, they had a real scare and thought they were actually up against a serious enemy this time. They had traveled almost two-thirds of the way and had arrived in the small town of Valverde, which was made up of gloomy-looking houses with high walls and no windows, resembling a fortress from the time of Louis XIII. As always, the escort set up camp at the town entrance, sentries were placed all around, and the travelers and officers received their assignments for the homes of the main residents. Madame Hugo, as usual, stayed with the Alcade. As he was leaving her, the Duc de Cotadilla said—
"Be on your guard, madame; we are in the heart of the insurrection, and your host has not only a very bad reputation but also a very evil-looking face."
"Be careful, madam; we are in the middle of the uprising, and your host has not only a terrible reputation but also a really sinister-looking face."
Madame Hugo could only judge of the face, and her opinion thereon entirely coincided with that of the Duc de Cotadilla. Moreover, the inside of the house accorded with the appearance of the town and with her host: doors were barred with iron and lined with sheet-lead; there were severe-looking vestibules as dark as the passages in a convent, huge bare-walled rooms with only the earth for flooring on the ground floor and bricks on the first floor; and the furniture was composed of wooden benches and leather arm-chairs. When Madame Hugo had seen over the whole house to select the rooms that suited her best, she decided on an immense low room on the ground floor, lighted by a branch of pinewood burning in an iron hand which[Pg 446] was attached to the wall; she drew ont her bed from the immense portmanteau which enclosed it during the day, and put the children to sleep on a dozen sheepskins, placed M. du Saillant in a recess adjoining the large room and, when night fell, awaited what might happen. The outlook was not a cheerful one; the events that might be expected were terrible to contemplate, for the Spanish had been steadily gaining a reputation for ferocity since the beginning of the war; and the tortures they invented for the wretched Frenchmen who fell into their hands were unmentionably horrible. Among primitive peoples, who are wholly savage, like the Turks, for instance, you know what to expect; it will be one of their three methods of torture and execution—chopping off heads, strangulation or impalement; and the imagination of the executioners does not exceed those three ways of killing. But with a civilised people like the Spanish, who had their Charles V., Philip II. and the Inquisition, it is another matter: the miserable man under sentence of death may be roasted over a slow fire, sawed between two planks, put on the rack, hung by the feet; or have his entrails unravelled like a skein of cotton; or his body slashed in slices like a sixteenth-century doublet; or his eyes put out, his nose, his tongue or his hands cut off. Spanish executioners are men of resource! Besides, if they had exhausted their own imagination, there remained the resources of the Inquisition, for it should be borne in mind that the men who fought against us were Catholics first and foremost, priests and saints!
Madame Hugo could only assess the face, and her opinion completely matched that of the Duc de Cotadilla. Additionally, the interior of the house aligned with the town's appearance and her host: doors were reinforced with iron and lined with sheet lead; there were stern-looking entryways as dark as the passages in a convent, large, bare rooms with just dirt flooring on the ground floor and brick on the first floor; and the furniture consisted of wooden benches and leather armchairs. After Madame Hugo inspected the entire house to choose the rooms that suited her best, she settled on a huge low room on the ground floor, illuminated by a pinewood branch burning in an iron holder attached to the wall; she pulled out her bed from the large suitcase that held it during the day and laid the children down on a dozen sheepskins, placed M. du Saillant in a nook next to the big room, and, when night fell, awaited what might happen. The outlook was not bright; the potential events were terrifying to consider, as the Spanish had been steadily earning a reputation for brutality since the war began; and the tortures they devised for the unfortunate Frenchmen who fell into their hands were unimaginably horrific. With primitive peoples, who are entirely savage, like the Turks for example, you know what to expect; it'll be one of their three methods of torture and execution—beheading, strangulation, or impalement; and the executioners' creativity doesn't go beyond those three ways of killing. But with a civilized nation like the Spanish, who had their Charles V, Philip II, and the Inquisition, it's a different story: the poor man sentenced to death might be slowly roasted over a fire, sawed between two boards, put on the rack, hung by his feet; or have his insides unraveled like a skein of cotton; or his body cut into slices like a sixteenth-century doublet; or have his eyes gouged out, his nose, tongue, or hands severed. Spanish executioners are resourceful! Furthermore, if they had run out of ideas, there were always the methods of the Inquisition to consider, as it's important to remember that the men fighting against us were Catholics first and foremost—priests and saints!
In spite of reflections like these, dispiriting enough to a mother who is answerable to her husband for the safety of herself and their three children, Madame Hugo began to fall asleep, envying the tranquillity of Colonel du Saillant, who had been asleep a long time in the recess they had discovered adjoining this low room, when, suddenly, the cry "To arms!" and the noise of sharp firing roused her. She had gone to bed with very few clothes off, especially after the warning she had received, and she was up in an instant. The fusillade went on continuously, though somewhat irregularly directed, and the cries "To arms!" redoubled. In the midst of these cries,[Pg 447] someone knocked on the outside shutters of the large low room, loud enough to be heard, but meant evidently to be reassuring. Madame Hugo opened the shutter. It was Colonel Montfort, who had knocked on the shutters with the hilt of his sword.
Despite thoughts like these, which were disheartening for a mother responsible to her husband for the safety of herself and their three children, Madame Hugo started to doze off, envying the calmness of Colonel du Saillant, who had been asleep for a long time in the alcove they had found next to this small room. Suddenly, the shout "To arms!" and the sound of gunfire jolted her awake. She had gone to bed with very few clothes on, especially after the warning she had received, and she was up in an instant. The shooting continued without pause, though it was somewhat erratically aimed, and the cries of "To arms!" grew louder. In the midst of these cries,[Pg 447] someone banged on the outside shutters of the large low room, loud enough to be heard but clearly meant to be reassuring. Madame Hugo opened the shutter. It was Colonel Montfort, who had knocked on the shutters with the hilt of his sword.
"It is I, madame," he said, "Colonel Montfort, who have the honour to address you. The enemy has attacked us, but we have taken measures to give it a warm reception, therefore be tranquil. In any case, please barricade yourself in here, and only open to the Duc de Cotadilla or to myself."
"It’s me, madame," he said, "Colonel Montfort, and I'm honored to speak with you. The enemy has attacked us, but we’ve taken steps to give them a tough fight, so please stay calm. In any case, make sure to lock yourself in here, and only let in the Duc de Cotadilla or me."
Madame Hugo thanked Colonel Montfort for his attentive care; M. du Saillant went out to him, and she shut the door fast behind him, barricaded it, with every available precaution, and waited further developments. The firing continued for some time, and even occasionally seemed to increase; finally it decreased and gradually died out. Which had been victorious? French or Spaniards? She did not know as yet, but she had good hopes that the French had won, and soon there came a fresh rapping on the shutters, and, amidst shouts of laughter, which Madame Hugo recognised as coming from the Duc de Cotadilla, Colonel Montfort and her husband's aide-de-camp, she was asked to open the great door. This done, the three officers entered.
Madame Hugo thanked Colonel Montfort for his careful attention. M. du Saillant stepped outside, and she quickly shut the door behind him, barricading it with everything she could find, and then waited for what would happen next. The gunfire went on for a while and sometimes even seemed to get louder; eventually, it started to decrease and finally stopped. Who had won? The French or the Spaniards? She didn’t know yet, but she was hopeful that the French had triumphed. Soon, there was a new knocking on the shutters, and amid laughter, which Madame Hugo recognized as coming from the Duc de Cotadilla, Colonel Montfort, and her husband’s aide-de-camp, she was asked to open the main door. Once she did, the three officers came in.
A trumpeter of the hussars had discovered, just outside the town, a bit of meadow where he thought that his horse, to which he was greatly attached, could find a little fresh grass when the sentinels had been placed, he had picketed his horse in this tiny oasis. A peasant had noticed and wondered at this confidence and, when night fell, he had slipped from bush to bush, in order to steal the horse; the animal had allowed him to approach until he felt the picket detached, when, with a violent shake, he freed himself from his thief, and rushed off neighing and rearing back to the French camp. The sentinel advanced shouting, "Who goes there?" And the horse, of course, went past him without replying. The sentinel fired and fell back on the first outpost, crying, "To arms!" The first outpost fired and cried, "To arms!" and then the soldiers[Pg 448] in their turn had run to their piled and loaded muskets, fired and shouted, "To arms!" Hence the alarm, the firing, the fearful tumult, which for an hour had filled the little town of Valverde with fire, smoke and noise.
A trumpeter from the hussars had found a small meadow just outside the town where he thought his beloved horse could graze on some fresh grass after the sentinels were on duty. He tied his horse up in this little oasis. A peasant saw this and was curious about his confidence. When night fell, he crept from bush to bush to steal the horse. The animal let him get close until he felt the picket rope loosened, then with a sudden shake, it broke free from the thief and bolted back to the French camp, neighing and rearing. The sentinel shouted, "Who goes there?" but the horse ran past without answering. The sentinel fired his weapon and rushed back to the first outpost, yelling, "To arms!" The first outpost fired and echoed, "To arms!" Then the soldiers[Pg 448] quickly ran to grab their loaded muskets, fired, and shouted, "To arms!" This sparked the chaos, the gunfire, and the terrifying uproar that filled the small town of Valverde with fire, smoke, and noise for an hour.
Nobody dreamt of trying to sleep again for the remainder of that night, so Madame Hugo and the three officers spent it together, and next morning, at daybreak, they continued their march.
Nobody thought about trying to sleep again for the rest of that night, so Madame Hugo and the three officers spent it together, and the next morning, at daybreak, they continued their march.
The following day, another scene almost as grotesque as the alarming incident of the previous night, was in preparation for the travellers, under the rays of the hot noontide sun. They were halting at that hour in the middle of a great plain. The soldiers were covered with dust, and streaming with perspiration, under a sun of 35 degrees Centigrade, having finished their meal, when a courier arrived for the Duc de Cotadilla, to announce that the queen, who was also on her way under an escort to rejoin her husband, would soon pass by the cortège. The Duc de Cotadilla thanked the courier for his information and, when he had learnt the time that they were likely to meet the queen, and found they could still count on nearly an hour, he sent the courier on his way. Then he went to the door of Madame Hugo's coach, where, we know, he was accustomed to hold converse.
The next day, another scene almost as shocking as the alarming incident from the previous night was unfolding for the travelers under the scorching midday sun. They were stopped at that moment in the middle of a vast plain. The soldiers were covered in dust and soaked with sweat under a temperature of 35 degrees Celsius, having just finished their meal, when a courier arrived for the Duc de Cotadilla to announce that the queen, who was also on her way with an escort to reunite with her husband, would soon pass by their procession. The Duc de Cotadilla thanked the courier for the news and, after learning when they were likely to meet the queen and realizing they still had nearly an hour, he sent the courier on his way. Then he went to the door of Madame Hugo's coach, where he was known to engage in conversation.
"Madame," he said, "I venture to ask you to lower your blinds, first on account of the sun, and next because of the sights you would see going on among the escort. The queen is going to pass by in an hour's time, and I desire to show her due deference by making my men dress themselves in parade attire; and, to do this, they will have to change everything, from their collars to their leggings. During this transformation, which will be even more extensive than I have described, there will be evolutions which may be all right for a general or a colonel to see, but which are more unseemly for a lady to look upon. I have warned you, madame, and I am now going to warn the Duchesse de Villa-Hermosa and the other ladies."
"Madam," he said, "I’d like to ask you to close your blinds, first because of the sun, and second due to what you might witness with the escort. The queen will be passing by in an hour, and I want to show her the proper respect by having my men dress in their finest uniforms; to do this, they will need to change everything, from their collars to their leggings. During this process, which will be more involved than I’ve described, there will be movements that may be fine for a general or colonel to see, but aren’t appropriate for a lady to observe. I’ve warned you, madam, and I’m now going to warn the Duchesse de Villa-Hermosa and the other ladies."
And, with his usual politeness, the Duc de Cotadilla took[Pg 449] leave of Madame Hugo and issued his commands. Madame Hugo drew down her blinds.
And, with his usual politeness, the Duc de Cotadilla took[Pg 449] his leave of Madame Hugo and gave his orders. Madame Hugo closed her curtains.
The orders of the Duc de Cotadilla were that the men should at once put on parade dress to line the route for the queen. The men quickly formed single line along the whole of the roadside, piled arms, opened knapsacks and began their toilet. They had just reached the most delicate part of their toilet, on account of which the Duc de Cotadilla had cautioned the ladies to lower their carriage blinds, when a huge cloud of dust appeared on the top of a mountain five hundred feet off, and cries of "The queen! The queen!" rang through the air. The queen had come half an hour sooner than the courier had announced. A stronger head than that of the Duc de Cotadilla might have been upset by such an accident as this; moreover, in no book on the art of warfare had provision been made for such a contingency. So he kept silence, and, left to their own inspiration, the drums beat the call to arms, the soldiers shouldered their weapons and the non-commissioned officers yelled, "Fall in!"
The Duc de Cotadilla ordered the men to immediately don their dress uniforms to line the queen's route. The men quickly formed a single line along the roadside, stacked their weapons, opened their knapsacks, and began getting ready. They had just reached the most delicate part of their preparations, for which the Duc de Cotadilla had warned the ladies to close their carriage blinds, when a massive cloud of dust appeared at the top of a mountain five hundred feet away, and shouts of "The queen! The queen!" echoed through the air. The queen arrived half an hour earlier than the courier had announced. Even a stronger leader than the Duc de Cotadilla might have been thrown off by such an unexpected turn of events; besides, no military manual had prepared for this kind of situation. So, he stayed silent, and, relying on their own instincts, the drums sounded the call to arms, the soldiers shouldered their weapons, and the non-commissioned officers shouted, "Fall in!"
Thus it fell ont that the Queen of Spain held a review such as no other queen or empress, were she even Marguerite of Burgundy or Catherine II., had ever held; and, as she learnt later that M. de Cotadilla had been forewarned of her arrival, nothing removed the idea from her mind that the nakedness of those three thousand men was a joke which the illustrious duke had prepared for her.
Thus it happened that the Queen of Spain held a review like no other queen or empress—whether it be Marguerite of Burgundy or Catherine II.—had ever held; and, as she later learned that M. de Cotadilla had been warned about her arrival, nothing could shake the belief in her mind that the sight of those three thousand naked men was a prank that the illustrious duke had set up for her.
The queen went by, and, as the parade dress was of no further use, they resumed their everyday uniform, restored their fine clothes to their knapsacks, the signal for starting was given and the journey was resumed.
The queen passed by, and since the parade outfits were no longer needed, they put on their regular uniforms again, packed away their fancy clothes into their backpacks, the signal to begin was given, and they continued their journey.
CHAPTER VIII
Segovia—M. de Tilly—The Alcazar—The doubloons—The castle of M. de la Calprenède and that of a Spanish grandee—The bourdaloue—Otero—The Dutchmen again—The Guadarrama—Arrival at Madrid—The palace of Masserano—The comet—The College—Don Manoël and Don Bazilio—Tacitus and Plautus—Lillo—The winter of 1812 to 1813—The Empecinado—The glass of eau sucrée—The army of merinoes—Return to Paris
Segovia—M. de Tilly—The Alcazar—The doubloons—The castle of M. de la Calprenède and that of a Spanish nobleman—The bourdaloue—Otero—The Dutchmen again—The Guadarrama—Arrival in Madrid—The Masserano palace—The comet—The College—Don Manoël and Don Bazilio—Tacitus and Plautus—Lillo—The winter of 1812 to 1813—The Empecinado—The glass of eau sucrée—The army of merino sheep—Return to Paris
At length they reached Valladolid; then, after a few days' stay there, they proceeded from Valladolid to Segovia across steep mountains, sometimes sharp peaked, sometimes leading by gentler slopes to high summits from which they could see vast plains basking in the June sunshine.
At last, they arrived in Valladolid; after a few days there, they traveled from Valladolid to Segovia through steep mountains, sometimes with sharp peaks and sometimes with gentler slopes leading to high summits where they could see wide plains soaking up the June sunshine.
The Count of Tilly was governor of Segovia. He belonged to the old court, was page to Louis XVI. and left Memoirs which are not wanting in a certain picturesqueness of their own—a much rarer quality at that epoch than the quality of arousing interest. He came to the door of Madame Hugo's carriage to welcome her, installed her in a palace and looked after her and her children during their stoppage at Segovia.
The Count of Tilly was the governor of Segovia. He was part of the old court, served as a page to Louis XVI, and left behind Memoirs that have a unique charm—much rarer at that time than the ability to capture interest. He went to Madame Hugo's carriage to greet her, settled her into a palace, and took care of her and her children during their stay in Segovia.
The event that struck the young poet most and remained most vividly in his memory during his sojourn in this town was his visit to the Alcazar—that splendid fairy palace, less famous but as beautiful as those of Granada and Seville, with its gallery containing portraits of all the Moorish kings painted in the trefoils and on backgrounds of gold. We need not explain to our readers that these pictures are later than Arabian times, the religion of the Arabs forbidding them to paint images. The Alcazar at that time was also used as the Mint. M. de Tilly took Madame Hugo and her children into[Pg 451] the coining-room, where he had a doubloon struck specially for each child to keep. One of the greatest of Hugo's youthful troubles was the losing of his coin in Madrid by letting it fall through the crack of a carriage door.
The event that impacted the young poet the most and stuck in his memory during his time in this town was his visit to the Alcazar—the stunning fairy-tale palace, less famous but just as beautiful as those in Granada and Seville, featuring a gallery with portraits of all the Moorish kings painted in trefoils against gold backgrounds. We don't need to explain to our readers that these paintings are from a later time, as Arab culture forbids the depiction of images. At that time, the Alcazar was also used as the Mint. M. de Tilly took Madame Hugo and her children into[Pg 451] the coining room, where he had a doubloon minted specifically for each child to keep. One of Hugo's biggest childhood regrets was losing his coin in Madrid when it slipped through the crack of a carriage door.
They waited eight days for reinforcements; for they dared not risk setting ont for Madrid without a fresh escort; when this new escort arrived, they resumed their journey to rejoin the convoy party on the Madrid road. At Segovia, Madame Hugo, as we know, had, through the intervention of Count Tilly, been lodged in the palace of a Spanish grandee. As in M. de la Calprenède's palace, everything was of silver, chandeliers, plates, basins, washing-bowls, everything, even to the chamber articles. One of the pieces of furniture that especially charmed Madame Hugo with its beauty and originality of shape was a delightful little bourdaloue.
They waited eight days for reinforcements because they didn’t want to risk heading to Madrid without a fresh escort. When this new escort arrived, they continued their journey to rejoin the convoy on the Madrid road. In Segovia, Madame Hugo, as we know, had been housed in the palace of a Spanish nobleman thanks to Count Tilly’s help. Just like in M. de la Calprenède's palace, everything was made of silver—chandeliers, plates, basins, washing bowls, everything, even the bedroom items. One piece of furniture that particularly delighted Madame Hugo with its beauty and unique shape was a charming little bourdaloue.
Here I shall be pulled up and asked why a night commode should have been associated with the name of the celebrated pupil of the Jesuits and why a chamber utensil should have been named after a preacher. I will explain, after I have done with Madame Hugo's fascination for this little article of furniture and the consequences that ensued.
Here I will be confronted and asked why a nightstand should be linked to the famous student of the Jesuits and why a bathroom fixture should carry the name of a preacher. I will explain after I address Madame Hugo's obsession with this piece of furniture and the outcomes that followed.
Well, Madame Hugo was so delighted with the form of the charming bourdaloue that she asked the master of the house in which she was staying if she might buy it of him. But, like a true Spaniard, the old Castillian was an implacable enemy to our nation, so he replied that Madame Hugo could have the coveted object if she wished, but that he never sold anything to the French. As, in this case, to take it was equivalent to stealing it, Madame Hugo refrained, supposing the bourdaloue to form part of a collection which it would be a pity to spoil. Now let us explain why those little elongated vessels are called bourdaloues. The famous preacher gave such interminably long sermons that ladies were compelled to take certain precautions against their length which we think we need not explain more fully. More happy than Christopher Columbus, who gave his name to a new continent, the pillar of Christian eloquence gave his name to a new article of furniture,[Pg 452] made especially because of his doings—an article which from its long and narrow shape was easily carried about.
Well, Madame Hugo was so pleased with the shape of the charming bourdaloue that she asked the master of the house where she was staying if she could buy it from him. But, like a true Spaniard, the old Castillian was a staunch enemy of our nation, so he replied that Madame Hugo could have the desired item if she wanted, but he never sold anything to the French. Since taking it would essentially be stealing, Madame Hugo decided against it, thinking that the bourdaloue was part of a collection that it would be a shame to spoil. Now, let’s explain why those little elongated vessels are called bourdaloues. The famous preacher gave such incredibly long sermons that ladies had to take certain precautions against their duration, which we believe doesn’t need further elaboration. More fortunate than Christopher Columbus, who named a new continent, the pillar of Christian eloquence lent his name to a new piece of furniture,[Pg 452] created specifically because of his lengthy sermons—an item that, due to its long and narrow shape, was easy to carry around.
Now that we think we have cleared up this historical question to the satisfaction of our readers, we will rejoin the convoy on its journey to Madrid. It had reached within a league of Otero, where they were to pass the night and whose towers they could already discern, when, because one of the spokes of a back wheel of Madame Hugo's gigantic coach snapped in two, they had to make an enforced halt on the high-road, which was paved with enormous pieces of rock. Faithful to his courteous habits, the Duc de Cotadilla had ordered a general halt, causing an outburst of objections. A general halt at seven in the evening! a halt which might last a couple of hours and allow the convoy to be overtaken by nightfall! The duke could hardly have done more even if the accident had happened to one of the waggons containing the treasure, and he was exceeding his duties altogether when it was only for the wife of a French general, a lady who had been a member of the Spanish aristocracy for barely three years! So there was a great clamour throughout the convoy. There had been precedents in similar cases, and the unfortunate carriage had been left behind bag and baggage to the mercy of Providence! The Duc de Cotadilla wished to keep his word, but he had to give way before the chorus of complaints. The convoy meant to continue its way to Otero; but help on which she had not counted was to be given to Madame Hugo and her poor abandoned coach. The forty Dutch grenadiers asked to be allowed the favour of remaining by her coach as escort until the wheel could be mended and it was possible to continue the journey. This favour was granted them. The convoy moved off and gradually, like a receding tide, left the coach stranded on the highway. But never did shipwrecked people alone on a desert island set themselves to work with greater energy to construct a raft than did the forty Dutch grenadiers to the mending of the wheel. It was completed in an hour or so. When they set off again, the rear of the convoy had long been lost to sight and darkness had begun to[Pg 453] fall. However, in spite of all these adverse circumstances, the coach, with Madame Hugo, her three children, the servant, the chambermaid, the forty Dutch grenadiers, entered Otero by ten that night, without having had to pay toll to the guerilleros—a most unusual stroke of good luck. During the night, owing to the efforts of a local wheelwright, whom they compelled by force to undertake the job, with two army blacksmiths superintending his labours, the coach was mended; and next day it was ready to take its place at the head of the file of carriages.
Now that we believe we've resolved this historical question to the satisfaction of our readers, we'll rejoin the convoy on its journey to Madrid. It had reached within a league of Otero, where they were to spend the night and whose towers were already visible, when one of the spokes of a back wheel of Madame Hugo's enormous coach snapped in half. They had to make an unexpected stop on the high road, which was paved with large rocks. True to his courteous nature, the Duc de Cotadilla ordered a general halt, which led to an outpouring of objections. A general stop at seven in the evening! A stop that could last a couple of hours and might cause the convoy to be caught by nightfall! The duke couldn't have done any more even if the accident had happened to one of the wagons carrying the treasure, and he was completely overstepping his duties for just the wife of a French general, a lady who had only been part of the Spanish aristocracy for barely three years! So there was a loud uproar throughout the convoy. There had been precedents in similar situations, and unfortunate carriages had been left behind with all their belongings to the mercy of Providence! The Duc de Cotadilla wanted to honor his word, but he had to yield to the chorus of complaints. The convoy intended to continue to Otero; however, unexpected help was to be offered to Madame Hugo and her poor abandoned coach. The forty Dutch grenadiers asked for permission to stay by her coach as escorts until the wheel could be repaired and they could resume the journey. This request was granted. The convoy moved on and slowly, like a receding tide, left the coach stranded on the highway. But never did shipwrecked individuals alone on a deserted island put in more effort to build a raft than the forty Dutch grenadiers did in fixing the wheel. It was completed in about an hour. When they set off again, the rear of the convoy had long disappeared from sight and darkness had begun to fall. However, despite all these challenges, the coach, with Madame Hugo, her three children, the servant, the chambermaid, and the forty Dutch grenadiers, entered Otero by ten that night, without having had to pay toll to the guerilleros—a rare stroke of good luck. During the night, thanks to the efforts of a local wheelwright, who they forced to do the job, along with two army blacksmiths overseeing his work, the coach was repaired; and the next day it was ready to take its place at the front of the line of carriages.
They reached the chain of the Guadarrama Mountains and began to climb them; ascending the highest summit, they made a halt at the foot of the gigantic lion which turns its back on Old Castile, and, with one paw on the scutcheon of the Spains, looks to New Castile; then they descended towards the campagna round Madrid. The campagna of Rome is bare and gloomy, but flecked with glorious sunshine, and looks alive, if one may so put it, in spite of its loneliness. The campagna of Madrid is bare, arid and grey, and like a cemetery. And the Escurial rises up at the end of the plain like a tomb. This, indeed, was the impression it left on me, and also the impression it left on Hugo, who visited it thirty-five years before I did.
They arrived at the Guadarrama Mountains and started their climb; reaching the highest peak, they took a break at the foot of the massive lion that looks away from Old Castile, with one paw on the coat of arms of Spain, gazing towards New Castile. Then they descended towards the countryside around Madrid. The Roman countryside is bare and dreary, but it's dotted with bright sunshine and seems alive, if that makes sense, despite its solitude. The Madrid countryside is barren, dry, and gray, resembling a cemetery. The Escurial stands at the edge of the plain like a tomb. This was definitely the impression it left on me, as well as on Hugo, who visited it thirty-five years before I did.
"L'Espagne m'accueillit livrée à la conquête;
Je franchis le Burgare où mugit la tempête;
De loin y pour un tombeau, je pris l'Escurial,
Et le triple aqueduc vit s'incliner ma tête
Devant son front impérial.
Là, je voyais les feux des haltes militaires
Noircir les murs croulants des villes solitaires;
La tente de l'église envahissait le seuil;
Les rires des soldats, dans les saints monastères,
Par l'écho répétés, semblaient des cris de deuil!"
"L Spain welcomed me, open to conquest;
I crossed the Burgare where the storm roared;
From afar, for a tomb, I reached the Escurial,
And the triple aqueduct saw my head bow
Before its imperial front.
There, I saw the fires of military camps
Blacken the crumbling walls of lonely cities;
The church's tent overflowed the threshold;
The laughter of soldiers, in the holy monasteries,
Echoing back, sounded like cries of mourning!"
The convoy wound over the plain from the Escurial to Madrid like a long snake; they only slept once on the road, at Galapagar. Next day, by six in the evening, they had reached Madrid. They had scarcely entered its streets before[Pg 454] everybody disbanded, overjoyed at being no longer under the restraint of military discipline. Madame Hugo bade farewell to the Duc de Cotadilla, of Colonel Montfort and her forty Dutchmen; then Colonel du Saillant took her to the palace of the princes of Masserano, which was prepared for her reception. The general was at his governorship in Guadalajara: we shall see later what he was doing there.
The convoy twisted across the plain from the Escurial to Madrid like a long snake; they only stopped to sleep once on the way, at Galapagar. The next day, by six in the evening, they arrived in Madrid. They had barely entered the streets before[Pg 454] everyone scattered, thrilled to be free from military discipline. Madame Hugo said her goodbyes to the Duc de Cotadilla, Colonel Montfort, and her forty Dutchmen; then Colonel du Saillant took her to the Masserano palace, which was ready for her arrival. The general was at his governorship in Guadalajara: we'll see later what he was up to there.
The palace of Masserano was in the Calle de la Reyna. It was a vast building of the seventeenth century, in all the splendour and severity of that period; it had no garden but a multitude of little square courtyards paved with marble, each with a fountain in the centre. These courtyards could only be entered through a kind of postern gateway; the sun never reached down into them, for the walls enclosing them were some forty to fifty feet high; and they were only just large enough for a wolf to walk round the fountain; in fact, they were simply store-places of shade and coolness. So far as Victor's memory carried him, the interior of the palace was of incredible magnificence; especially the dining-room, which had large glass windows on each of its four sides, the light through which showed up in all their glory splendid paintings by Fra Bartolommeo, Velasquez, Murillo, Sébastian del Piombo, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael and Michael Angelo. This dining-room led into a large salon, upholstered in red damask, which led into another salon upholstered in blue damask, which in its turn led to what was called the princess's room, an immense chamber, upholstered and furnished in blue figured silk and silver. On the other side of the dining-room, through an anteroom, ornamented solely with oak chests which were meant to serve as seats for attendants, you entered a large gallery which contained a collection of full-length portraits of the Counts of Masserano, in court dress, also of princes of the same name; the principality, by the way, only dated back as far as the middle of the seventeenth century. It was in these great galleries that the children played hide-and-seek with the sons of General Lucotte, in rooms a hundred and fifty feet long, and among Chinese vases and porcelain ornaments[Pg 455] six feet in height! Their evenings were spent on a large balcony, from whence they could see the comet, in which they could distinguish the Virgin giving her hand to Ferdinand VII.,—so said the Spanish priests.
The palace of Masserano was located on the Calle de la Reyna. It was a huge building from the seventeenth century, showcasing all the glory and seriousness of that era; it had no garden but a number of small square courtyards paved with marble, each featuring a fountain in the center. You could only access these courtyards through a small side gate; the sun never reached them because the surrounding walls were about forty to fifty feet high, and they were just big enough for a wolf to walk around the fountain; in reality, they were simply places of shade and coolness. As far as Victor could remember, the inside of the palace was incredibly magnificent, especially the dining room, which had large glass windows on all four sides, allowing light to highlight the stunning paintings by Fra Bartolommeo, Velasquez, Murillo, Sébastian del Piombo, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michelangelo. This dining room opened into a large salon covered in red damask, which led into another salon covered in blue damask, which in turn opened to what was called the princess's room, a massive chamber decorated and furnished in blue patterned silk and silver. On the other side of the dining room, through a small anteroom furnished only with oak chests meant for the attendants to sit on, you entered a large gallery filled with full-length portraits of the Counts of Masserano in court dress, as well as princes of the same name; by the way, the principality only dated back to the mid-seventeenth century. It was in these grand galleries that the children played hide-and-seek with General Lucotte's sons, in rooms that were a hundred and fifty feet long, among Chinese vases and porcelain decorations six feet high! They spent their evenings on a large balcony, where they could watch the comet, which was said to show the Virgin giving her hand to Ferdinand VII., according to the Spanish priests.[Pg 455]
One morning an escort of Westphalian cavalry arrived, accompanying a messenger bearing a letter from General Hugo. The general was unable to come to Madrid, being busily engaged in warfare on the banks of the Tagus. The main purpose of the letter was to recommend the best college for the education of the three children. They were to be placed in the Séminaire des Nobles, where they would be prepared as pages of the king. It was not usual to take boys under thirteen, but, although Abel was only twelve, Eugène but ten and Victor only eight, an exception was made in their favour and a license from the king provided for their immediate admission. They had to leave the splendid Masserano palace, with its beautiful paintings by old masters, its splendid tapestries, its interminable galleries decorated with Chinese vases and the walls whereon three generations of counts and princes seemed to come to life again in their state costumes or in their trappings of war, for the gloomy seminary in the Calle San-Isidro. The Séminaire des Nobles was, indeed, a formidable and severe-looking edifice, with its great treeless courts, and one might almost go so far as to say its vast schoolrooms without scholars. There were twenty-five pupils, not including the three new-comers in this seminary, which had contained three hundred before the French invasion. This was, approximately, the proportion of the aristocracy of Spain that had rallied round Joseph Bonaparte. And besides the twenty-five scholars there was, as we have said, the three sons of General Hugo and a Spanish prisoner. The seminary looked indeed a gloomy place to the poor children when they entered it. Imagine those schoolrooms and dormitories and lavatories and refectories intended to meet the needs of three hundred pupils, now containing but twenty-five unhappy scholars, who looked lost therein. Virgil's phrase, rari nantes, seemed entirely to meet the case. The establishment was[Pg 456] kept by two Jesuits who controlled the college with apparently equal strictness; these two Jesuits each represented opposite types of their order: one was named Don Manoël and the other Don Bazilio. Don Bazilio was tall and nearly fifty-five years of age; his forehead was bare and bald, and his nose was like a vulture's beak; his mouth was large and firm, and his chin protruded. He was hard and severe in character and never forgave. But, at the same time, he was just, and never punished unless punishment was deserved. The other, Don Manoël, was plump and very broad. His figure was thick-set; he had a smiling, almost a gay, face; and his manner towards new-comers was gentle and gracious and caressing; judging from his appearance, he was always ready to excuse, or at any rate to make allowance for faults; he was extremely false, very deceitful and utterly mischievous; he directed the college alone, in spite of the pretended collaboration of Don Bazilio, doubtless by order of his superiors. When the first edge of his appearance of sympathy had worn off, Don Manoël became unbearable. Lads began by detesting Don Bazilio; but, as he was just, in spite of his severity, this hatred gradually passed away; whilst, on the other hand, people began by liking Don Manoël, and ended by detesting him. But when the latter feeling was aroused it went on increasing crescendo.
One morning, a group of Westphalian cavalry arrived, bringing a messenger with a letter from General Hugo. The general couldn’t come to Madrid because he was busy fighting along the Tagus River. The main point of the letter was to recommend the best school for the education of his three children. They were to be enrolled in the Séminaire des Nobles, where they would be trained as pages for the king. Normally, boys under thirteen weren’t accepted, but since Abel was only twelve, Eugène was ten, and Victor was just eight, they made an exception for them, and a license from the king allowed for their immediate admission. They had to leave the magnificent Masserano palace, with its stunning paintings by old masters, beautiful tapestries, endless galleries adorned with Chinese vases, and the walls that seemed to bring to life three generations of counts and princes in their royal costumes or war gear, for the gloomy seminary on Calle San-Isidro. The Séminaire des Nobles was truly an imposing and stern-looking building, with its large treeless courtyards, and one could almost say its vast, empty classrooms. There were twenty-five students, not counting the three newcomers, in a seminary that once had three hundred before the French invasion. This was roughly the proportion of Spain's aristocracy that had rallied around Joseph Bonaparte. Along with the twenty-five students were, as mentioned, General Hugo's three sons and a Spanish prisoner. The seminary felt incredibly dreary to the poor children when they entered. Just picture those classrooms, dormitories, restrooms, and dining halls designed for three hundred pupils, now housing only twenty-five miserable students who seemed lost in the space. Virgil's phrase, rari nantes, seemed to fit perfectly. The place was[Pg 456] run by two Jesuits who managed the school with seemingly equal strictness; one was named Don Manoël and the other Don Bazilio. Don Bazilio was tall and nearly fifty-five years old; his forehead was bald, and his nose resembled a vulture's beak; he had a large, firm mouth, and his chin jutted out. He was tough and severe, never forgiving. However, he was also fair and only punished when it was warranted. Don Manoël, on the other hand, was plump and stocky. He had a cheerful, almost jovial face, and he was gentle and kind towards newcomers, seemingly always ready to excuse or at least overlook faults; he was extremely deceitful and very manipulative, running the college independently despite Don Bazilio’s supposed collaboration, likely by order of his superiors. Once the initial impression of his sympathy faded, Don Manoël became unbearable. Boys initially began to loathe Don Bazilio, but since he was fair, despite his harshness, that hatred gradually faded; meanwhile, people started off liking Don Manoël and ended up detesting him. But once that negative feeling took hold, it only grew crescendo.
The studies which these two Jesuits set their pupils were ridiculous. They were so feeble that, in a college composed of young people of eighteen to twenty years of age, a special class had to be started for the new arrivals of whom the oldest was but twelve. They actually judged of the children's capacities by their size when they began to examine them, and gave Abel a Quintus Curtius, and Eugène De Viris, and little Victor an Epitome. But at sight of this book, with which he had finished a long time before, the child rebelled and boldly asked for Tacitus. The fathers looked at one another in stupefaction and, refraining from punishing the audacious boy who had delivered himself of this ill-timed jest, they brought him the book. Victor opened it and immediately translated[Pg 457] the paragraph about Cocceius Nerva on which he had alighted at haphazard. The two other brothers took up Tacitus in their turn, and gave an equal, if a not superior, proof of skill. They brought them Perseus and Juvenal; the children were familiar with both these satirists, and could not merely interpret them, but even offered to recite whole satires by heart. Thus the children fresh from France made light of these three authors, who were looked upon at the Séminaire des Nobles as beyond the reach of rhetoricians of twenty! The two Jesuits put their heads together, decided that they must make a special class for the three new-comers and settled that they would expound Plautus to them. Don Manoël it was, a true Jesuit, who chose an author full of ellipses, bristling with idioms, crammed with Roman patois, like that which Molière puts into the mouths of his peasant-folk, and for ever alluding to customs that had disappeared even in Cicero's time. But Don Manoël's end was accomplished: the children's brains grew dull over Plautus; and this was exactly what he wished, to break their pride. The twenty-two other pupils were Spaniards, sons of Spanish grandees who had thrown in their lot with Joseph. Among them were two sons of high birth to whom Victor dedicated different Souvenirs in his works: one, the Count of Belverana, whom he put in his Lucrèce Borgia, and Raymond de Benavente, to whom he addressed, in 1823, the Ode that begins with this stanza:—
The lessons these two Jesuits set for their students were absurd. They were so weak that, in a college full of kids aged eighteen to twenty, they had to create a special class for new arrivals, the oldest of whom was only twelve. They actually assessed the children's abilities based on their size when they started to evaluate them, handing Abel a Quintus Curtius, Eugène a De Viris, and little Victor an Epitome. But when Victor saw this book, which he had already completed a long time ago, he rebelled and boldly asked for Tacitus. The fathers looked at each other in shock and, holding back from punishing the audacious boy for his ill-timed joke, they brought him the book. Victor opened it and immediately translated[Pg 457] the paragraph about Cocceius Nerva that he randomly landed on. The other two brothers took up Tacitus in turn and demonstrated equally impressive, if not superior, skill. They brought them Perseus and Juvenal; the kids were familiar with both satirists and could not only interpret them but even recite entire satires from memory. Thus, the children fresh from France easily handled these three authors, who were considered beyond the capability of twenty-year-old rhetoric students at the Séminaire des Nobles! The two Jesuits conferred, decided to create a special class for the three newcomers, and determined that they would teach them Plautus. Don Manoël, a true Jesuit, chose an author full of ellipses, packed with idioms, and filled with Roman slang, like what Molière gives to his peasant characters, constantly referencing customs that had vanished even during Cicero's time. But Don Manoël achieved his goal: the children’s minds dulled over Plautus; and that was exactly what he wanted, to crush their pride. The other twenty-two students were Spaniards, sons of Spanish nobles who had sided with Joseph. Among them were two noble sons to whom Victor dedicated various Souvenirs in his works: one, the Count of Belverana, whom he included in his Lucrèce Borgia, and Raymond de Benavente, to whom he addressed, in 1823, the Ode that starts with this stanza:—
"Hélas! j'ai compris ton sourire,
Semblable au ris du condamné
Quand le mot qui doit le proscrire
A son oreille a résonné!
En pressant ta main convulsive,
J'ai compris ta douleur pensive,
Et ton regard morne et profond,
Qui, pareil à l'éclair des nues,
Brille sur des mers inconnues,
Mais ne peut en montrer le fond."
"Hélas! I understood your smile,
Like the grin of the condemned
When the word that will banish him
Has echoed in his ear!
As I grasped your trembling hand,
I felt your thoughtful pain,
And your dull, deep gaze,
Which, like a flash from the clouds,
Shines over unknown seas,
But cannot reveal their depths."
The young poet noticed one custom peculiar to Spanish manners, namely, these children, whose ages varied from[Pg 458] thirteen and every year up to twenty, all used the familiar form of address among themselves, as became sons of Spanish grandees, and never addressed one another by their baptismal or family names, but only by their titles of prince, duke, marquis, count or baron. They called Victor "Baron," which filled him with pride.
The young poet observed a unique custom in Spanish culture: children ranging from [Pg 458] thirteen to twenty all used informal terms of address with each other, as befitting the sons of Spanish nobles. They never referred to each other by their first or family names, but only by their titles of prince, duke, marquis, count, or baron. They called Victor "Baron," which made him feel proud.
Among these young folk—and to be exact in our figures we ought to reduce the number of these juvenile nobilities to twenty-one—was one who was neither knight, baron, count, marquis, duke nor prince, and who nevertheless was not the least remarkable inmate of the college. This was a young Spanish officer named Lillo, aged fifteen, who had been taken prisoner at the siege of Badajoz. He had fought like a demon, had killed a French grenadier with his own hand and had been taken only after a heroic defence. They were about to shoot him when Marshal Soult happened to pass by, and, having inquired and been informed what was being done, had him despatched to Madrid, with orders that he should be placed in the college. The order was carried out, and Lillo was sent to the college, but in the twofold capacity of pupil and prisoner. The lad, who had borne the rank of second lieutenant, had commanded grown men, had faced battle in open field, equipped as a soldier, took badly to the college discipline full of Jesuitical chicaneries, to which he had to submit like all the others, save in the matter of the common dormitory, where, however, each pupil had his own cubicle. He therefore, as far as he was permitted, kept to himself in solitude, rage burning at his heart's core, and in his relations with the other young lads he was cold, melancholy and haughty. Of course, the three French boys were the object of his particular aversion, and he was constantly picking quarrels with one and sometimes with all three of the sons of the general attached to Joseph, he a soldier of Ferdinand VII. Once he called Napoleon Napoladron before Eugène—true, nearly every Spaniard called the conqueror of Austerlitz by that nickname, but Eugène was none the less sensitive? to the insult on that account, and he retorted that Lillo had been[Pg 459] taken prisoner between the legs of a French grenadier. Lillo had a pair of compasses in his hand; he did not wait for any other weapon, but threw himself on Eugène and stabbed him brutally with it on the cheek. The wound, or rather the tear, was an inch and a half in length. Eugène wished to fight a duel, and Lillo was willing enough; but the professors intervened and separated the youth and the lad. Lillo disappeared the next day; and neither Victor nor his brother ever heard what became of him. I can still hear Victor's grave voice when he told me the anecdote, saying—
Among these young people—and to be precise, we should count these young nobles as twenty-one—was one who was neither a knight, baron, count, marquis, duke, nor prince, yet was still a noteworthy resident of the college. This was a fifteen-year-old Spanish officer named Lillo, who had been captured during the siege of Badajoz. He fought fiercely, killed a French grenadier with his own hands, and was captured only after a heroic defense. They were about to execute him when Marshal Soult happened to walk by and, after asking what was happening and being informed, sent him to Madrid with orders to place him in the college. The order was carried out, and Lillo arrived at the college, but as both a student and a prisoner. The young man, who had held the rank of second lieutenant, had led grown men and faced open battles as a soldier. He struggled with the college's strict discipline, full of Jesuit tricks, which he had to endure just like everyone else, except in the communal dormitory where each student had their own cubicle. Thus, as much as he could, he kept to himself in solitude, with rage burning in his heart, and when interacting with the other boys, he was cold, melancholic, and proud. Unsurprisingly, he particularly disliked the three French boys, often picking fights with one and sometimes all three of the general's sons attached to Joseph, a soldier of Ferdinand VII. At one point, he called Napoleon Napoladron in front of Eugène—granted, nearly every Spaniard referred to the conqueror of Austerlitz by that nickname, but Eugène was still sensitive to the insult, responding that Lillo had been [Pg 459] captured while crouching between the legs of a French grenadier. Lillo had a pair of compasses in his hand; he didn’t need any other weapon, so he lunged at Eugène and brutally stabbed him with it on the cheek. The wound, or rather the tear, was an inch and a half long. Eugène wanted to duel, and Lillo was willing, but the professors intervened and separated the two. The next day, Lillo disappeared, and neither Victor nor his brother ever found out what happened to him. I can still hear Victor's serious voice when he told me the story, saying—
"And the young fellow was right: he was standing up for his country ... but children do not understand that."
"And the young guy was right: he was standing up for his country ... but kids don't get that."
The living at the Séminaire des Nobles was cloistral; probably no monastery throughout Spain kept severer rules. Once a fortnight they went for a walk, but even this was restricted, and they might not even go to the Délices (corresponding to our Champs-Élysées), for fear of guerilla bands. These twenty or twenty-five lads would have been a great prize, and worth a good ransom, belonging, as they did, not only to the first families in Madrid, but also to the families which had thrown in their lot with the brother of Napoladron, as Lillo had called him.
The life at the Séminaire des Nobles was very isolated; probably no monastery in Spain had stricter rules. They only went for a walk every two weeks, but even that was limited, and they weren't allowed to go to the Délices (similar to our Champs-Élysées) because of the threat from guerrilla groups. These twenty or twenty-five boys would have been a huge target, worth a good ransom, since they came from not only Madrid's top families but also from those who had allied with the brother of Napoladron, as Lillo had called him.
From time to time, the boys would look up at the sound of an opening door and they would see a vision out of the seventeenth century appear in the beginning of the nineteenth. One day, when in the refectory, eating their meal in silence, while a junior master, seated on a raised chair in the midst of an immense hall, was reading to them in Spanish out of a pious book, suddenly, the door opened, after a couple of knocks, as though a prince, cardinal or Spanish grandee were outside. The four little Benavente boys had not seen their mother for over a year, and it was the Princess of Benavente. She advanced a few steps into the room and waited. Then her four sons rose, ranged themselves according to their age, eldest first, second next, and so on, and, without taking one step faster than another, advanced ceremoniously and kissed their mother's hand in turn from the tallest to the[Pg 460] smallest. The three young French lads were greatly astonished at the proceeding and at a loss to understand such etiquette as this, for they were accustomed to rush to their mother and fling themselves on her neck, when they caught sight of her.
From time to time, the boys would look up at the sound of a door opening and see a vision from the seventeenth century appear in the early nineteenth. One day, while they were in the dining hall, eating their meal in silence, a junior master seated on a raised chair in the middle of a huge hall was reading to them in Spanish from a religious book. Suddenly, the door opened after a couple of knocks, as if a prince, cardinal, or Spanish nobleman were outside. The four little Benavente boys hadn’t seen their mother in over a year, and it was the Princess of Benavente. She walked a few steps into the room and waited. Then her four sons stood up, lined up by age, oldest first, then second, and so on, and, without rushing, approached her in a formal manner and kissed their mother’s hand in turn, from the tallest to the[Pg 460] smallest. The three young French boys were quite surprised by this and couldn't understand such etiquette, since they were used to running to their mother and throwing themselves around her neck when they saw her.
At the end of six months' sojourn at the Séminaire des Nobles, Abel attained his twelfth year and was allowed by special privilege to enter as a page at that age.
At the end of six months staying at the Séminaire des Nobles, Abel turned twelve and was granted special permission to enter as a page at that age.
Then came the winter and famine. It was cold everywhere during the fatal winter of 1812-1813, although it was nothing compared with the severity experienced in Russia.
Then came the winter and famine. It was cold everywhere during the deadly winter of 1812-1813, although it was nothing compared to the harshness experienced in Russia.
It was the fate of Napoleon to attract and concentrate the attention of the world upon him during his reverses as during his victories.
It was Napoleon's fate to draw the world's attention to him during both his defeats and his victories.
The twenty-five pupils buried in that vast Séminaire des Nobles, in the dormitories, schoolrooms and refectories intended for three hundred inmates, were perished with cold. Nothing could warm those great rooms wherein there was not a single fireplace; braziers placed in the middle of the rooms only served to emphasise winter's triumph. Besides this, the children were not only perishing of cold, but, worse still, were dying of starvation. The wealthiest in Madrid could not get bread in 1812. And King Joseph himself—probably to set a good example—ordered that nothing but soldiers' bread should be served at his table. People were constantly found in the streets who had not even as much warmth as the braziers at the Séminaire des Nobles, or King Joseph's army bread, lying down on the thresholds of the great in tattered cloaks and dying of hunger and cold. If they were still alive, every effort was made to feed and warm them; if they were dead, they were removed and buried. Bread was as scarce at the Séminaire des Nobles as elsewhere, and the lads complained bitterly of hunger; to the less patient, father Manoël would say—
The twenty-five students buried in the large Séminaire des Nobles, in the dorms, classrooms, and dining halls meant for three hundred residents, froze to death. Nothing could warm those huge rooms, which didn't have a single fireplace; braziers in the center of the rooms only highlighted winter's harshness. Besides this, the kids weren’t just freezing, but worse, they were starving. The richest people in Madrid couldn’t get bread in 1812. Even King Joseph—likely to lead by example—ordered that only soldiers' bread be served at his table. People could often be found in the streets without the warmth of the braziers at the Séminaire des Nobles or King Joseph's army bread, lying on the doorsteps of the wealthy in tattered cloaks and dying of hunger and cold. If they were still alive, every effort was made to feed and warm them; if they were dead, they were taken away and buried. Bread was just as scarce at the Séminaire des Nobles as everywhere else, and the boys complained bitterly of hunger; to the less patient, Father Manoël would say—
"Make the sign of the Cross on your stomachs, and that will feed you."
"Make the sign of the Cross on your stomachs, and that will nourish you."
The boys made many crosses, and, although the action warmed them a little, it certainly did not nourish them. But[Pg 461] they suspected Don Manoël, who kept fat amongst all the sad and emaciated faces, to have an illicit intimacy with the kitchen, which he hid even from Don Bazilio.
The boys made a lot of crosses, and while the activity warmed them up a little, it definitely didn’t feed them. But[Pg 461] they suspected Don Manoël, who remained plump among all the sad and thin faces, of having a secret connection to the kitchen, which he even hid from Don Bazilio.
All this while, General Hugo was waging war along the banks of the Tagus against the famous Juan Martin, nicknamed the Empecinado, as he had against Charette in the Vendée and against Fra Diavolo in Calabria. He has himself given a modest and learned account of the strategic movements of that fine campaign, which concluded with the capture and execution of the captain of the guerilla hordes which he combatted. We will select a few only of the picturesque accounts of dangers incurred—those fragments which History drops from her robe and which chroniclers carefully collect for their Memoirs.
All this time, General Hugo was fighting along the banks of the Tagus against the well-known Juan Martin, nicknamed the Empecinado, just as he had against Charette in the Vendée and Fra Diavolo in Calabria. He himself has provided a straightforward and insightful account of the strategic movements of that remarkable campaign, which ended with the capture and execution of the leader of the guerrilla forces he battled. We will highlight just a few of the vivid accounts of the dangers faced—those snippets that History lets slip from her grasp and that chroniclers diligently gather for their Memoirs.
One day, General Hugo and a hundred men came to a village situated on one of the many little streams that run into the Tagus. In order to avoid rousing needless alarm, he entered the village with only his two aides-de-camp, to obtain from the inhabitants some information of which he stood in need. He came from his camp, which included some five to six thousand men, who were a league lower down the river. To obtain the desired information, he applied to the proprietor of a large sugar-refining factory, who, seeing him accompanied by only two aides-de-camp, said never a word. General Hugo was thirsty. Unable to get his information, he thought he might at any rate get some refreshment and asked for a glass of water.
One day, General Hugo and a hundred soldiers arrived at a village located by one of the many small streams that flow into the Tagus. To avoid causing unnecessary panic, he entered the village with only his two aides-de-camp to gather some information he needed from the locals. He had come from his camp, which had around five to six thousand men stationed about a league downriver. To get the information, he approached the owner of a large sugar-refining factory, who, noticing that General Hugo was only with two aides-de-camp, didn’t say a word. General Hugo was thirsty, and since he couldn’t get the information he wanted, he figured he could at least grab something to drink and asked for a glass of water.
"Water?" said the proprietor of the sugar refinery. "There is plenty in the river."
"Water?" said the owner of the sugar factory. "There's plenty in the river."
And he shut the door in the general's face. The general waited a moment to see if the door would be reopened. Instead of the door, it was a window that was opened, the muzzle of a gun slyly protruded, fired, and a bullet whizzed past. At the sound of the gunshot, the detachment which had remained outside the town rushed in; and when the soldiers learnt what had just happened they wanted to demolish the sugar factory and burn the village. General Hugo[Pg 462] stopped them and said to his orderly, "Go back to the camp, and invite the whole of the six thousand men who form it, in my name, to come and drink some eau sucrée; it will be a treat for them—it is a long time since the poor devils tasted any!" It was one of the special virtues of the Imperial epoch to be quick to understand when one wished to understand: the aide-de-camp understood and set off at a gallop. The soldiers also understood. They burst open the doors of the sugar factory, threw two or three thousand sugar-loaves into the river; and for the rest of that day General Hugo's six thousand men had as much eau sucrée to drink as they wanted! This was the only revenge he took on the refusal of a glass of water and the gun fired at him. The deed has remained in the annals of the army of Spain as one of the most toothsome jokes a general ever cracked with his men.
And he slammed the door in the general's face. The general paused for a moment to see if the door would open again. Instead of the door, a window opened, and the muzzle of a gun peeked out, fired, and a bullet zipped by. At the sound of the gunshot, the group that had stayed outside the town rushed in; when the soldiers found out what had just happened, they wanted to destroy the sugar factory and burn down the village. General Hugo[Pg 462] stopped them and told his orderly, "Go back to the camp and invite all six thousand men who are part of it, in my name, to come and have some eau sucrée; it'll be a treat for them—it’s been a while since the poor guys had any!" One of the special qualities of the Imperial era was how quickly they grasped things when they wanted to understand: the aide-de-camp got it and took off at a gallop. The soldiers understood too. They broke down the doors of the sugar factory and tossed two or three thousand sugar loaves into the river; and for the rest of that day, General Hugo's six thousand men had as much eau sucrée to drink as they wanted! This was the only way he got back at the refusal of a glass of water and the gunshot aimed at him. This event has gone down in the history of the Spanish army as one of the most delightful jokes a general ever played on his men.
On another occasion, also when they were marching by the banks of the Tagus, in the place where I myself—I will tell the story in due course—sojourned thirty years later, one wretched night, on the great plains of Old Castile, between Toledo and Aranjuez, and it was just such a burning sun as made Sancho bitterly regret he had not an excellent curd cheese at hand, suddenly, the scouts fell back at full gallop on the advance-guard to warn General Hugo that what appeared to be an army corps of the enemy, of considerable number, was marching to encounter the French army. And, indeed, so great a cloud of dust was to be seen on the horizon as only a great body of men or the simoom could produce. This dust shone like those clouds of crimson and gold which appear in the atmosphere during the hottest of the dog-days. General Hugo gave orders for a halt. He then rode on in advance with a hundred men to examine the enemy's position himself, and if possible to divine its intentions. There was no doubt about it—it was an immense troop to judge by the space it occupied and the dust it raised, and it was marching towards him with one of its wings on the right bank of the Tagus. The infantry instantly received orders to prepare for battle, the artillery to plant their batteries[Pg 463] on a small hillock, and the cavalry to take up a position on the right wing. Then they despatched a few men on horseback in front under the command of an orderly officer. But both officer and men returned at a gallop a few moments later. General Hugo thought his men must have been driven back, and as not a single shot had been fired he was just preparing to give the fugitives a good wigging when on nearer approach he detected unequivocal signs of hilarity on the countenances of both officer and men.
On another occasion, also while they were marching along the banks of the Tagus, at the spot where I myself—I’ll share that story later—stayed thirty years later, one rough night on the vast plains of Old Castile, between Toledo and Aranjuez, it was exactly the kind of scorching sun that made Sancho deeply wish he had some good curd cheese on hand. Suddenly, the scouts galloped back to the advance guard to warn General Hugo that what looked like a large enemy army was approaching the French army. In fact, there was such a huge cloud of dust on the horizon that it could only be produced by a massive group of people or a strong wind. This dust shimmered like those crimson and gold clouds that appear in the sky during the hottest days of summer. General Hugo ordered a halt. Then he rode ahead with a hundred men to check out the enemy's position himself and, if possible, figure out their intentions. There was no doubt about it—it was a massive troop judging by the space they occupied and the dust they stirred up, and it was moving toward him with one of its flanks on the right bank of the Tagus. The infantry was immediately ordered to prepare for battle, the artillery to set up their batteries[Pg 463] on a small hill, and the cavalry to take a position on the right wing. Then they sent a few men on horseback ahead under the command of an orderly officer. But both the officer and the men came back at a gallop moments later. General Hugo thought his men must have been driven back, and since not a single shot had been fired, he was just about to give the fleeing men a good scolding when he got closer and noticed clear signs of amusement on the faces of both the officer and the men.
"Well, what is it?" asked the general. "Who is our enemy?"
"Well, what is it?" the general asked. "Who is our enemy?"
"General," replied the aide-de-camp, "our enemy is a flock of three hundred thousand merino sheep being driven by two hundred dogs, conducted by a dozen shepherds, and belonging to M. Quatrecentberger."
"General," replied the aide-de-camp, "our enemy is a group of three hundred thousand merino sheep being herded by two hundred dogs, led by a dozen shepherds, and owned by M. Quatrecentberger."
"What tomfoolery is this, monsieur?" said the general, frowning.
"What nonsense is this, sir?" said the general, frowning.
"I am not joking, general," said the officer, "and in ten minutes you will see that I have had the honour to tell you the precise truth."
"I’m not joking, General," said the officer, "and in ten minutes, you’ll see that I had the honor of telling you the exact truth."
A flock of 300,000 sheep! It made the mouths of the soldiers water! What a suitable aftermath to the barrels of eau sucrée which the general had provided for them!
A flock of 300,000 sheep! It made the soldiers' mouths water! What a fitting follow-up to the barrels of eau sucrée that the general had provided for them!
The army corps consisted of 4000 men; each soldier could have at least a sheep to himself, and each began considering what kind of sauce he would serve to his own dish.
The army corps had 4,000 men; each soldier could have at least one sheep for himself, and each started thinking about what kind of sauce he would put on his own dish.
At the announcement of this strange news, M. Hugo advanced to the front. And there he saw through the dust first a dozen men on horseback, armed with long sticks studded with nails, like lances; behind these came the impenetrable front of 300,000 sheep; and upon the heels of these 300,000 sheep two hundred barking, biting dogs darting hither and thither. It looked like the migration of a great Arab tribe, in the time of Abraham. The story was quite correct, except the name of the owner, which the officer had taken the liberty of mispronouncing slightly to suit the occasion. The proprietor's name was not Quatrecentberger (four hundred shepherds), but Katzenberger. It will be seen that the difference in pronunciation[Pg 464] was so slight that the officer may be forgiven his appropriate pun. M. Katzenberger was a wealthy Alsatian speculator who had risked almost the whole of his fortune in a speculation in merino sheep. A great melancholy spread throughout the troops when it became known that the flock belonged to a compatriot. It was utterly unlikely that M. Hugo would allow M. Katzenberger's flock to be impounded, whether of 300,000 or even of 400,000 beasts. And, as a matter of fact, the chief shepherd, who had trembled for a moment at the prospective ruin of his master, received from General Hugo a promise that not only should every single hair of his merinoes go scot free, but that he should have a passport requesting all the French army corps to treat M. Katzenberger's shepherds, dogs and sheep with the utmost respect.
At the announcement of this strange news, M. Hugo moved to the front. There, he saw through the dust first a dozen men on horseback, armed with long sticks studded with nails, like lances; behind them was the impenetrable front of 300,000 sheep; and following those 300,000 sheep were two hundred barking, biting dogs darting around everywhere. It looked like the migration of a large Arab tribe back in the time of Abraham. The story was mostly accurate, except for the owner's name, which the officer had slightly mispronounced for the occasion. The proprietor's name was not Quatrecentberger (four hundred shepherds), but Katzenberger. The difference in pronunciation[Pg 464] was so slight that the officer can be forgiven his clever pun. M. Katzenberger was a wealthy Alsatian businessman who had risked almost his entire fortune in a venture in merino sheep. A great sadness spread among the troops when it became known that the flock belonged to a fellow countryman. It was highly unlikely that M. Hugo would allow M. Katzenberger's flock to be taken, whether it was 300,000 or even 400,000 animals. In fact, the chief shepherd, who had been anxious for a moment about his master’s potential ruin, received a promise from General Hugo that not only would every single hair of his merinos be spared, but he would also receive a passport requesting all the French army corps to treat M. Katzenberger’s shepherds, dogs, and sheep with the utmost respect.
It was an odd incident! The flock reached France without any serious accident, and by this almost unexpected good fortune M. Katzenberger doubled, trebled and quadrupled his fortune. His first action was to offer General Hugo a sum of money proportionate to the service he had rendered him. General Hugo's first and final decision was to decline the offered sum. I believe it was 300,000 francs—a franc per sheep.
It was a strange incident! The flock arrived in France without any major issues, and with this almost surprising good luck, M. Katzenberger significantly increased his wealth. His first move was to offer General Hugo a payment that matched the service he had provided. General Hugo's final decision was to turn down the offered amount. I think it was 300,000 francs—a franc per sheep.
And here let us state that General Hugo, who held a high position for four years during the wars in Spain, who was given the charge of conducting the retreat from Madrid to Bayonne, a position which always allowed a general great facilities for enriching himself, died without any picture gallery, or a single Murillo or Velasquez or Zurbaran, possessing no other fortune but his retiring pension. It seems incredible, does it not? And yet so it was. But, the directors of the Musée will ask me, or those millionaire collectors who bought pictures for 600,000, 200,000, 50,000 and even 25,000 francs, at the sale after the decease of the late Marshal Soult, what benefit did he derive from his disinterested conduct towards M. Katzenberger? He was the gainer by an annual dinner which M. Katzenberger came from Strasbourg on purpose to give him and all the members of his family in Paris, on the[Pg 465] anniversary of the great event that made his fortune. And this dinner was on a splendid scale: it must have cost the grateful Strasbourgian at least fifty louis.
And let’s point out that General Hugo, who held a high position for four years during the wars in Spain and was in charge of the retreat from Madrid to Bayonne—a role that usually provided a general with ample opportunities to make a fortune—died without a single artwork, not even a Murillo, Velasquez, or Zurbaran, and only had his pension as his wealth. It seems unbelievable, doesn’t it? Yet, that was the case. But the directors of the Musée will ask me, or the wealthy collectors who bought paintings for 600,000, 200,000, 50,000, and even 25,000 francs at the auction after the late Marshal Soult’s death, what did he gain from his selfless actions towards M. Katzenberger? He benefited from an annual dinner that M. Katzenberger traveled from Strasbourg specifically to host for him and his family in Paris, on the[Pg 465] anniversary of the significant event that changed his fortune. And this dinner was quite lavish: it must have cost the grateful person from Strasbourg at least fifty louis.
During the winter of 1812 and the early months of 1813, in consequence of our misfortunes in Russia, matters began to assume such a threatening aspect in Spain that General Hugo felt it was dangerous to keep his wife and children at Madrid. Therefore Madame Hugo and her two youngest sons were put under the protection of quite as strong an escort as the one we have described, and they made the return journey from Madrid to Bayonne on their way to Paris, as successfully as they had travelled between Bayonne and Madrid. Madame Hugo had thought it best to keep the convent of the Feuillantines, so the two children returned to their old nest with its light and shade, its recollections of work and of play, and, furthermore, the abbé Larivière and his Tacitus. Abel Hugo, a soldier boy of thirteen, remained with his father.
During the winter of 1812 and the early months of 1813, due to our setbacks in Russia, the situation in Spain became so serious that General Hugo felt it was unsafe to keep his wife and children in Madrid. As a result, Madame Hugo and her two youngest sons were placed under the protection of a strong escort, similar to the one we described, and they made the journey back from Madrid to Bayonne on their way to Paris just as successfully as they had traveled from Bayonne to Madrid. Madame Hugo decided it was best to stay at the convent of the Feuillantines, so the two children returned to their familiar surroundings filled with light and shade, memories of work and play, and, in addition, the abbé Larivière and his Tacitus. Abel Hugo, a thirteen-year-old soldier boy, stayed with his father.
CHAPTER IX
The college and the garden of the Feuillantines—Grenadier or general—Victor Hugo's first appearance in public—He obtains honourable mention at the Academy examination—He carries off three prizes in the Jeux Floraux—Han d'Islande—The poet and the bodyguard—Hugo's marriage—The Odes et Ballades—Proposition made by cousin Cornet
The college and the garden of the Feuillantines—Grenadier or general—Victor Hugo's first public appearance—He receives honorable mention at the Academy exam—He wins three prizes at the Jeux Floraux—Han d'Islande—The poet and the bodyguard—Hugo's marriage—The Odes et Ballades—Proposal made by cousin Cornet.
That wretched year 1813 was a strange period of introspection. Un jour ... But we will let the poet himself describe matters, in the verses below:—
That terrible year 1813 was a weird time for self-reflection. One day ... But let's allow the poet to explain things in the verses below:—
"J'eus, dans ma blonde enfance, hélas, trop éphémère,
Trois maîtres: un jardin, un vieux prêtre et ma mère.
Le jardin était grand, profond, mystérieux,
Fermé par de hauts murs aux regards curieux,
Semé de fleurs s'ouvrant ainsi que des paupières,
Et d'insectes vermeils qui couraient sur les pierres;
Plein de bourdonnements et de confuses voix;
Au milieu presqu'un champ, dans le fond presqu'un bois.
Le prêtre, tout nourri de Tacite et d'Homère,
Était un doux vieillard; ma mère était ma mère.
Ainsi, je grandissait sous un triple rayon!
Un jour ... Oh! si Gauthier me prêtait son crayon,
Je vous dessinerais d'un trait une figure
Qui, chez ma mère, un soir entra, fâcheux augure!
Un docteur au front pauvre, au maintien solennel;
Et je verrais éclore a vos bouches sans fiel,
Portes de votre cœur qu'aucun souci ne mine,
Ce rire éblouissant qui parfois m'illumine.
Lorsque cet homme entra je jouais au jardin,
Et rien qu'en le voyant je m'arrêtai soudain.
C'était le principal d'un collège quelconque;
Les tritons que Coypel groupe autour d'une conque,
Les faunes que Watteau dans les bois fourvoya,
Les sorciers de Rembrandt, les gnomes de Goya,
[Pg 467]
Les diables variés, vrais cauchemars de moine,
Dont Callot, en riant, taquine saint Antoine,
Sont laids mais sont charmant; difformes, mais remplis
D'un feu qui, de leur face, anime tous les plis,
Et parfois, dans leurs yeux, jette un eclair rapide!
Notre homme était fort laid, mais il était stupide!
Pardon, j'en parle encor comme un franc écolier;
C'est mal; ce que j'ai dit, tachez de l'oublier.
Car de votre âge heureux, qu'un pedant embarrasse,
J'ai gardait la colère et j'ai perdu la grâce.
Cet homme chauve et noir, très effrayant pour moi,
Et dont ma mère aussi d'abord eut quelque effroi,
Tout en multipliant les humbles attitudes,
Apportait des avis et des sollicitudes:
Que l'enfant n'était pas dirigé; que, parfois,
Il emportait son livre en rêvant dans les bois;
Qu'il croissait au hasard dans cette solitude;
Qu'on devait y songer, que la sévère étude
Était fille de l'ombre et des cloîtres profonds;
Qu'une lampe pendue à de sombres plafonds,
Qui de cent écoliers guide la plume agile,
Éclairait mieux Horace et Catulle et Virgile,
Et versait à l'esprit des rayons bien meilleurs
Que le soleil qui joue à travers l'arbre en fleurs;
Et qu'enfin, il fallait aux enfants, loin des mères,
Le joug, le dur travail, et les larmes amères.
Là dessus le collège, aimable et triomphant,
Avec un doux sourire, offrait au jeune enfant,
Ivre de liberté, d'air, de joie et de roses,
Ses bancs de chêne noir, ses longs dortoirs moroses,
Les salles qu'on verrouille et qu'à tous leurs pilliers
Sculpte avec un vieux clou l'ennui des écoliers;
Les magisters qui font, parmi les paperasses,
Manger l'heure du jeu par les pensums voraces,
Et, sans eau, sans gazon, sans arbres, sans fruits mûrs,
Sa grande cour pavée, entre quatre grands murs!"
"During my golden childhood, sadly too brief,
I had three guides: a garden, an old priest, and my mother.
The garden was vast, deep, and mysterious,
Surrounded by high walls that kept curious eyes out,
Filled with flowers that opened like eyelids,
And with crimson insects racing over the stones;
Abundant with buzzes and confused voices;
In the middle, almost a field, at the back, almost a forest.
The priest, well-versed in Tacitus and Homer,
Was a gentle old man; my mother was my mother.
Thus, I was growing up under a triple ray!
One day... Oh! If Gauthier would lend me his pen,
I would sketch you a figure in one swift stroke
Who entered my mother's house one evening, a bad omen!
A doctor with a poor forehead, and a solemn demeanor;
And I would see blossom from your mouths without malice,
Doors to your hearts that no worries undermine,
That dazzling laugh that sometimes brightens my day.
When this man entered, I was playing in the garden,
And just by seeing him, I stopped suddenly.
He was the principal of some random college;
The tritons that Coypel groups around a shell,
The fauns that Watteau lost in the woods,
The wizards of Rembrandt, the gnomes of Goya,
[Pg 467]
The varied devils, true nightmares of monks,
Whom Callot, laughing, teases Saint Anthony,
Are ugly yet charming; deformed, but filled
With a fire that animates all their folds,
And sometimes, in their eyes, casts a quick flash!
Our man was very ugly, but he was dull!
Sorry, I'm still speaking like an earnest schoolboy;
It's wrong; what I've said, please try to forget.
For from your happy age, which a pedant complicates,
I have kept the anger and lost the grace.
This bald and dark man, quite frightening to me,
And to whom my mother also felt some dread at first,
While multiplying humble gestures,
Brought warnings and concerns:
That the child wasn't being guided; that, sometimes,
He took his book and dreamt in the woods;
That he grew up aimlessly in this solitude;
That one should consider this, that severe study
Is the daughter of shadows and deep cloisters;
That a lamp hanging from dark ceilings,
Which guides the agile pens of a hundred schoolboys,
Illuminated Horace and Catullus and Virgil better,
And poured into the mind rays far superior
To the sunlight playing through flowering trees;
And finally, that children, away from mothers,
Needed the yoke, hard work, and bitter tears.
On this, the college, charming and triumphant,
With a sweet smile, offered to the young child,
Drunk on freedom, air, joy, and roses,
Its black oak benches, its long gloomy dorms,
The locked halls where boredom, carved with an old nail,
Marks the ennui of the students;
The teachers who, buried in paperwork,
Devour playtime with their ravenous assignments,
And, without water, without grass, without trees, without ripe fruits,
Its large paved courtyard, between four tall walls!"
Here I would fain break off the quotation and continue in prose; but, to tell the truth, I have not the courage to do so. Oh! what fine lines yours are, my friend, and what a joy it is to me, not simply to cause them to be read—all the world[Pg 468] has read them—but to cause them to be re-read by the hundred thousand readers whose eyes will travel over this chapter and who will sigh, with looks turned towards England—
Here I would like to stop quoting and switch back to prose; however, to be honest, I don’t have the courage to do so. Oh! What beautiful lines you have, my friend, and how joyful it is for me, not just to have them read—all of the world[Pg 468] has read them—but to have them re-read by the hundreds of thousands of readers who will go through this chapter and who will sigh, looking towards England—
"Soupir qui va vers toi sur la brise du soir,
Fait d'un quart de tristesse et de trois quarts d'espoir."
"Sigh that drifts towards you on the evening breeze,
Made of one part sadness and three parts hope."
Let us pick up the thread of Hugo's lines, into the middle of which I had the temerity to venture to put a couple of my own:—
Let’s continue with Hugo’s lines, where I had the audacity to insert a couple of my own:—
"L'homme congédié, de ses discours frappée,
Ma mère demeura triste et préoccupée.
—Que faire? que vouloir? qui donc avait raison,
Ou le morne collège ou l'heureuse maison?
Qui sait mieux de la vie accomplir l'œuvre austère,
L'écolier turbulant ou l'enfant solitaire?—
Problèmes! questions! Elle hésitait beaucoup.
L'affaire était bien grave. Humble femme après tout,
Ame par le destin non pas les livres faite,
De quel front repousser ce tragique prophète
Au ton si magistral, aux gestes si certains,
Qui lui parlait au noms des Grecs et des Latins?
Le prêtre était savant, sans doute; mais, que sais-je,
Apprend-on par le maître ou bien par le collège?
Et puis enfin,—souvent ainsi nous triomphons,—
L'homme le plus vulgaire a de grands mots profonds;
II est indispensable! il convient! il importe!
Qui trouble quelquefois la femme la plus forte ...
Pauvre mère, lequel choisir des deux chemins?
Tout le sort de son fils se pesait dans ses mains.
Tremblante, elle tenait cette lourde balance,
Et croyait bien la voir, par moment, en silence,
Pencher vers le collège, hélas! en opposant
Mon bonheur à venir à mon bonheur présent.
Elle songeait ainsi, sans sommeil et sans trêve;
C'était l'été vers l'heure ou la lune se lève,
Par un de ces beaux soirs qui ressemblent au jour,
Avec moins de clarté, mais avec plus d'amour.
Dans son parc, où jouaient le rayon et la brise,
Elle errait toujours triste et toujours indécise,
Questionnant tout has l'eau, le ciel, la forêt,
Écoutant au hasard les voix qu'elle entendrait.
C'est dans ces moments là que le jardin paisible,
[Pg 469]La broussaille où remue un insecte invisible,
Le scarabée, ami des feuilles, le lézard
Courant au clair de lune au fond du vieux puisard,
La faïence à fleur bleue où vit la plante grasse,
Le dôme oriental du sombre Val-de-Grâce,
Le cloître du couvent, brisé mais doux encore,
Les marroniers, la verte allée aux boutons d'or,
La statue où sans bruit se meut l'ombre des branches,
Les pâles liserons, les pâquerettes blanches,
Les cent fleurs du buisson, de l'arbre, du roseau,
Qui rendent en parfums les chansons à l'oiseau,
Se mirent dans la mare ou se cache sous l'herbe,
Ou qui, de l'ébénier chargeant le front superbe,
Au bord des clairs étangs, se mêlant au bouleau,
Tremblent en grappes d'or dans les moires de l'eau,
Et le ciel scintillant derrière les ramées,
Et les toits répandant de charmantes fumées;
C'est dans ces moments-là, comme je vous le dis,
Que tout ce beau jardin, radieux paradis,
Tous ces vieux murs croulants, toutes ces jeunes roses,
Tous ces objets pensifs, toutes ces douces choses
Parlèrent à ma mère avec l'onde et le vent,
Et lui dirent tout has: 'Laisse-nous cet enfant!'
Laisse-nous cet enfant, pauvre mère troublée;
Cette prunelle ardente, ingénue, étoilée,
Cette tête au front pur qu'aucun deuil ne voilà,
Cette âme neuve encor, mère, laisse-nous la,
Ne va pas la jetter au hasard dans la foule:
La foule est un torrent qui brise ce qu'il roule.
Ainsi que les oiseaux, les enfants ont leurs peurs.
Laisse à notre air limpide, à nos moites vapeurs,
A nos soupirs légers comme l'aile d'un songe,
Cette bouche où jamais n'a passé le mensonge,
Ce sourire naïf que sa candeur défend.
O mère au cœur profond, laisse-nous cet enfant!
Nous ne lui donnerons que de bonnes pensées;
Nous changerons en jours les lunes commencées;
Dieu deviendra visible à see yeux enchantés;
Car nous sommes les fleurs, les rameaux, les clartés;
Nous sommes la nature, et la source éternelle
Où toute soif s'étanche, où se lave toute aile;
Et les bois et les champs, du sage seul compris,
Font l'éducation de tous les grands esprits;
Laisse croître l'enfant parmi nos bruits sublimes,
[Pg 470]Nous le pénétrerons de ces parfums intimes
Nés du souffle céleste épars dans tout beau lieu,
Qui font sortir de l'homme et monter jusqu'à Dieu,
Comme le chant d'un luth, comme l'encens d'un vase,
L'espérance, l'amour, la prière et l'extase!
Nous pencherons ses yeux vers l'ombre d'ici bas,
Vers le secret de tout entr'ouvert sous ses pas.
D'enfant nous ferons homme, et d'homme poëte;
Pour former de ses sens la corolle inquiète,
C'est nous qu'il faut choisir, et nous lui montrerons
Comment, de l'aube au soir, du chêne aux moucherons;
Emplissant tout, reflets, couleurs, brumes, haleines,
La vie aux mille aspects rit dans les vertes plaines;
Nous te le rendrons simple et des cieux ébloui,
Et nous ferons germer de toute part en lui,
Pour l'homme, triste d'effet, perdu sous tant de causes
Cette pitié qui naît du spectacle des choses.
Laisse-nous cet enfant, nous lui ferons un cœur
Qui comprendra la femme; un esprit non moqueur,
Où naîtront aisément le songe et la chimère;
Qui prendra Dieu pour livre et les champs pour grammaire;
Une âme pour foyer de secrètes faveurs,
Qui luira doucement sur tous les fronts rêveurs,
Et, comme le soleil dans les fleurs fécondées,
Jettera des rayons sur toutes les idées.'
Ainsi parlaient, à l'heure où la ville se tait,
L'astre, la plante et l'arbre,—et ma mère écoutait.
Enfant! ont-ils tenu leur promesse sacrée?
Je ne sais, mais je sais que ma mère adorée
Les crut, et m'épargnant d'ennuyeuses prisons,
Confia ma jeune âme à leur douces leçons!"
"L'homme renvoyé, par ses discours affecté,
Ma mère resta triste et préoccupée.
—Que faire? Que désirer? Qui avait raison,
Le sombre collège ou la maison joyeuse?
Qui est plus capable de mener une vie sérieuse,
L'élève turbulent ou l'enfant solitaire?—
Doutes! Questions! Elle hésitait beaucoup.
C'était une affaire grave. Femme humble après tout,
Âme façonnée par le destin, non par les livres,
Avec quel courage repousser ce prophète tragique
Au ton si solennel, aux gestes si sûrs,
Qui lui parlait au nom des Grecs et des Latins?
Le prêtre était intelligent, évidemment; mais, que sais-je,
On apprend par le maître ou bien par le collège?
Et puis enfin,—souvent ainsi nous triomphons,—
L'homme le plus banal a des mots profonds;
C'est indispensable! Ça convient! Ça importe!
Qui trouble parfois la femme la plus forte ...
Pauvre mère, quel chemin choisir parmi les deux?
Tout le destin de son fils pesait dans ses mains.
Tremblante, elle tenait cette lourde balance,
Et croyait la voir, parfois, en silence,
Pencher vers le collège, hélas! en opposant
Mon bonheur à venir à mon bonheur présent.
Elle réfléchissait ainsi, sans sommeil et sans pause;
C'était l'été, à l'heure où la lune se lève,
Par un de ces beaux soirs qui ressemblent au jour,
Avec moins de clarté, mais avec plus d'amour.
Dans son parc, où jouaient le rayon et la brise,
Elle errait toujours triste et toujours indécise,
Questionnant tout autour, l'eau, le ciel, la forêt,
Écoutant au hasard les voix qu'elle entendait.
C'est dans ces moments-là que le jardin paisible,
[Pg 469]La broussaille où bouge un insecte invisible,
Le scarabée, ami des feuilles, le lézard
Courant au clair de lune au fond du vieux puisard,
La faïence à fleurs bleues où vit la plante grasse,
Le dôme oriental du sombre Val-de-Grâce,
Le cloître du couvent, brisé mais doux encore,
Les marroniers, la verte allée aux boutons d'or,
La statue où sans bruit se meut l'ombre des branches,
Les pâles liserons, les pâquerettes blanches,
Les cent fleurs du buisson, de l'arbre, du roseau,
Qui rendent en parfums les chansons aux oiseaux,
Se reflètent dans la mare ou se cachent sous l'herbe,
Ou qui, de l'ébénier chargeant le front superbe,
Au bord des étangs clairs, se mêlant au bouleau,
Tremblent en grappes d'or dans les reflets de l'eau,
Et le ciel scintillant derrière les feuillages,
Et les toits dégagent de charmantes fumées;
C'est dans ces moments-là, comme je vous le dis,
Que tout ce beau jardin, radieux paradis,
Tous ces vieux murs en ruines, toutes ces jeunes roses,
Tous ces objets pensants, toutes ces douces choses
Durent à ma mère avec l'onde et le vent,
Et lui dirent tout haut: 'Laisse-nous cet enfant!'
Laisse-nous cet enfant, pauvre mère troublée;
Cette prunelle ardente, ingénue, étoilée,
Cette tête au front pur qu'aucun deuil n'a voilé,
Cette âme encore neuve, mère, laisse-nous la,
Ne va pas la jeter au hasard dans la foule:
La foule est un torrent qui brise ce qu'il roule.
Tout comme les oiseaux, les enfants ont leurs peurs.
Laisse à notre air pur, à nos douces vapeurs,
À nos soupirs légers comme l'aile d'un rêve,
Cette bouche où le mensonge n'a jamais passé,
Ce sourire naïf que sa candeur défend.
O, mère au cœur profond, laisse-nous cet enfant!
Nous ne lui donnerons que de bonnes pensées;
Nous transformerons les nuits en jours éveillés;
Dieu deviendra visible à ses yeux émerveillés;
Car nous sommes les fleurs, les rameaux, les lumières;
Nous sommes la nature, et la source éternelle
Où toute soif s'étanche, où se lave chaque aile;
Et les bois et les champs, du sage seulement compris,
Font l'éducation de tous les grands esprits;
Laisse grandir l'enfant parmi nos bruits sublimes,
[Pg 470]Nous l'imprégnerons de ces parfums intimes
Nés du souffle céleste éparpillé dans tout beau lieu,
Qui font émerger l'homme et monter jusqu'à Dieu,
Comme le chant d'une lyre, comme l'encens d'un vase,
L'espérance, l'amour, la prière et l'extase!
Nous orienterons ses yeux vers l'ombre d'ici-bas,
Vers le secret de tout, entreouvert sous ses pas.
D'enfant nous ferons homme, et d'homme poète;
Pour former de ses sens la corolle inquiète,
C'est nous qu'il faut choisir, et nous lui montrerons
Comment, de l'aube au soir, du chêne aux moucherons;
Remplissant tout, reflets, couleurs, brumes, haleines,
La vie aux mille aspects danse dans les prairies vertes;
Nous te le rendrons simple et des cieux émerveillés,
Et nous ferons germer tout autour de lui,
Pour l'homme, triste d'effet, perdu sous tant de causes,
Cette pitié qui naît du spectacle des choses.
Laisse-nous cet enfant, nous lui ferons un cœur
Qui comprendra la femme; un esprit non moqueur,
Où naîtront aisément le songe et la chimère;
Qui prendra Dieu pour livre et les champs pour grammaire;
Une âme pour foyer de secrètes faveurs,
Qui brillera doucement sur tous les fronts rêveurs,
Et, comme le soleil dans les fleurs fécondées,
Jettera des rayons sur toutes les idées.'
Ainsi parlaient, à l'heure où la ville se tait,
L'astre, la plante et l'arbre,—et ma mère écoutait.
Enfant! ont-ils tenu leur promesse sacrée?
Je ne sais, mais je sais que ma mère adorée
Les crut, et m'épargnant d'ennuyeuses prisons,
Confia ma jeune âme à leurs douces leçons!"
We see from what the poet tells us himself, what a struggle his mother had to keep up (having for ally the beautiful garden of the Feuillantines) against a master of the college, sent by M. de Fontanes, who was uneasy, after the fashion of Napoleon, that a child should grow up wild in the depths of an old cloister, thus escaping the university training which, in all ages and in every reign, has had for its object the breaking in of high-stepping colts. Thus, at fifteen, the old convent of the Feuillantines had fulfilled its promises, and made the child a poet. We shall see more of this presently, but for the moment let us go back to General Hugo, who, at the very[Pg 471] time when the mother and son conflict was proceeding was assisting at the retreat from Spain, after the two great battles of Salamanca and Vittoria, the Leipzig and Waterloo of the South. He had with him, as aide-de-camp, his son Abel, who, when only fourteen, had already been present at and taken part in three pitched battles and seventeen skirmishes. He had no need to envy his old schoolfellow Lillo, of the Séminaire des Nobles, who was an officer at fifteen years of age.
We can see from what the poet says himself how hard his mother worked to manage things (with the beautiful garden of the Feuillantines as her ally) against a college master sent by M. de Fontanes, who, like Napoleon, was worried about a child growing up wild in the depths of an old cloister, thus avoiding the university training that has always aimed to tame high-spirited youths. By the time he was fifteen, the old convent of the Feuillantines had kept its promises and shaped the child into a poet. We’ll dive deeper into that later, but for now, let's return to General Hugo, who, while the conflict between mother and son was taking place, was involved in the retreat from Spain after the two significant battles of Salamanca and Vittoria, the Leipzig and Waterloo of the South. He had his son Abel with him as an aide-de-camp. Abel, at just fourteen, had already participated in three major battles and seventeen skirmishes. He had no reason to envy his old schoolmate Lillo from the Séminaire des Nobles, who was an officer at the age of fifteen.
When the remnant of the army of Spain returned to France they found a French corps d'observation awaiting them with Imperial orders to incorporate the Spanish army with the French army. But those four years of service in Spain, that arduous campaign during which they had had to struggle not only against two armies, but also against the entire population; those dreadful sieges rivalled only in ancient warfare, when women and children defended every corner of the ramparts, every home and every stone, with musket and poignard in hand; those sierras, recalling the wars of the Titans, when fires were lit on every high peak; those jagged mountains taken by charges of cavalry; those rock fortresses defended and carried one after another; those scores of passes each like another Thermopylæ; that butchery in which torture and death awaited anyone taken prisoner, all went for nothing, was forgotten, had ceased to exist, had never existed directly Spain was evacuated. It might have been asked of Napoleon why he evacuated Russia. But it had taken a very god to bend the invincible one beneath him; like Thor, son of Odin, he had struggled with Death itself; he had not been vanquished like Xerxes, he had been crushed like Cambyses. The distinction is subtle, but one no more dreamt of disputing with the conqueror of Austerlitz than with the hero vanquished at Beresina. So the services of the French in Spain were regarded as of naught, and—except the 200,000 men left upon the battlefields of Talavera, Saragossa, Bayleu, Salamanca and Vittoria—all was as though nothing had occurred.
When the remaining Spanish army returned to France, they found a French corps d'observation waiting with orders from the Emperor to merge the Spanish forces with the French army. But those four years of fighting in Spain—a grueling campaign where they had to contend not only with two armies but also with the entire population; those horrific sieges that could only be compared to ancient warfare, when women and children defended every part of the walls, every home, and every stone, armed with muskets and daggers; those mountains, reminiscent of the Titans' battles, where fires blazed on every peak; those rugged ranges taken by cavalry charges; those fortresses captured and defended one after another; those numerous passes each like another Thermopylæ; that massacre where torture and death awaited any prisoners—were all forgotten as soon as Spain was evacuated. One might wonder why Napoleon pulled out of Russia. However, it took a god to force the unconquerable one to bend; like Thor, son of Odin, he had wrestled with Death itself; he hadn’t been defeated like Xerxes, but crushed like Cambyses. The difference may be subtle, but no one thought to argue with the victor of Austerlitz just as they wouldn’t with the hero defeated at Beresina. Thus, the contributions of the French in Spain were considered worthless, and aside from the 200,000 men left on the battlefields of Talavera, Saragossa, Bayleu, Salamanca, and Vittoria, it was as if nothing had happened.
Consequently, General Hugo found this order addressed to himself at Bayonne:—
Consequently, General Hugo found this order directed to him in Bayonne:—
"Major Hugo will at once put himself under the command of General Belliard."
"Major Hugo will immediately place himself under General Belliard's command."
On the following day, General Hugo presented himself at the house of General Belliard in the uniform of an ordinary grenadier with woollen epaulettes. Belliard did not recognise him. General Hugo gave his name.
On the next day, General Hugo showed up at General Belliard's house wearing the uniform of a regular grenadier with wool epaulettes. Belliard didn't recognize him. General Hugo introduced himself.
"What does this private soldier's uniform mean?" Belliard inquired.
"What does this private soldier's uniform represent?" Belliard asked.
"Grenadier or general," was Hugo's response.
"Grenadier or general," was Hugo's reply.
And Belliard flung his arms round him. That very day he sent back the order to the emperor. It was returned with this correction in the margin in Napoleon's handwriting:—
And Belliard wrapped his arms around him. That same day, he sent back the order to the emperor. It was returned with this note in the margin in Napoleon's handwriting:—
"General Hugo will immediately take up the command at Thionville."
"General Hugo will take command at Thionville right away."
History has related the details of that siege in which General Hugo defended the citadel and governed the town. The citadel of Thionville was one of the latest to float the tricoloured flag. But it had to yield, though to the Bourbons, not to the enemy. General Hugo could not stop in Paris: there were too many heart-breaking scenes for the old soldier in the capital, where women strewed flowers in front of the Cossacks, where the people shouted "Vivent les allies!" and where the statue of the emperor was dragged through the gutters.
History has recounted the events of that siege where General Hugo defended the fortress and oversaw the town. The fortress of Thionville was among the last to fly the tricolor flag. However, it eventually had to surrender, not to the enemy, but to the Bourbons. General Hugo couldn't stay in Paris; there were just too many heartbreaking scenes for the old soldier in the capital, where women threw flowers in front of the Cossacks, where the people shouted "Long live the allies!" and where the statue of the emperor was pulled through the streets.
He bought the château of Saint-Lazare at Blois and retired there. Means did not allow of the beautiful convent of the Feuillantines being kept any longer. Madame Hugo remained at Paris in modest apartments, to look after her children, Eugène and Victor being placed in the abbé Cordier's boarding school, rue Sainte-Marguerite No. 41. Abel, an officer exempt from these things, was left free. Eugène and Victor were destined for the École polytechnique.
He bought the Château de Saint-Lazare in Blois and moved there. Financial constraints meant they couldn’t keep the beautiful convent at Feuillantines anymore. Madame Hugo stayed in modest apartments in Paris to take care of her children, with Eugène and Victor attending Abbé Cordier’s boarding school at 41 Rue Sainte-Marguerite. Abel, an officer who didn’t have to deal with these matters, was left free. Eugène and Victor were set to attend the École polytechnique.
We have already pointed out that the convent of the Feuillantines had kept its word and turned Victor into a poet. Now let us hear about the boy's first attempts.
We have already pointed out that the convent of the Feuillantines kept its promise and turned Victor into a poet. Now let's hear about the boy's first attempts.
How grateful would I have been to-day to any contemporary[Pg 473] of Dante, Shakespeare or Corneille who would give me similar details of their lives, that twenty years of friendship with Victor Hugo enables me to give here!
How grateful I would be today to any modern[Pg 473] of Dante, Shakespeare, or Corneille who could share similar details of their lives that my twenty years of friendship with Victor Hugo allows me to share here!
It was just at the height of the Restoration. The Académie had announced as the subject for its annual prize, to be awarded on 25 August, Saint Louis's Day, "The happiness that study brings in all situations of life."
It was right at the peak of the Restoration. The Académie had announced the topic for its annual prize, which would be awarded on August 25, Saint Louis's Day: "The happiness that studying brings in all situations of life."
Victor went in for the competition without saying a word to anyone about it. He put his name down, according to the rules of the competition, in a sealed paper together with his piece of verse; but, after his name, he added his age, fourteen and a half. Besides giving his age thus, there were these lines in the course of the poem:—
Victor entered the competition without mentioning it to anyone. He wrote his name down, following the competition's rules, on a sealed piece of paper along with his poem; however, after his name, he included his age, fourteen and a half. In addition to stating his age like this, there were also these lines in the poem:—
"Moi qui, toujours fuyant les cités et les cours,
De trois lustres à peine ai vu finir le cours."
"Me, who has always avoided cities and courts,
Have barely seen the passage of three decades end."
Think of this future philosopher, who, at fourteen, had fled from cities and courts! What delicious childish naïveté! But, strange to relate, it was this admission of fourteen years of age that condemned the poet, and prevented him from winning the prize. M. Raynouard, the rapporteur, declared that the competitor, by allowing himself trois lustres à peine—this was the method of counting in 1817 and is still used by the Académie—had intended to make game of the Académie. And, as though it were not a customary thing for the Académie to be made fun of, the prize was divided between Saintine and Lebrun. However, they read the whole piece composed by the impudent person who made fun of the Académie by speaking of his fourteen years and a half. The assembly, which enjoyed the Académie being thus made game of, highly applauded the lines of the young poet, who at the very moment he was being praised at the Académie was playing prisoners'-base in the college courtyard.
Think of this future philosopher, who, at fourteen, had fled from cities and courts! What delightful childish innocence! But, oddly enough, it was this admission of being only fourteen that cost the poet the prize. M. Raynouard, the rapporteur, stated that the competitor, by mentioning trois lustres à peine—the way of counting back in 1817, which the Académie still uses—was trying to mock the Académie. And as if it weren't a common occurrence for the Académie to be made fun of, the prize was shared between Saintine and Lebrun. However, they read the entire piece written by the bold individual who joked about the Académie by mentioning his fourteen and a half years. The audience, which enjoyed seeing the Académie made fun of, enthusiastically applauded the young poet’s verses, while he was, at that very moment, playing prisoners' base in the college courtyard.
The following stanza was specially applauded, and would have been encored if encores were allowed at the Académie:—
The following stanza was especially praised and would have been repeated if encores were permitted at the Académie:—
"Mon Virgile à la main, bocages verts et sombres,
Que j'aime à m'égarer sous vos paisibles ombres!
[Pg 474]
Que j'aime, en parcourant vos gracieux détours,
A pleurer sur Didon, à plaindre ses amours!
Là, mon âme, tranquille et sans inquiétude,
S'ouvre avec plus de verve aux charmes de l'étude;
Là, mon cœur est plus tendre et sait mieux compatir
A des maux que peut-être il doit un jour sentir."
"With my Virgil in hand, in the dark green woods,
How I love to wander under your peaceful shadows!
[Pg 474]
How I love, while exploring your graceful paths,
To weep for Dido, to lament her loves!
There, my soul, calm and untroubled,
Opens up more enthusiastically to the charms of study;
There, my heart is softer and knows better how to empathize
With pains that perhaps it will one day feel."
It had been a remarkable contest; for, among the competitors, besides those we have named who won the prize—Saintine and Lebrun—were Casimir Delavigne, Loyson, Who has since acquired a certain popularity which has been interrupted by death, and Victor Hugo. Loyson obtained the accessit, and Victor Hugo, in spite of M. Raynouard's contention that he had made game of the Académie, was the first to have honourable mention.
It was an impressive competition; among the participants, besides the winners we mentioned—Saintine and Lebrun—were Casimir Delavigne, Loyson, who later gained some popularity before his untimely death, and Victor Hugo. Loyson received the accessit, and Victor Hugo, despite M. Raynouard's claim that he mocked the Académie, was the first to receive an honorable mention.
Casimir Delavigne, who had really committed the crime of poking fun at the Académie by treating the subject in exactly the opposite way, had a separate honourable mention apart from the competition.
Casimir Delavigne, who had actually committed the offense of mocking the Académie by addressing the topic in precisely the opposite manner, received a distinct honorable mention separate from the competition.
Victor was playing at prisoners'-base, as we have said, whilst he was being applauded at the Académie. The first news he heard of his success was brought him by Abel and by Malitourne, who came rushing in, leapt on him and told him what had just happened and that he would in all probability have obtained the prize if the Académie had been ready to admit that a poet of fourteen could have written the lines. The supposition—not that he had wished to mock the Académie, but that he could lie—hurt the child exceedingly, and he procured his birth-certificate and sent it the Académie.
Victor was playing prisoners' base, as we mentioned, while he was being celebrated at the Académie. The first news of his success came from Abel and Malitourne, who burst in, jumped on him, and told him what had just happened, saying that he probably would have won the prize if the Académie had been willing to accept that a fourteen-year-old could have written those lines. The idea—not that he had meant to mock the Académie, but that he might be lying—deeply hurt the boy, so he got his birth certificate and sent it to the Académie.
Vide pedes! vide latus!
Watch your feet! Watch your side!
They then had to believe it. And the indignation of that worthy grandmother changed to admiration.
They had no choice but to believe it. And the anger of that admirable grandmother turned into admiration.
M. Raynouard, the perpetual secretary, sent the honoured poet a characteristic letter. There was a deliciously fine mistake in spelling in the letter sent by the perpetual secretary: he told Victor Hugo that he should be pleased to make (fairait) his acquaintance. Two other members of the Académie wrote to the young poet without suggestion[Pg 475] from outside. These were François de Neufchâteau and Campenon.
M. Raynouard, the permanent secretary, sent the esteemed poet a typical letter. There was a delightfully amusing misspelling in the letter from the permanent secretary: he told Victor Hugo that he would be pleased to make (fairait) his acquaintance. Two other members of the Académie wrote to the young poet without any outside prompting[Pg 475]. These were François de Neufchâteau and Campenon.
"Tendre ami des neuf sœurs, mes bras vous sont ouverts,
Venez, j'aimie toujours les vers!"
"Tender friend of the nine sisters, my arms are open to you,
Come, I still love the verses!"
wrote François de Neufchâteau.
wrote François de Neufchâteau.
"L'esprit et le bon goût nous ont rassasiés;
J'ai rencontré des cœurs de glace
Pour des vers pleins de charme et de verve et de grâce
Que Malfilâtre eut enviés!"
"Spirit and good taste have satisfied us;
I encountered cold hearts
For verses full of charm and flair and grace
That Malfilâtre would have envied!"
wrote Campenon.
wrote Campenon.
And Chateaubriand called Hugo "l'Enfant sublime." The appellation stuck to him.
And Chateaubriand called Hugo "l'Enfant sublime." The nickname stuck with him.
From that moment the youth was no longer his own master, but was given over to that consuming tyrant we call Poetry.
From that moment on, the young man was no longer in control of himself but was taken over by that all-consuming force we refer to as Poetry.
In those days, people still went in for the Jeux Floraux, and Hugo competed in two successive years, 1818 and 1819. He won three prizes. The successful pieces were Moïse sur le Nil, the Vierges de Verdun and the Statue de Henri IV. Besides these, he published two satires and an ode. The satires were the Télégraphe and the Racoleur politique; the ode was the Ode sur la Vendée. He published these three things at his own expense and, strange to relate, they brought him in 800 francs.
In those days, people still participated in the Jeux Floraux, and Hugo competed in two consecutive years, 1818 and 1819. He won three prizes. The winning works were Moïse sur le Nil, Vierges de Verdun, and Statue de Henri IV. In addition to these, he published two satires and an ode. The satires were Télégraphe and Racoleur politique; the ode was Ode sur la Vendée. He published these three works at his own expense, and surprisingly, they earned him 800 francs.
Poetry sold in those days: society was greedy for novelties and, when anything new was offered it, eagerly put its lips to the cup.
Poetry was a hot commodity back then: society craved new things and when anything fresh was presented, it quickly took a sip.
Meanwhile, two years of rhetoric in Latin, two years of philosophy and four years of mathematics had prepared the student for entrance at the École polytechnique.
Meanwhile, two years of studying rhetoric in Latin, two years of philosophy, and four years of mathematics had prepared the student for admission to the École polytechnique.
He now began to face the future seriously, for the first time, and it terrified him. The vocation for which he was being educated was not the one for which he was fitted.
He was now starting to seriously consider the future for the first time, and it scared him. The career he was being trained for wasn’t the one he was suited for.
Just when he was about to take the leap and present himself for examination, he wrote to his father that he had found a profession: he was a poet and did not wish to enter the École;[Pg 476] he would do without his allowance of 1200 francs. General Hugo was a man of decision himself and he realised that the boy had made up his mind; there was no time to be lost: Victor had eighteen months yet to study. He suppressed the allowance and abandoned the poet to his own resources. Victor possessed within himself as inexhaustible a treasure as those in the Thousand and One Nights, and he had the 800 francs from his satires and the ode. On these 800 francs he lived for thirteen months, and during these thirteen months he composed Han d'Islande. That curious book was the work of a youth of nineteen.
Just as he was about to take the plunge and present himself for evaluation, he wrote to his father, saying he had found his calling: he was a poet and didn’t want to attend the École;[Pg 476] he was prepared to forgo his allowance of 1200 francs. General Hugo was a decisive man and recognized that his son had made his choice; there was no time to waste: Victor had eighteen months left to study. He cut off the allowance and left the poet to fend for himself. Victor had within him a treasure as boundless as those in the Thousand and One Nights, along with the 800 francs he made from his satires and the ode. He lived on that 800 francs for thirteen months, during which time he composed Han d'Islande. That intriguing book was created by a nineteen-year-old.
While he was writing Han d'Islande Victor's mother died—an event that influenced the sombre tone of his work considerably. This was his first sorrow and he never forgot it. From the day that that deep sorrow settled on his life, Victor never wore anything but black clothes or a black coat, and he never sealed his letters with aught but black sealing-wax.
While he was writing Han d'Islande, Victor's mother passed away—an event that significantly affected the dark tone of his work. This was his first experience of grief, and he never forgot it. From the day that deep sadness entered his life, Victor only wore black clothes or a black coat, and he sealed his letters with only black sealing wax.
And, indeed, we who have seen him grow up, from his childish days at the Feuillantines, at Avellino and at the Séminaire des Nobles, can guess how much his mother was to him. One day, in one of those moments of profound grief when the sorrowful heart seeks for surroundings in harmony with its own mourning, the youth went to Versailles, that most sorrowful and mournful of all places. He breakfasted at the café, holding a paper in his hand which he was not reading, for he was deep in thought. A life-guardsman, who was not given to thought and wanted to read, took the paper out of his hands. Victor at nineteen was fair and delicate of complexion and he looked only fifteen. The life-guardsman thought he was dealing with a boy, but he had insulted a man—a man who was in one of the dark crises of life, when danger often comes as a blessing. So the young man accepted the quarrel that was thrust upon him, coarse and foolish though it was. They fought with swords, almost there and then, and Victor received a slash in the arm. This contretemps hindered the appearance of Han d'Islande for a fortnight. Happily, his grief-stricken heart had its star as every dark night has, and its[Pg 477] flower as has every precipice;—he was in love! He was passionately in love with Mademoiselle Foucher, a maiden of fifteen with whom he had been brought up. He married this young girl, and she is to-day the devoted wife who followed the poet into exile. Han d'Islande, sold for 1000 francs, was the dowry of the wedded pair, who between them could only add up thirty-five years. The witnesses of the marriage were Alexandre Soumet and Alfred de Vigny, both poets just starting out in life and in art themselves. This thousand francs had to be used for housekeeping.
And indeed, we who watched him grow up from his childhood at the Feuillantines, in Avellino and at the Séminaire des Nobles, can guess how much his mother meant to him. One day, during one of those moments of deep sadness when the sorrowful heart seeks surroundings that match its own mourning, the young man went to Versailles, the most sorrowful place of all. He had breakfast at a café, holding a newspaper that he wasn’t reading because he was lost in thought. A life-guardsman, who wasn’t thoughtful and wanted to read, snatched the paper from his hands. Victor, at nineteen, was fair and had a delicate complexion, looking only fifteen. The life-guardsman thought he was dealing with a boy but had actually insulted a man—a man who was experiencing one of life’s dark crises, when danger often feels like a blessing. So, the young man accepted the fight that was thrust upon him, rough and silly as it was. They ended up fighting with swords almost immediately, and Victor got a cut on his arm. This incident delayed the release of Han d'Islande for two weeks. Thankfully, even in his grief, he had a guiding star like every dark night has, and a flower like every cliff does; he was in love! He was deeply in love with Mademoiselle Foucher, a fifteen-year-old girl he had grown up with. He married her, and she is now the devoted wife who followed the poet into exile. Han d'Islande, sold for 1000 francs, was the couple’s dowry, even though together they only added up to thirty-five years. The witnesses at their wedding were Alexandre Soumet and Alfred de Vigny, both poets just starting out in their own lives and art. This thousand francs had to be used for their household expenses.
The first volume of poetry Victor published at this time was printed by Guiraudet, No. 335 rue Saint-Honoré and sold by Pélissier, place du Palais-Royal; it brought him in 900 francs, which were to be spent on luxuries. And out of these 900 francs the poet bought the first shawl he gave his young wife. Other women, wives of bankers and princes, have had more beautiful Cashmere shawls than yours, Madame Hugo, but none were woven out of more precious and valuable tissue!
The first volume of poetry Victor published during this time was printed by Guiraudet at 335 rue Saint-Honoré and sold by Pélissier at place du Palais-Royal; it earned him 900 francs, which he intended to spend on luxuries. From that 900 francs, the poet bought the first shawl he gave to his young wife. Other women, wives of bankers and princes, may have had more beautiful Cashmere shawls than yours, Madame Hugo, but none were made from more precious and valuable fabric!
This first volume was an immense success. I remember hearing about it when I was in the provinces.
This first volume was a huge success. I remember hearing about it when I was in the countryside.
Lamartine's first volume, Méditations poétiques, had appeared in 1820. It had an enormous and deserved success, and sooner or later it was destined to be superseded by another successful rival. It chanced this time that the rival proved equally successful, and the two successes kept pace with one another, hand in hand supporting each other. Nothing happened that could set the poets at variance, their styles were so unlike; nor did politics, thirty years later, succeed in severing the two men, no matter how different their opinions were.
Lamartine's first volume, Méditations poétiques, came out in 1820. It was an immense and well-deserved success, and eventually, it was bound to be replaced by another successful contender. This time, the competitor turned out to be just as successful, and both successes moved forward together, supporting each other. Nothing occurred that could drive the poets apart; their styles were so different. Additionally, politics, thirty years later, couldn't separate the two men, no matter how conflicting their views were.
The wedding took place at the house of M. Foucher, the father of the bride, who lived at the War Office. The wedding feast took place in the very hall where, by a strange coincidence to which we shall presently return, General la Horie, Victor's godfather, was sentenced.
The wedding happened at the home of M. Foucher, the bride's father, who lived at the War Office. The wedding reception took place in the same hall where, oddly enough, General la Horie, Victor's godfather, was sentenced, a coincidence we'll discuss shortly.
Han d'Islande, which we have most unfairly deserted,[Pg 478] achieved, by reason of its curious originality, quite as great a success as its admired sisters the fair and fresh Odes. But it did not bear its author's name and it was impossible to guess that that bunch of lilies and lilacs and roses called Odes et Ballades grew under the shade of the rugged and dark oak tree called Han d'Islande. Nodier read and marvelled at the latter production. Good and worthy Nodier! he was always to be found feeding his mind on everything that could nourish it and on everything that could expand his intellect. He announced that Byron and Mathurin were surpassed and that the unknown author of Han d'Islande had attained the ideal of a nightmare. He, the man who was to write Smarra! was, upon my word, very modest. Nodier was not the sort of man from whom an author could long conceal his anonymity, no matter in what disguise he masqueraded. The great bibliomaniac who had made so many discoveries of this kind, quite as difficult to detect, discovered that Victor Hugo was the author of Han d'Islande. But who was Victor Hugo? Was he a misanthrope like Timon, a cynic like Diogenes or a mourner like Democritus? He raised the veil and found, as we are aware, a fair-complexioned youth who had only just reached his twentieth year and looked but sixteen. He recoiled in amazement: it was incredible. He expected to find the distorted countenance of an aged pessimist; he found the youthful, open, hopeful smile of a budding poet. The very first time they met each other the foundations of a friendship were laid that nothing ever changed. Nodier always loved and was loved in return after this fashion.
Han d'Islande, which we have most unfairly neglected,[Pg 478] achieved, due to its unique originality, just as much success as its admired counterparts, the beautiful and fresh Odes. However, it did not carry its author's name, making it impossible to guess that the collection of lilies, lilacs, and roses known as Odes et Ballades thrived under the shadow of the rough and dark oak tree named Han d'Islande. Nodier read and marveled at this work. Good and dedicated Nodier! He was always immersed in anything that could feed his mind and stretch his intellect. He proclaimed that Byron and Mathurin had been surpassed, and that the unknown author of Han d'Islande had achieved the ideal of a haunting dream. He, the man who would write Smarra, was, really, quite humble. Nodier was not the kind of person an author could keep their anonymity from for long, no matter how cleverly they disguised themselves. The great book lover, who had made many such challenging discoveries, figured out that Victor Hugo was the author of Han d'Islande. But who was Victor Hugo? Was he a misanthrope like Timon, a cynic like Diogenes, or a sorrowful figure like Democritus? He lifted the veil and found, as we know, a fair-skinned young man who had just turned twenty and looked merely sixteen. He was taken aback: it was unbelievable. He expected to see the twisted face of an old pessimist; instead, he encountered the youthful, bright, hopeful smile of an emerging poet. The very first time they met, the foundation of an unchanging friendship was established. Nodier always loved and was loved back in this way.
Meanwhile, a competence amounting almost to a fortune, had come to the young housekeepers: the first edition of Han d'Islande, which was sold for 1000 francs, had run out, and just when Thiers was making his literary début, under cover of the name of Félix Bodin, with his Histoire de la Révolution, Victor was selling his second edition of Han d'Islande for 10,000 francs. Lecointre and Durey were the publishers who thus showered gold upon the nuptial bed of the young people. Honours now knocked at their door. We have spoken before[Pg 479] of cousin Cornet, who had been made a senator and count under the Empire, and a peer of France under the Restoration; Victor's growing fame pleased the family pride of the old député of Nantes and member of the Cinq Cents. He had no child of his own to whom to bequeath his coat of arms of azure with its three cornets argent and his peer's robes; so he proposed to throw the mantle over the young poet's shoulders on one condition. True, the condition was a severe one: in order that the giver's name should not be forgotten, the young poet was to call himself Victor Hugo-Cornet. The proposition was transmitted by General Hugo to the author of Han d'Islande and of the Odes et Ballades. The author of Han d'Islande and of the Odes et Ballades replied that he preferred to call himself simply Victor Hugo; and if he wanted to become a peer of France at some future period he did not require the assistance of another, but would become so through his own unaided efforts. So Comte Cornet's offer was declined.
Meanwhile, a fortune of sorts had come to the young housekeepers: the first edition of Han d'Islande, which had sold for 1,000 francs, had sold out, and just when Thiers was making his literary debut under the name Félix Bodin with his Histoire de la Révolution, Victor was selling the second edition of Han d'Islande for 10,000 francs. Lecointre and Durey were the publishers who showered gold upon the newlyweds. Honors were now knocking at their door. We previously mentioned[Pg 479] cousin Cornet, who had been made a senator and count under the Empire, and a peer of France under the Restoration; Victor's rising fame pleased the family pride of the old député of Nantes and member of the Cinq Cents. He had no child of his own to inherit his coat of arms with its three silver cornets on a blue field or his peer's robes, so he proposed to pass the title to the young poet on one condition. The condition was quite strict: in order for the giver's name not to be forgotten, the young poet was to call himself Victor Hugo-Cornet. The proposition was sent by General Hugo to the author of Han d'Islande and Odes et Ballades. The author replied that he preferred to simply be called Victor Hugo; and if he ever wanted to become a peer of France, he didn't need anyone's help, but would achieve it through his own efforts. So Comte Cornet's offer was declined.
He had another cousin, Comte Volney, who nearly made him a similar proposal to become his heir; but, unluckily, he discovered that Han d'Islande had been written by the same hand as the Odes et Ballades, so he shook his head and buttoned his peer's robes over his own shoulders more tightly than before.
He had another cousin, Comte Volney, who almost made him a similar offer to become his heir; but unfortunately, he found out that Han d'Islande was written by the same person as the Odes et Ballades, so he shook his head and tightened his peer's robes over his shoulders more than before.
CHAPTER X
Léopoldine—The opinions of the son of the Vendéenne—The Delon conspiracy—Hugo offers Delon shelter—Louis XVIII. bestows a pension of twelve hundred francs on the author of the Odes et Ballades—The poet at the office of the director-general des postes—How he learns the existence of the cabinet noir—He is made a chevalier of the Légion d'honneur—Beauchesne—Bug-Jargal—The Ambassador of Austria's soirée—Ode à la Colonne—Cromwell—How Marion Delorme was written
Léopoldine—The perspective of the son of the Vendéenne—The Delon conspiracy—Hugo offers Delon safety—Louis XVIII awards a pension of twelve hundred francs to the author of the Odes et Ballades—The poet at the office of the director-general of posts—How he discovers the existence of the cabinet noir—He is appointed a chevalier of the Légion d'honneur—Beauchesne—Bug-Jargal—The Austrian Ambassador's evening gathering—Ode à la Colonne—Cromwell—How Marion Delorme was created
In 1824, at the same time as the appearance of a fresh volume of Odes, delightful little Léopoldine was born, whose death he witnessed later under such sad circumstances in front of the château de Villequier, drowned with her husband, on a fine day, by a sudden gust of wind. It was a cruel stroke of destiny, perhaps intended to prove the temper of the father's heart, which was to be severely tried during the days of civil strife that were in preparation for him. All these Odes bore the impress of Royalist opinions. The young man, scarcely past childhood, was the son of his Vendéenne mother, that saintly woman who saved the lives of nineteen priests in the civil war of 1793. General Hugo's friends, who held what were called at that time "Liberal opinions," without openly belonging to the Opposition, were yet often concerned at these ultra-monarchical tendencies; but the general shook his head and answered them smilingly.
In 1824, when a new volume of Odes was released, the charming little Léopoldine was born. Later, he witnessed her tragic death in front of the château de Villequier, where she drowned with her husband on a beautiful day, caught by a sudden gust of wind. It was a cruel twist of fate, perhaps meant to test the father’s heart, which would face severe trials during the coming civil unrest. All these Odes reflected strong Royalist views. The young man, still just a child, was the son of his Vendéenne mother, a saintly woman who saved the lives of nineteen priests during the civil war of 1793. General Hugo's friends, who held what were known as "Liberal opinions" at the time, were often worried about his extreme royalist tendencies, though they didn’t openly oppose him. The general would just shake his head and smile in response.
"Leave things to time," he said. "The boy holds his mother's opinions; the man will hold his father's."
"Just give it time," he said. "The kid has his mom's views; the man will adopt his dad's."
Here is a statement of the poet himself, which sets forth the promise made by his father, not only to a friend, but to France, to the future and to the whole world:—
Here is a statement from the poet himself, which outlines the promise made by his father, not just to a friend, but to France, the future, and the entire world:—
"December 1820
"December 1820
"The callow youths who succeed nowadays to political ideas are in a strange predicament: our fathers are generally Bonapartists and our mothers Royalists. Our fathers only see in Napoleon the man who bestowed epaulettes upon them; our mothers only see in Bonaparte the man who took their sons away from them. Our fathers see in the Revolution the grandest result that the genius of a National Assembly could produce; the Empire, the greatest thing that the genius of a man could devise.
"The naive young people who are getting into politics today are in a strange position: our dads mostly back Bonapartism while our moms are Royalists. Our dads see Napoleon as the guy who gave them epaulettes; our moms see Bonaparte as the man who took their sons away. Our dads view the Revolution as the best outcome that could come from the brilliance of a National Assembly; the Empire, as the greatest achievement of one man's genius."
"To our mothers, the Revolution only meant the guillotine, and the Empire a sword. We children who were born under the Consulate have all been brought up at our mothers' knees,—our fathers were in camp,—and since they were often deprived of their husbands and brothers through the vagaries of the conquering Man, they riveted their hopes on us, young schoolboys of eight and ten years of age, and their gentle motherly eyes would fill with tears at the thought that by 1820 we should be eighteen, and by 1825 be either colonels, or else killed. The acclamation that greeted Louis XVIII. in 1814 was the delighted cry of our mothers. There are very few adolescents of our generation but have sucked in, with their mothers' milk, a hatred of the two periods of violent upheaval which preceded the Restoration. Robespierre was the bogey that frightened the children of 1803; and Bonaparte the bogey that terrified the children of 1815. I was lately strongly upholding my Vendéen opinions in my father's presence. He listened to me in silence, then he turned to General L——, who was with him, and remarked, 'Leave things to time: the child holds his mother's opinions; the man will follow his father's.' This prophecy set me to thinking. Whatever the case may be, and even admitting that, up to a certain point, experience modifies the impressions that we receive during our early years, the honest-minded man is sure not to be led astray if he submits all these modifications to the severe criticism of his conscience. A good conscience kept ever awake saves him from all the devious pitfalls wherein his honesty might go astray. In the Middle Ages people believed that any liquid in which a sapphire had rested was a preservative against plague, carbuncles, leprosy and every kind of disease. Jean-Baptiste de Rocoles said, 'Conscience is a similar sapphire!'"
"For our mothers, the Revolution only meant the guillotine, and the Empire, a sword. We kids born under the Consulate were raised by our moms—our dads were off in the camps—and since they often lost their husbands and brothers to the whims of the conquering Man, they placed their hopes in us, young boys of eight and ten. Their kind, motherly eyes would fill with tears at the thought that by 1820 we would be eighteen, and by 1825 either colonels or dead. The cheers that greeted Louis XVIII in 1814 were the joyful cries of our mothers. Very few teenagers from our generation haven't absorbed, along with their mothers' milk, a deep-seated hatred for the two periods of upheaval that preceded the Restoration. Robespierre was the boogeyman that scared the children of 1803; and Bonaparte was the nightmare for the kids of 1815. Recently, I was passionately arguing my Vendéen views in front of my father. He listened quietly, then turned to General L——, who was with him, and said, 'Leave it to time: the child holds his mother's beliefs; the man will follow his father's.' This prediction made me reflect. No matter what, and even if experience alters the impressions we get in our early years, a truly honest person won’t be misled if he subjects all these changes to the strict judgment of his conscience. A clear conscience, kept always vigilant, protects him from all the tricky traps where his honesty might fail. In the Middle Ages, people believed that any liquid that had held a sapphire could prevent plague, carbuncles, leprosy, and all kinds of diseases. Jean-Baptiste de Rocoles said, 'Conscience is like that sapphire!'"
These few lines completely explain Victor's political conduct at different periods of his life. Meantime, the Royalist opinions which he revealed in his beautiful verses to those who looked upon such opinions as heresy were absolved by good deeds.
These few lines fully explain Victor's political behavior at various times in his life. Meanwhile, the Royalist views he expressed in his beautiful poems, which were seen as heresy by some, were redeemed by his good actions.
Let us mention a fact that will also serve to show the poet's life from an original aspect. In 1822 the Berton conspiracy burst forth, and all eyes were turned towards Saumur. Among the conspirators,—besides Berton, who died bravely, and Café, who opened his veins like a hero of old with a scrap of broken glass,—was a young man called Delon. I had caught occasional glimpses of this young man at the house of M. Deviolaine, to whom he was related, either carrying little Victor on his shoulder or jumping the future poet up and down on his knees. He was the son of an old officer who had served under General Hugo's orders. In the famous trial of the Chauffeurs this officer was the captain rapporteur; in the equally famous trial of Malet he was major rapporteur, and, in both trials, without making any distinction between the accused, he had pronounced sentence of death on them. So General la Horie, Victor's godfather, of whom mention has been already made, was shot by Delon's orders. It was a strange coincidence that the son of the man who had pronounced sentence of death on others for conspiracy, should be doomed to death for the same cause! Since the day on which Major Delon had delivered sentence on General la Horie, instead of declining to adjudicate in the case, there had been a complete rupture between the Hugo and Delon family.
Let’s highlight a fact that will also help illustrate the poet’s life from a unique angle. In 1822, the Berton conspiracy erupted, and everyone’s attention turned to Saumur. Among the conspirators—besides Berton, who died courageously, and Café, who heroically opened his veins with a piece of broken glass—was a young man named Delon. I had seen this young man occasionally at the house of M. Deviolaine, who was related to him, either carrying little Victor on his shoulder or bouncing the future poet up and down on his knees. He was the son of an old officer who had served under General Hugo's command. In the notable trial of the Chauffeurs, this officer was the captain rapporteur; in the equally notable trial of Malet, he was the major rapporteur, and in both trials, without distinguishing between the accused, he had pronounced death sentences. So General la Horie, Victor’s godfather, whom we've mentioned before, was executed on Delon’s orders. It was a strange twist of fate that the son of the man who had sentenced others to death for conspiracy would himself be condemned to death for the same reason! Since the day Major Delon had sentenced General la Horie, the Hugo and Delon families had completely broken ties.
But although intercourse between the fathers was broken off, there had not been any rupture between the children. Victor lived then at No. 10 rue de Mézières. One morning he read in the papers the terrible story of the conspiracy of Saumur. Nearly all those concerned were arrested, with the exception of Delon, who had escaped. Very soon, childish recollections, strong and indelible, rose to the poet's mind; he seized his writing materials and, forgetting[Pg 483] the family hatreds and the difference of opinion, he wrote to Madame Delon, at Saint-Denis:—
But even though the fathers stopped interacting, the children still stayed connected. Victor was living at No. 10 rue de Mézières. One morning, he read in the news about the dreadful conspiracy in Saumur. Almost everyone involved was arrested, except for Delon, who had managed to escape. Soon, vivid childhood memories flooded the poet's mind; he grabbed his writing supplies and, putting aside the family feuds and differences of opinion, wrote to Madame Delon in Saint-Denis:—
"MADAME,—I learn that your son is proscribed and a fugitive; we hold different opinions, but that is only another reason why he would not be looked for at my house. I shall expect him; at whatever hour of day or night he comes he will be welcome. I am sure that no other place of refuge can be safer for him than the share of my room which I offer him. I live in a house without a porter's lodge, in the rue de Mézières No. 10, on the fifth floor. I will take care that the door shall be kept unlocked day and night.
"Madame, I’ve heard that your son is on the run and wanted; we may have different opinions, but that just means he wouldn't be expected at my place. I'll be waiting for him; no matter what time he arrives, day or night, he will be welcome. I'm sure there's no safer place for him than the corner of my room that I’m offering. I live in a building without a doorman, at 10 rue de Mézières, on the fifth floor. I’ll keep the door unlocked all day and night."
"Accept my most respectful greetings, dear madame, and believe me, yours, VICTOR HUGO"
"Please accept my most respectful greetings, dear madame, and know that I am yours, VICTOR HUGO"
When this letter was written, with the guilelessness of a child, the poet entrusted it to the post. To the post! A letter addressed to the mother of a man for whom the whole police force was in search! Well, when it was posted, Victor crept out every night at twilight to explore the neighbourhood, expecting to find Delon in each man who was leaning against a wall. Delon never appeared. But something else appeared, to the immense surprise of the poet, who had not made any move towards it whatever, namely, a pension of 1200 francs which the author of Odes et Ballades received one morning in his small room in the rue de Mézières, the grant being signed by Louis XVIII. It could not have arrived at a more opportune time, for the poet had just married.
When this letter was written, with the innocence of a child, the poet sent it through the mail. To the mail! A letter addressed to the mother of a man whom the entire police force was searching for! Well, after it was sent, Victor snuck out every night at dusk to check the neighborhood, hoping to see Delon in every man leaning against a wall. Delon never showed up. But something unexpected happened, which greatly surprised the poet, who hadn’t done anything to cause it—namely, a pension of 1200 francs that the author of Odes et Ballades received one morning in his small room on rue de Mézières, with the grant signed by Louis XVIII. It couldn’t have come at a better time, as the poet had just gotten married.
On 13 April 1825, Hugo went to the hôtel des Postes to engage three places on the mail coach for himself, his wife and a servant. They were going to Blois. He was anxious to secure these three seats in advance, but, unfortunately, this was not an easy thing: the mail went as far as Bordeaux, and to save places as far as Blois meant risking the emptiness of the seats from Blois to Bordeaux. However, the favour which Victor required could be granted by one man, and that man was M. Roger, the Postmaster-general. M. Roger was by way of being a literary man, he belonged to the Académie and might possibly grant Victor Hugo his desire. So Victor[Pg 484] decided to go to the Postmaster-general's house. The usher announced the poet and, at Victor Hugo's name, which at that time was already well known, especially by reason of the ode which had appeared on the death of Louis XVIII. (the ode we have already partly quoted), M. Roger rose and approached the poet with demonstrations of the greatest friendliness. Needless to relate, the request for reserved places on the mail coach to Blois was at once accorded. But M. Roger, having the good fortune to have secured a visit from the poet, would not let him go easily: he made him sit down, and they talked together.
On April 13, 1825, Hugo went to the post office to book three seats on the mail coach for himself, his wife, and a servant. They were headed to Blois. He was eager to secure these three seats in advance, but unfortunately, it wasn't easy: the mail went as far as Bordeaux, and reserving seats to Blois meant risking the seats being empty from Blois to Bordeaux. However, the favor Victor needed could only be granted by one person, and that was Mr. Roger, the Postmaster-general. Mr. Roger was somewhat of a literary figure; he was part of the Académie and might grant Victor Hugo his request. So, Victor[Pg 484] decided to go to the Postmaster-general's house. The usher announced the poet, and at the mention of Victor Hugo's name, which was already quite famous, especially due to the ode he wrote after Louis XVIII's death (the ode we’ve partly quoted), Mr. Roger got up and approached the poet with great friendliness. Unsurprisingly, the request for reserved seats on the mail coach to Blois was granted immediately. But Mr. Roger, pleased to have the opportunity to meet the poet, didn’t let him leave easily: he had him sit down, and they talked together.
"By the way," M. Roger suddenly burst out in the middle of the conversation, "do you know to what you owe your pension of twelve hundred francs, my dear poet?"
"By the way," M. Roger suddenly interrupted in the middle of the conversation, "do you know what gives you your pension of twelve hundred francs, my dear poet?"
"Why, I probably owe it to my small efforts in literature," Victor answered laughingly.
"Well, I probably owe it to my little contributions to literature," Victor replied with a laugh.
"Yes, of course," replied the Postmaster-general; "but would you like me to tell you exactly how you got it?"
"Sure," replied the Postmaster General, "but do you want me to explain exactly how you got it?"
"Certainly, I should be glad to know, I must confess."
"Sure, I'd really like to know, I have to admit."
"Do you remember the conspiracy of Saumur?"
"Do you remember the Saumur conspiracy?"
"Of course."
"Of course."
"Do you recollect a young man named Delon who compromised himself in that conspiracy?"
"Do you remember a young man named Delon who got involved in that conspiracy?"
"Perfectly well."
"Absolutely fine."
"You remember writing to him or, rather, to his mother, offering the outlaw half your room at No. 10 rue de Mézières?"
"You remember writing to him—or, more accurately, to his mother—offering the outlaw half your room at No. 10 rue de Mézières?"
Victor made no answer this time; he stared at the Postmaster-general with startled eyes, not amazed at the magnificence of the worthy M. Roger, but at his powers of penetration. He had written that letter alone, between his own four walls: he had not told a single soul about it. Not even his own nightcap—that confidant which Louis XI. thought ought to be burned, since it had been the recipient of certain secrets—knew anything about it, seeing he never wore a nightcap.
Victor didn't respond this time; he looked at the Postmaster-General with wide eyes, not in awe of the impressive M. Roger, but at his ability to see through things. He had written that letter alone, within the confines of his own home: he hadn't told a single person about it. Not even his own nightcap—his secret-keeper that Louis XI. thought should be destroyed since it held certain secrets—was aware of it, since he never wore a nightcap.
"Well," continued the Postmaster-general, "that letter was laid before King Louis XVIII., who already knew you as[Pg 485] a poet. 'Ah! ah!' said the king, 'he possesses great talents and a good heart ... that young man must be rewarded!' and he ordered a pension of twelve hundred francs to be settled on you."
"Well," continued the Postmaster-General, "that letter was shown to King Louis XVIII, who already recognized you as a poet. 'Ah! ah!' said the king, 'he has great talents and a good heart ... that young man deserves to be rewarded!' and he directed that a pension of twelve hundred francs be granted to you."
"But," Victor finally stammered out, "how did my letter get to the notice of King Louis XVIII.?"
"But," Victor finally stammered, "how did my letter catch the attention of King Louis XVIII?"
The Postmaster-general burst into shouts of Homeric laughter. And, simple-minded though the poet was, at last he understood.
The Postmaster-General burst into hearty laughter. And, although the poet was a bit naive, he finally got it.
"But," he exclaimed, "what became of the letter?"
"But," he exclaimed, "what happened to the letter?"
"Why, naturally, it was replaced in the post."
"Of course, it was replaced in the mail."
"And reached its destination?"
"And arrived at its destination?"
"Probably."
"Probably."
"But if Delon had accepted my offer and had come to me, what would have happened?"
"But if Delon had taken my offer and come to me, what would have happened?"
"He would have been arrested, tried and probably executed, my dear poet."
"He would have been arrested, put on trial, and likely executed, my dear poet."
"So that my letter would have been regarded as a deathtrap for him; and if he had been arrested, tried and executed ... the pension I have received would have been blood-money! Oh!..."
"So that my letter would have been seen as a death sentence for him; and if he had been arrested, tried, and executed... the pension I have received would have been blood money! Oh!..."
Victor uttered a cry of horror at what might have happened, clapped his hands to his head and rushed out into the antechamber, where M. Roger followed him, laughing greatly, telling him he had left his hat behind him and saying—
Victor let out a scream of terror at what could have happened, covered his head with his hands, and dashed into the antechamber, where M. Roger followed him, laughing heartily, telling him he had forgotten his hat and saying—
"Remember that the mail coach is entirely at your service, for the day after to-morrow, April 15."
"Keep in mind that the mail coach is completely at your service for the day after tomorrow, April 15."
His horror at what might have happened gradually subsided into calmness, and Hugo breathed again when he realised that Delon was in safety in England. But he began to believe in the existence of that famous black cabinet that he had looked on as a fable, and he vowed never again to offer an outlaw shelter through the medium of the ordinary post.
His fear of what could have happened slowly turned into calm, and Hugo breathed easily again when he realized Delon was safe in England. But he started to believe in the existence of that infamous black cabinet he had thought was just a myth, and he promised himself never to shelter an outlaw through regular mail again.
When the day of departure for Blois arrived, he and Madame Hugo and her lady's-maid went to the hôtel des Postes and, just as he was about to enter the coach, an orderly officer, who was very nearly too late, rode up at full gallop and placed a letter[Pg 486] in his hand which bore the king's seal. It contained a commission making him a chevalier of the Légion d'honneur, signed by Charles X. Hugo was only twenty-three at the time, and that is an age when such things cause immense delight, especially if they are bestowed graciously. In the general promotion, Hugo and Lamartine had at first been mixed up together in what is popularly termed a batch, and King Charles X. had struck off both their names. M. de la Rochefoucauld, who approved of the list and was particularly glad of the inclusion of the two young poets, ventured to inquire of His Majesty why he had cancelled two such celebrated names as theirs?
When the day to leave for Blois finally came, he, Madame Hugo, and her lady's maid went to the post hotel, and just as he was about to get into the coach, an orderly officer, who almost arrived too late, rode up at full speed and handed him a letter[Pg 486] with the king's seal on it. It was a commission making him a chevalier of the Légion d'honneur, signed by Charles X. Hugo was only twenty-three at the time, which is an age when such things bring immense joy, especially when they are given graciously. In the overall promotion, Hugo and Lamartine had initially been grouped together in what is commonly called a batch, and King Charles X. had removed both their names. M. de la Rochefoucauld, who approved of the list and was particularly happy about the inclusion of the two young poets, took the chance to ask His Majesty why he had struck off two such famous names as theirs.
"Precisely because they are so famous, monsieur," replied Charles X., "in order that they may not be confounded with other names. You must present me with a separate report for MM. Lamartine and Hugo."
"Exactly because they're so famous, sir," Charles X. replied, "so that they won't be mixed up with other names. You need to give me a separate report for Messrs. Lamartine and Hugo."
The warrant was accompanied by an official letter from M. le Comte Sosthène de la Rochefoucauld and by a friendly letter from his secretary, M. de Beauchesne.
The warrant came with an official letter from Count Sosthène de la Rochefoucauld and a friendly note from his secretary, M. de Beauchesne.
M. de Beauchesne, or rather Beauchesne, was a true guide to M. de la Rochefoucauld in every piece of good work he did, and it should be mentioned that the Director of the Fine Arts, who was greatly taunted by the Opposition papers at that time—I am not referring to political matters—did excellent work in the way of encouraging literary efforts. Let me repeat, however, that Beauchesne was his guide in these matters. Beauchesne was then a charming fellow of twenty-four or twenty-five, and has since developed into a charming poet. So loyal a heart was his that he seemed to have taken for his motto, "Video nec invideo"; and, indeed, what more could he have wanted? All who were great called him brother, and all who were good called him friend. A free and loyal Breton when the true monarchy fell, but Beauchesne remained faithful to its ruins. I shall relate in its proper place how once we very nearly had a duel over politics, and I shall maintain that we were never better friends than then, when we faced each other sword in hand. Dear Beauchesne! He disappeared quite[Pg 487] suddenly: it was ten or fifteen years before I saw him again, but one morning he came to see me as though he had only left the previous day, and we embraced heartily. He brought with him a charming tragedy or drama, I forget which now, a phantasy taken from one of our ancient fabliaux—the Épreuves de la belle Griseldis—which, in all probability, will be read, received, played and applauded at the Théâtre-Français. He had a bewitching little mansion in the bois de Boulogne which he sold. Ivy has no time to grow over the homes of poets. I remember when he had just built his house he sent me his album to write a few lines in, and I wrote these:—
M. de Beauchesne, or simply Beauchesne, was a true mentor to M. de la Rochefoucauld in all his good endeavors. It's worth noting that the Director of the Fine Arts, who faced a lot of criticism from the opposition newspapers at that time—I’m not talking about politics—did an excellent job of promoting literary efforts. I want to emphasize again that Beauchesne was his mentor in these matters. At that time, Beauchesne was a charming guy in his early twenties, and he has since blossomed into a delightful poet. He had such a loyal heart that it seemed like his motto was, "Video nec invideo"; honestly, what more could he want? Everyone who was great called him brother, and everyone who was good called him friend. A free and devoted Breton when the monarchy collapsed, Beauchesne stayed loyal to its remnants. I’ll share in due time how we almost had a duel over politics, and I’ll argue that we were never closer as friends than when we faced off with swords in hand. Dear Beauchesne! He vanished quite[Pg 487] suddenly: it was ten to fifteen years before I saw him again, but one morning he came to visit me as if he had just left yesterday, and we embraced warmly. He brought along a beautiful tragedy or drama, I can't remember which now, a fantasy inspired by one of our ancient fabliaux—the Épreuves de la belle Griseldis—which will probably be read, received, performed, and applauded at the Théâtre-Français. He had a charming little house in the bois de Boulogne that he sold. Ivy doesn’t have time to cover the homes of poets. I remember when he had just built his house, he sent me his album to write a few lines in, and I wrote these:—
"Beauchesne, vous avez une douce retraite;
Moi, je suis sans abri pour les jours de malheur!
Que votre beau castel, pour reposer sa tête,
Garde dans son grenier, une place au poëte,
Qui vous garde en échange une place en son cœur."
"Beauchesne, you have a lovely retreat;
As for me, I'm homeless in times of trouble!
May your beautiful castle, to rest its head,
Keep a spot in its attic for the poet,
Who, in return, keeps a place for you in his heart."
I lost sight of Beauchesne a second time. A catastrophe happened to me which left me indifferent, but which most people look upon as a great misfortune. I opened a letter full of tender sympathy. It was from Beauchesne. I did not answer it then; I will answer it to-day. As this is by no means the last time I shall mention dear Beauchesne I will not bid him adieu but au revoir ! ...
I lost track of Beauchesne again. A disaster happened to me that I didn’t really care about, but most people view it as a significant misfortune. I opened a letter full of heartfelt sympathy. It was from Beauchesne. I didn’t reply at that moment; I’ll reply today. Since this isn’t the last time I’ll mention dear Beauchesne, I won’t say adieu but au revoir ! ...
So Hugo received his brevet of chevalier, and M. de la Rochefoucauld's official letter, with Beauchesne's friendly one, at the same time. He buttoned them all three next to his heart, climbed upon the coach and composed the whole of the ballad of the Deux Archers during the drive between Paris and Blois. When he arrived at Blois he joyfully laid his brevet in his father's hands. The old soldier took off from an ancient coat, that had received the dust of many lands, one of his old decorations that had faced the fire of many battles, and tied it to his son's buttonhole, wiping away a tear—I strongly suspect that every father's eye is capable of that weakness. During this visit to Blois the poet received a private letter from Charles X., inviting him to[Pg 488] be present at his coronation at Rheims, and Hugo set out in company with Nodier.
So Hugo got his knight's brevet and M. de la Rochefoucauld's official letter, along with Beauchesne's friendly note, all at the same time. He kept all three close to his heart, climbed onto the coach, and wrote the entire ballad of the Deux Archers during the drive from Paris to Blois. When he reached Blois, he happily handed his brevet to his father. The old soldier took an old decoration off a worn coat that had seen many lands and battles, and pinned it on his son's buttonhole, wiping away a tear—I strongly suspect every father’s eye can have that moment of weakness. During this visit to Blois, the poet received a private letter from Charles X., inviting him to[Pg 488] attend his coronation in Rheims, and Hugo set off with Nodier.
At Rheims he found Lamartine, with whom he became acquainted. They each acknowledged the king's hospitality, Lamartine by his Chant du sacre; Hugo by his Ode à Charles X.
At Rheims, he met Lamartine, with whom he became friends. They both appreciated the king's hospitality, Lamartine with his Chant du sacre; Hugo with his Ode à Charles X.
In 1826 Bug-Jargal appeared. Just as Christine had been composed before Henri III., so Bug-Jargal had been finished before Han d'Islande. I do not know why this chronological transposition was made in the publication.
In 1826, Bug-Jargal was published. Just as Christine was written before Henri III., Bug-Jargal was completed before Hand'Islande. I’m not sure why this change in the order of publication occurred.
In 1827 the Austrian Ambassador gave a grand soirée, to which he invited all the most illustrious persons in France, and all the most illustrious persons in France, who are always eager to attend soirées, went to that of the ambassador. The marshals were there among the rest of the people, and a singular thing happened at this particular soirée. At the door of the salon was the customary lackey to announce the names of the visitors who had been deemed worthy of an invitation. When Marshal Soult arrived, the lackey asked him, "What name shall I announce?"
In 1827, the Austrian Ambassador hosted a lavish soirée, inviting all the most distinguished people in France, who are always keen to attend such events. The marshals were present along with many others, and something unusual happened at this particular soirée. At the entrance to the salon, there was the usual servant to announce the names of the guests who had been deemed worthy of an invitation. When Marshal Soult arrived, the servant asked him, "Which name should I announce?"
"The Duc de Dalmatie," replied the marshal.
"The Duke of Dalmatie," replied the marshal.
"M. le maréchal Soult," announced the lackey, who had received his orders.
"Marshal Soult," announced the servant, who had received his instructions.
This might very well have been thought to be a mistake, so the illustre épée (as he had been called since the time of Louis-Philippe, who, probably, did not care to call him the Duc de Dalmatie any more than did the Austrian Ambassador) paid no attention to the matter.
This probably seemed like a mistake, so the illustre épée (as he had been called since the time of Louis-Philippe, who likely didn't want to refer to him as the Duc de Dalmatie any more than the Austrian Ambassador did) ignored the issue.
Marshal Mortier came next.
Marshal Mortier was next.
"What name shall I give?" asked the lackey.
"What name should I give?" asked the servant.
"The Duc de Trévise."
"The Duke of Trévise."
"M. le maréchal Mortier," called out the lackey.
"Marshal Mortier," called out the servant.
The eyes of the two old comrades of the emperor flashed lightnings of interrogation across at one another; but they did not know what to reply, for it was not yet quite clear what would be the best course to take.
The eyes of the two old comrades of the emperor shot glances of questioning at each other; however, they didn’t know what to say, as it wasn't entirely clear what the best action would be.
Marshal Marmont came third.
Marshal Marmont placed third.
"What name shall I announce?" asked the lackey.
"What name should I announce?" asked the servant.
"The Duc de Raguse."
"The Duke of Raguse."
"M. le maréchal Marmont," announced the lackey.
"Mr. Marshal Marmont," announced the servant.
This time there could not be any mistake about it; so the two first arrivals joined the third and told him of their difficulty. But they all three decided to wait a while longer.
This time there could not be any mistake about it; so the first two arrivals teamed up with the third and shared their problem. But the three of them decided to wait a bit longer.
The Duc de Reggio, the Duc de Tarente and all the other dukes of the Imperial creation came, one after another, and, although they all gave their ducal titles, they were only announced by their family names.
The Duc de Reggio, the Duc de Tarente, and all the other dukes created by the Empire arrived one after another, and even though they introduced themselves with their ducal titles, they were only introduced by their last names.
The insult was open and patent, and offered publicly, and yet the insulted men silently withdrew, to nurse the insult they had endured. Not one of them thought of striking the insulter. But a poet was ready to demand redress and to obtain it on their behalf! Three days after this insult had been offered to the whole of the army, in the person of its chiefs, the Ode à la Colonne appeared.
The insult was clear and obvious, and it was made in front of everyone, yet the insulted men quietly walked away to deal with the hurt they had experienced. Not one of them considered confronting the insulter. But a poet was prepared to seek justice and achieve it for them! Three days after this insult was directed at the entire army, specifically towards its leaders, the Ode à la Colonne was published.
ODE À LA COLONNE
"O monument vengeur, trophée indélébile!
Bronze qui, tournoyant sur ta base immobile,
Sembles porter au ciel ta gloire et ton néant,
Et de tout ce qu'a fait une main colossale,
Seul es resté debout! ruine triomphale
De l'édifice du géant!
Débris du grand empire et de la grande armée,
Colonne d'où si haut parle la renommée!
Je t'aime; l'étranger t'admire avec effroi,
J'aime tes vieux héros sculptés par la victoire,
Et tous ces fantômes de gloire
Qui se pressent autour de toi.
J'aime à voir sur tes flancs, colonne étincelante!
Revivre ces soldats qu'en leur onde sanglante
Ont roulés le Danube, et le Rhin, et le Pô;
Tu mets, comme un guerrier, le pied sur ta conquête,
J'aime ton piédestal d'armures et ta tête,
[Pg 490]Dont le panache est un drapeau.
Au bronze de Henri, mon orgueil te marie.
J'aime à vous voir tous deux, honneur de la patrie,
Immortels, dominant nos troubles passagers,
Sortir, signes jumeaux d'amour et de colère,
Lui, de l'épargne populaire,
Toi, des arsenaux étrangers.
Que de fois, tu le sais, quand la nuit sous ses voiles
Fait fuir la blanche lune, ou trembler les étoiles,
Je viens, triste, évoquer tes fastes devant moi,
Et d'un œil enflammé, dévorant ton histoire,
Prendre, convive obscur, ma part de tant de gloire
Comme un pâtre au banquet d'un roi!
Que de fois j'ai cru voir, ô colonne française!
Ton airain ennemi rugir dans la fournaise;
Que de fois, ranimant des combattants épars,
Heurtant sur tes parois leurs armees dérouillées,
J'ai ressuscité ces mêlées
Qui s'assiègent de toutes parts!
Jamais, ô monument! même ivres de leur nombre,
Les étrangers sans peur, n'ont passé sur ton ombre;
Leurs pas n'ébranlent point ton bronze souverain,
Quand le sort une fois les poussa vers nos rives;
Ils n'osaient étaler leurs parades oisives
Devant tes batailles d'airain.
Mais, quoi! n'entend-je point, avec de sourds murmures,
De ta base à ton front bruire les armures?
Colonne! il m'a semblé qu'éblouissant mes yeux,
Tes bataillons cuivrés cherchaient à redescendre;
Que tes demi-dieux, noirs d'une héroïque cendre,
Interrompaient soudain leur marche vers les cieux.
Leurs voix mêlaient des noms à leur vieille devise:
TARENTE, REGGIO, DALMATIE ET TRÉVISE,
Et leurs aigles, sortant de leur puissant sommeil,
Suivaient d'un bec ardent cette aigle à double tête
Dont l'œil, ami de l'ombre où son essor s'arrête,
[Pg 491]Se baisse à leur regard comme au feu de soleil.
Qu'est-ce donc, et pourquoi, bronze envie de Rome,
Vois-je tes légions frémir comme un seul homme?
Quel impossible outrage à ta hauteur atteint?
Qui donc a réveillé ces ombres immortelles,
Ces aigles qui, battant ta base de leurs ailes,
Dans leur ongle captif pressent leur foudre éteint?
Je comprends: l'étranger, qui nous croit sans mémoire,
Veut, feuillet par feuillet, déchirer notre histoire,
Écrite avec du sang, à la pointe du fer ...
Ose-t-il, imprudent, heurter tant de trophées?
De ce bronze, forgé de foudres étouffées,
Chaque étincelle est un éclair.
Est-ce Napoléon qu'il frappe en notre armée?
Veut-il, de cette gloire en tant lieux semée,
Disputer l'héritage à nos vieux généraux?
Pour un fardeau pareil il a la main débile:
L'empire d'Alexandre et les armes d'Achille
Ne se partagent qu'aux héros.
Mais non; l'Autrichien, dans sa fierté qu'il dompte,
Est content si leurs noms ne disent que sa honte;
Il fait de sa défaite un titre à nos guerriers,
Et, craignant des vainqueurs moins que des feudataires,
Ils pardonne aux fleurons de nos ducs militaires,
Si ne sont que des lauriers.
Bronze! il n'a donc jamais, fier pour une victoire,
Subi de tes splendeurs l'aspect expiatoire?
D'où vient tant de courage à cet audacieux?
Croit-il impunément toucher à nos annales?
Et comment donc lit-il ces pages triomphales
Que tu déroules dans les cieux?
Est-ce un langage obscur à ses regards timides?
Eh! qu'il s'en fasse instruire au pied des Pyramides,
A Vienne, au vieux Kremlin, au morne Escurial;
Qu'il en parle à ces rois, cour dorée et nombreuse,
Qui naguère peuplaient, d'une tente poudreuse,
[Pg 492]Le vestibule impérial!
A quoi pense-t-il donc, l'étranger qui nous brave?
N'avions nous pas hier l'Europe pour esclave?
Nous, subir de son joug l'indigne talion!
Non, au champ du combat nous pouvons reparaître.
On nous a mutilés, mais le temps a peut-être
Fait croître l'ongle du lion....
De quel droit viennent-ils découronner nos gloires?
Les Bourbons ont toujours adopté des victoires;
Nos rois t'ont défendu d'un ennemi tremblant,
O trophée! A leur pieds tes palmes se déposent;
Et si tes quatre aigles reposent,
C'est à l'ombre du drapeau blanc.
Quoi! le globe est ému de volcans électriques,
Derrière l'Océan grondent les Amériques,
Stamboul rugit, Hellé remonte aux jours anciens;
Lisbonne se débat aux mains de l'Angleterre;
Seul, le vieux peuple franc s'indigne que la terre
Tremble a d'autres pas que les siens.
Prenez garde, étrangers! nous ne savons que faire;
La paix nous berce en vain dans son oisive sphère,
L'arène de la guerre a pour nous tant d'attrait!
Nous froissons dans nos mains, hélas! inoccupées.
Des lyres à défaut d'épées;
Nous chantons comme on combattrait.
Prenez garde! la France, où grandit un autre âge,
N'est pas si morte encor, qu'elle souffre un outrage;
Les partis pour un temps voileront leur drapeau.
Contre une injure, ici, tout grandi, tout se lève,
Tout s'arme, et la Vendée aiguisera son glaive
Sur la pierre de Waterloo.
Vous dérobez des noms! Quoi donc, faut-il qu'on aille
Lever sur tous vos champs des titres de bataille?
Faut-il, quittant ces noms par la valeur trouvés,
Pour nos gloires chez vous chercher d'autres baptèmes;
Sur l'airain de vos canons mêmes
[Pg 493]Ne sont-ils point assez gravés?
L'étranger briserait le blason de la France!
On verrait, enhardi par notre indifférence.
Sur nos fiers écussons tomber son vil marteau!
Ah! comme ce Romain qui remuait la terre,
Vous portez, ô Français, et la paix et la guerre
Dans les plis de votre manteau!
Votre aile en ce moment touche, à sa fantaisie,
L'Afrique par Cadix et par Moscou l'Asie;
Vous chassez en courant Anglais, Russes, Germains;
Les tours croulent devant vos trompettes fatales,
Et de toutes les capitales
Vos drapeaux savent les chemins.
Quand leur destin se pèse avec vos destinées,
Toutes les nations s'inclinent détrônées;
La gloire pour vos noms n'a point assez de bruit;
Sans cesse autour de vous les États se déplacent
Quand votre astre paraît tous les autres s'effacent;
Quand vous marchez, l'univers suit.
Que l'Autriche en rampant, de nœuds vous environne,
Les deux géants de France ont foulé sa couronne;
L'histoire, qui des temps ouvre le Panthéon,
Montre, empreints aux deux fronts du vautour d'Allemagne,
La sandale de Charlemagne,
L'éperon de Napoléon.
Allez, vous n'avez plus l'aigle qui, de son aire,
Sur tous les fronts trop hauts portait votre tonnerre
Mais il vous reste encor l'oriflamme et le lys;
Mais c'est le coq gaulois qui réveille le monde,
Et son cri peut promettre à votre nuit profonde
L'aube du soleil d'Austerlitz.
C'est moi qui me tairais! moi qu'enivrai naguère
Mon nom saxon mêlé parmi des cris de guerre;
Moi qui suivais le vol d'un drapeau triomphant;
Qui, joignant aux clairons ma voix entrecoupée,
Eus pour premier hochet le nœud d'or d'une épée;
[Pg 494]Moi qui fus un soldat quand j'étais un enfant!
Non, frères! non, Français de cette âge d'attente!
Nous avons tous grandi sur le seuil de la tente;
Condamnés à la paix, aiglons bannis des cieux,
Sachons du moins, veillant aux gloires paternelles,
Garder de tout affront, jalouses sentinelles,
Les armures de nos aïeux."
Ode to the Column
"O vengeful monument, indelible trophy!
Bronze that, spinning on your unmoving base,
Seems to carry your glory and your nothingness to the sky,
And of all that a colossal hand has made,
You are the only one that stands! triumphant ruin
Of the giant's building!
Remnants of the great empire and the great army,
Column from which fame speaks so high!
I love you; the foreigner admires you in fear,
I love your old heroes sculpted by victory,
And all these spirits of fame
Who gathers around you.
I love to see on your sides, sparkling column!
The soldiers who lived again in their bloody waves
Rolling the Danube, and the Rhine, and the Po;
You place, like a warrior, your foot on your conquest,
I love your pedestal of armor and your head,
[Pg 490]Whose feather is a flag.
To the bronze of Henry, my pride marries you.
I love to see you both, honor of the homeland,
Immortal, dominating our fleeting troubles,
Coming forth, twin signs of love and anger,
Him, from the popular savings,
You, from foreign supplies.
How many times, you know, when the night under its veils
Makes the white moon flee, or causes the stars to tremble,
I come, sad, to evoke your glories before me,
And with fiery eyes, devouring your history,
Take, as an obscure guest, my share of so much glory
Like a shepherd at a royal feast!
How many times I thought I saw, oh French column!
Your enemy's bronze roaring in the furnace;
How many times, reviving scattered fighters,
Striking on your walls their rusted weapons,
I revived those conflicts
That siege from all sides!
Never, oh monument! even drunk on their numbers,
Have the fearless foreigners passed over your shadow;
Their steps do not shake your sovereign bronze,
When fate once pushed them toward our shores;
They did not dare to display their idle parades
Before your bronze battles.
But, what! Am I not hearing, with muffled murmurs,
From your base to your top, the clinking of armor?
Column! It seemed to me that dazzling my eyes,
Your bronzed battalions sought to descend;
That your demigods, black with heroic ash,
Suddenly interrupted their march to the heavens.
Their voices mixed names with their old motto:
TARENTE, REGGIO, DALMATIA, AND TREVISO,
And their eagles, waking from their powerful sleep,
Followed with fiery beaks this double-headed eagle
Whose eye, friend of the shadow where its ascent stops,
[Pg 491]Descends at their gaze like to the sun's fire.
What is this, and why, bronze envy of Rome,
Do I see your legions tremble like one man?
What impossible outrage reaches your height?
Who has awakened these immortal shadows,
These eagles that, beating your base with their wings,
Press their extinguished lightning in their captive claws?
I understand: the foreigner, who thinks us without memory,
Wants, page by page, to tear our history,
Written with blood, at the point of the sword ...
Does he dare, foolish, to strike so many trophies?
From this bronze, forged from smothered thunder,
Every spark is a flash of lightning.
Is it Napoleon he strikes in our army?
Does he want to dispute the legacy of our old generals,
From this glory scattered in so many places?
For such a burden, his hand is weak:
The empire of Alexander and the arms of Achilles
Only heroes share these.
But no; the Austrian, in his pride he tames,
Is happy if their names only speak of his shame;
He makes his defeat a title for our warriors,
And, fearing conquerors less than feudal lords,
He forgives the laurels of our military dukes,
As long as they're just laurels.
Bronze! Has he never, proud of a victory,
Suffered from your splendors the expiatory aspect?
Where does such courage come from in this audacious one?
Does he think he can touch our annals with impunity?
And how does he read these triumphant pages
Are you rolling out in the skies?
Is it an obscure language to his timid eyes?
Oh! Let him be instructed at the foot of the Pyramids,
In Vienna, at the old Kremlin, at the gloomy Escorial;
Let him speak of it to those kings, golden and numerous,
Who recently populated, with a dusty tent,
[Pg 492]The royal entrance!
What is he thinking, the foreigner who challenges us?
Did we not have Europe as a slave yesterday?
Shall we suffer from his undignified revenge?
No, on the battlefield we can reappear.
We have been mutilated, but time may have
Caused the lion's claw to grow.
By what right do they come to un-crown our glories?
The Bourbons have always claimed victories;
Our kings have defended you from a trembling enemy,
O trophy! At their feet your palms are laid down;
And if your four eagles rest,
It is in the shadow of the white flag.
What! The globe is stirred with electric volcanoes,
Behind the Ocean, the Americas thunder,
Constantinople roars, Hellas rises to ancient days;
Lisbon struggles in the hands of England;
Alone, the old French people is indignant that the land
Shakes to steps that aren't its own.
Beware, foreigners! We don't know what to do;
Peace lulls us in vain in its idle sphere,
The arena of war has so much appeal for us!
We crush in our hands, alas! unoccupied.
Lyres over swords;
We sing as though we're ready to fight.
Beware! France, where another age grows,
Is not so dead yet, to suffer an outrage;
The parties will for a time veil their flag.
Against an insult, here, everything grows, everything rises,
Everything arms, and Vendée will sharpen its blade
On the Waterloo stone.
You steal names! What is it, should we go
To raise battle titles on all your fields?
Should we, leaving these names found by valor,
Seek other baptisms for our glories with you?
On the bronze of your actual cannons
[Pg 493]Are they not engraved well enough?
The foreigner would break the coat of arms of France!
He would see, emboldened by our indifference.
His vile hammer fall upon our proud escutcheons!
Ah! like that Roman who stirred the earth,
You carry, oh French, both peace and war
In the folds of your cloak!
Your wing at this moment touches, at its whim,
Africa by Cadiz and by Moscow, Asia;
You chase away the English, Russians, Germans;
Towers crumble before your fatal trumpets,
And from all the cities
Your flags indicate the way.
When their fate weighs against yours,
All nations bow dethroned;
The glory for your names does not make enough noise;
Endlessly around you the states shift
When your star appears, all others fade;
When you walk, the universe follows you.
Let Austria crawl, binding you with knots,
The two giants of France have trampled its crown;
History, which opens the Pantheon of ages,
Shows, stamped on both fronts of the German vulture,
Charlemagne's sandal,
Napoleon's spur.
Go, you no longer have the eagle that, from its nest,
On all the fronts too high carried your thunder
But you still have the oriflamme and the lily;
But it is the Gallic rooster that wakes the world,
And its cry can promise your deep night
The sunrise of Austerlitz.
It's me who would be silent! me who was once drunk
My Saxon name mingled among battle cries;
Me who followed the flight of a triumphant flag;
Who, joining the clarions with my interrupted voice,
Had for the first rattle the golden knot of a sword;
[Pg 494]Me who was a soldier when I was a child!
No, brothers! no, French of this age of waiting!
We have all grown on the threshold of the tent;
Condemned to peace, eaglets banished from the skies,
Let us at least know, guarding our ancestral glories,
To keep from every affront, jealous sentinels,
"Our ancestors' armor."
This was the first sign of opposition against the Government of the Bourbons of the older branch that Hugo had given.
This was the first sign of resistance against the Bourbon government from the older branch that Hugo had provided.
In the course of that same year, 1827, Cromwell was published. The poem itself did not raise so much discussion as the preface, which was a novelty in the poetic world. In 1828 appeared the Orientales and the Dernier jour d'un condamné. Finally, on 16 February 1829, as I have said, Henri III. was played.
In that same year, 1827, Cromwell was published. The poem didn’t spark as much debate as the preface did, which was something new in the poetry scene. In 1828, Orientales and Dernier jour d'un condamné were released. Finally, on February 16, 1829, as I mentioned, Henri III was performed.
Hugo and Lamartine were almost entirely responsible for the revolution in the poetical world, but the revolutionising of the whole of the drama had yet to come. Happily Henri III. began the work with its bold and new style. Besides, this representation, the full details of which I have already given, delighted Hugo, and gave him much encouragement. We saw each other after the play and he held out his hand to me.
Hugo and Lamartine were almost entirely responsible for the revolution in poetry, but a complete transformation of drama was still needed. Thankfully, Henri III. started this change with its bold and fresh style. Besides, this production, which I’ve already described in detail, thrilled Hugo and motivated him greatly. We met after the show, and he extended his hand to me.
"Ah!" I cried, "at last I have the chance of grasping your hand!"
"Ah!" I exclaimed, "finally, I have the chance to hold your hand!"
I was very happy over my success, but the right to clasp those hands was the most precious thing I had won.
I was really happy about my success, but being able to hold those hands was the most valuable thing I had gained.
"Now," said Hugo, "it will be my turn next!"
"Now," Hugo said, "it's my turn next!"
"When the day comes don't forget me...."
"When the day comes, don’t forget me...."
"You shall be at the first reading."
"You will be at the first reading."
"Is that a promise?"
"Is that a guarantee?"
"It is a definite engagement!"
"It's a confirmed engagement!"
With that we parted.
And with that, we parted.
And, indeed, the very next day Hugo chose the drama of Marion Delorme from among the different subjects that were already in his mind. For, just as a mother carries her babe within her until it is ripe for birth, so we mental creators carry our subjects in our brains before they are brought forth. Then, one day, he said to himself, "On 1 June 1829 I[Pg 495] will begin my drama." And on that date he did actually set to work upon it.
And, indeed, the very next day Hugo picked the play Marion Delorme from the various topics already in his mind. Just as a mother carries her baby inside her until it's ready to be born, mental creators carry their ideas in their heads before they come to life. Then, one day, he said to himself, "On June 1, 1829, I[Pg 495] will start my play." And on that date, he really did get to work on it.
On the 19th, he had completed the first three acts. On the 20th, at break of day, as the sun rose and filled his window with its golden rays, lighting up his room in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, he composed the first lines of his fourth act:—
On the 19th, he finished the first three acts. On the 20th, at dawn, as the sun rose and filled his window with its golden light, brightening up his room on rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, he wrote the first lines of his fourth act:—
"LE DUC DE BELLEGARDE.
Condamné?
LE MARQUIS DE NANGIS.
Condamné!
LE DUC DE BELLEGARDE.
Bien!... mais le roi fait grâce?..."
DUKE OF BELLEGARDE.
Cursed?
Marquis of Nangis.
Cursed!
Duke of Bellegarde.
Alright!... but does the king show mercy?..."
Next day, just twenty-four hours later, when the sun was again paying his accustomed visit, he wrote the last line—
Next day, just twenty-four hours later, when the sun was back for its usual appearance, he wrote the last line—
"On peut bien, une fois, être roi par mégarde!"
"One can accidentally be a king, just this once!"
During those twenty-four hours he had neither eaten, nor drunk, nor slept; but he had written an act containing nearly six hundred lines—an act which I take to be a masterpiece; six hundred lines which to my thinking are among the finest in the French language.
During that twenty-four hour period, he hadn't eaten, drunk, or slept; but he had written a piece that was nearly six hundred lines long—what I consider a masterpiece; six hundred lines that are, in my opinion, some of the best in the French language.
On 27 June Marion Delorme was finished.
On June 27, Marion Delorme was done.
CHAPTER XI
Reading of Marion Delorme at the house of Devéria—Steeplechase of directors—Marion Delorme is stopped by the Censorship—Hugo obtains an audience with Charles X.—His drama is definitely interdicted—They send him the brevet of a pension, which he declines—He sets to work on Hernani, and completes it in twenty-four days
Reading of Marion Delorme at Devéria's place—A lineup of directors—Marion Delorme is stopped by Censorship—Hugo meets with Charles X.—His play is officially prohibited—They send him the documents for a pension, which he declines—He begins working on Hernani and completes it in twenty-four days.
Hugo had no need to write to Nodier as I had done, and to wait for an appointment with Taylor: he was already as famous before Marion Delorme as I was unknown before Henri III.
Hugo didn’t need to write to Nodier like I did, and wait for an appointment with Taylor: he was already as famous before Marion Delorme as I was unknown before Henri III.
As I have already mentioned, Hugo notified me of a reading at Devéria's house, and invited Taylor to this reading, together with de Vigny, Émile Deschamps, Sainte-Beuve, Soumet, Boulanger and Beauchesne—in fact, the whole Pleiades; and so the reading began.
As I already mentioned, Hugo told me about a reading at Devéria's house and invited Taylor to join, along with de Vigny, Émile Deschamps, Sainte-Beuve, Soumet, Boulanger, and Beauchesne—in fact, the entire Pleiades group; and so the reading started.
The first act of Marion Delorme is a masterpiece; there is nothing in it to which one can take exception, apart from Hugo's mania for making his characters enter by windows instead of by doors, which here betrayed itself for the first time. No one could be more free from envious feelings than I am. So I listened to this first act with the profoundest admiration, intermingled, however, with some sadness. I felt how far behind his style I was, and how long it would be before I attained to it, if I ever should at all. Then came the second and the last three acts successively. I was seated next to Taylor, and at the last line of the play he leant over to me and said—
The first act of Marion Delorme is a masterpiece; there’s nothing in it that one could criticize, except for Hugo's habit of having his characters come in through windows instead of doors, which showed itself for the first time here. I couldn't be more free of jealousy. So I listened to the first act with deep admiration, though mixed with some sadness. I realized how far behind his style I was, and how long it would take for me to reach it, if I ever did at all. Then came the second act and the last three acts one after another. I was sitting next to Taylor, and at the final line of the play, he leaned over to me and said—
"Well, what do you think of that?"
"Well, what do you think about that?"
I replied that I would be hanged if Victor had not shown us his finest piece of work. And I added, "I am certain he has."
I replied that I would be hung if Victor hadn't shown us his best work. And I added, "I'm sure he has."
"Why do you think so?"
"Why do you feel that way?"
"Because Marion Delorme shows all the qualities of the work of a mature man and none of the faults of a young one. Progress is impossible to one who begins by perfect work or work very nearly perfect."
"Because Marion Delorme displays all the traits of a mature person's work and none of the flaws typical of a younger person. It's impossible to make progress if you start with work that is already perfect or almost perfect."
I am interested to find I was right, whether from conceit or not; I still believe that Marion Delorme is, if not quite his best piece of work, yet one of his best. I congratulated him very heartily and very sincerely; I had never heard anything to compare with the lines of Marion Delorme. I was overwhelmed by the splendour of their style, I who lacked style throughout my work. If I had been asked to exchange ten years of my life in return for some day attaining such a style as that, I should not have hesitated for one moment, I should have given them instantly! One thing offended me greatly in the fifth act: Didier goes to his death without forgiving Marion. I entreated Hugo to substitute a more humane spirit for that inflexible character. Sainte-Beuve agreed with me and, between us, we obtained poor Marion's pardon.
I’m glad to find out I was right, whether because of arrogance or not; I still think that Marion Delorme is, if not his absolute best work, definitely one of his best. I congratulated him both heartily and sincerely; I had never heard lines that could compare to those in Marion Delorme. I was blown away by the beauty of their style, especially since I struggle with style in my own work. If someone had asked me to trade ten years of my life for even a day of having such a style, I wouldn’t have hesitated for a second—I would have given it up instantly! One thing really bothered me in the fifth act: Didier goes to his death without forgiving Marion. I begged Hugo to replace that harsh character with a more compassionate spirit. Sainte-Beuve agreed with me, and together we secured poor Marion's forgiveness.
Now came the question of the Censorship. None of us believed that it would pass the character of Louis XIII., though admirably drawn, simply because of its accurate drawing and the vividness of its colouring. True, the act which contained Louis XIII. could have been taken out without in any way spoiling the interest of the piece, and Crosnier many times omitted it at the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin, without the public perceiving the omission. It was what critics of petty words and petty things call a superfetation, a hors d'œuvre. What a magnificent hors d'œuvre it was! What a sublime superfetation! I would allow anyone to take their choice among my dramas, if I might but have written the fourth act of Marion Delorme. For that matter, it was a great failing with Victor Hugo, for a time, to compose his fourth acts so that they could be taken out like separate episodes. The fourth act of Hernani, which contains the stupendous monologue of Charles V., can be taken out without injury to the play, and it is the same with the fourth act of Ruy Blas. But,[Pg 498] because this fourth act was not an integral part of the play, does it follow that a marvellous conception ought to be suppressed? Because a woman is beautiful, is it absolutely necessary to throw her jewels into the water, especially if they be worth thousands?...
Now came the issue of Censorship. None of us thought it would get past the character of Louis XIII, even though it was brilliantly depicted due to its precise details and vibrant colors. True, the scene featuring Louis XIII could have been removed without losing the piece's appeal, and Crosnier often left it out at the Porte-Saint-Martin theater without the audience noticing. Critics who focus on trivialities would call it an extra, a hors d'œuvre. What a spectacular hors d'œuvre it was! What a remarkable extra! I would let anyone choose from my plays if I could just have written the fourth act of Marion Delorme. In fact, it was a significant flaw for Victor Hugo for a while that his fourth acts could be removed like standalone episodes. The fourth act of Hernani, which features the incredible monologue of Charles V, can be taken out without affecting the play, and the same goes for the fourth act of Ruy Blas. But,[Pg 498] just because this fourth act wasn't essential to the play, does that mean a brilliant creation should be discarded? Just because a woman is beautiful, must we really toss her jewels into the water, especially if they're worth thousands?...
Reports of the reading leaked out in Paris, and there was quite a steeplechase of theatrical managers to the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs to obtain Marion Delorme. Harel came first. Directly he entered, he seized hold of the manuscript and, regardless of everything, began writing on it below the title, "Received by the Odéon theatre, 14 July 1829." It was the anniversary of the taking of the Bastille, and Harel thought he would take Marion Delorme by surprise as the Bastille had been taken by our fathers! Harel was repulsed with loss; but, as his name was on the manuscript, he stuck to it that he had taken possession of it.
Reports of the reading leaked out in Paris, and there was quite a rush of theater managers to rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs to get Marion Delorme. Harel was the first to arrive. The moment he walked in, he grabbed the manuscript and, disregarding everything, started writing on it below the title, "Received by the Odéon theatre, 14 July 1829." It was the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille, and Harel thought he could surprise everyone with Marion Delorme, just like our forefathers had when they took the Bastille! Harel left empty-handed; however, since his name was on the manuscript, he insisted that he had claimed it.
A day or two after Harel's attempt, M. Crosnier was announced and introduced into the drawing-room. Hugo was reading a newspaper; he rose and showed M. Crosnier to a seat. When M. Crosnier took it, Hugo himself resumed his seat and waited. But, as M. Crosnier kept silence, Hugo took up his paper again; which course decided M. Crosnier to open his mouth.
A day or two after Harel's attempt, Mr. Crosnier was announced and brought into the drawing-room. Hugo was reading a newspaper; he stood up and offered Mr. Crosnier a seat. Once Mr. Crosnier sat down, Hugo returned to his own seat and waited. However, since Mr. Crosnier remained silent, Hugo picked up his paper again, which prompted Mr. Crosnier to speak up.
"Monsieur," he said, addressing Hugo, "I have come to see your father; I was told he lived here. If it is not taking too much advantage of your kindness, would you be so good as to tell him I am here?"
"Monsieur," he said, speaking to Hugo, "I came to see your father; I was told he lived here. If it’s not too much trouble, could you please let him know that I’m here?"
"Alas I monsieur," Hugo replied, "my father died a year ago, and I presume it is with me you desire to speak."
"Unfortunately, sir," Hugo replied, "my father passed away a year ago, and I assume it is me you want to talk to."
"I wish to speak to M. Victor Hugo."
"I'd like to talk to M. Victor Hugo."
"I am he, monsieur."
"I'm him, sir."
Crosnier could not believe that this slightly built, fresh-coloured young man, who looked nothing but a boy of twenty, could be the man about whom there had already been so much stir for the past five or six years. However, he revealed the object of his visit. He had come to ask Marion Delorme for the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin. Hugo smiled and gave[Pg 499] him the same answer that Harel had received, namely, that the Théâtre-Français had been promised the first refusal. Crosnier smiled in his turn, with the fine-edged smile that is peculiarly his own; then, taking up a pen—
Crosnier couldn't believe that this slight, fresh-faced young man, who looked like just a twenty-year-old kid, was the one who had caused such a commotion over the past five or six years. Still, he got to the point of his visit. He had come to ask Marion Delorme for the theater at Porte-Saint-Martin. Hugo smiled and gave[Pg 499] him the same response that Harel had received, saying that the Théâtre-Français had been promised the first chance to refuse. Crosnier smiled back with his signature fine-edged smile; then, picking up a pen—
"Monsieur Hugo," he said, "allow me to inscribe my acceptance under that of my confrère."
"Monsieur Hugo," he said, "let me add my acceptance below that of my colleague."
"Write what you please, monsieur," said Hugo; "but you must remember that there are already two acceptances before yours."
"Write whatever you want, sir," said Hugo; "but keep in mind that there are already two approvals before yours."
"No matter, monsieur; I wish to take my place. For, bless me! who knows? I may be the one to bring out your play in spite of its having been already accepted twice!"
"No worries, sir; I want to take my spot. Because, who knows? I might be the one to get your play produced even though it’s already been accepted twice!"
And he wrote under Harel's acceptance—
And he wrote under Harel's approval—
"Received by the Porte-Saint-Martin theatre, 16 July 1829."
"Received by the Porte-Saint-Martin theatre, July 16, 1829."
Supported by this twofold acceptance, Marion Delorme was presented to the Théâtre-Français and was received with unanimous applause. I recollect that as we were leaving the reading, full of enthusiasm over what we had all heard, Émile Deschamps pointed to a bill which announced the evening's play and, shrugging his shoulders, exclaimed compassionately, at the sight of Racine's chef-d-œuvre—
Supported by this dual endorsement, Marion Delorme was introduced to the Théâtre-Français and received with enthusiastic applause from everyone. I remember that as we were leaving the reading, excited about what we had all experienced, Émile Deschamps pointed to a poster announcing that evening's play and, shrugging his shoulders, exclaimed sympathetically at the sight of Racine's chef-d-œuvre—
"And they are going to play Britannicus!..."
"And they're going to play Britannicus!..."
None of us to-day, not even Émile Deschamps, would confess to having given utterance to the above mot. I am certain that we should all have said it in 1829, and more than one who has since paid his visit to the thirty-nine Academicians envied him the phrase at the moment.
None of us today, not even Émile Deschamps, would admit to having said the above mot. I'm sure that we all would have said it in 1829, and more than one person who has since visited the thirty-nine Academicians envied him the phrase at that moment.
The play was distributed, and immediately after its reception began to be rehearsed. Mademoiselle Mars played Marion; Firmin, Didier; Joanny, Nangis; Menjaud, Saverny, etc. But, one morning, the dreadful news spread abroad that the play had been stopped by the Censor! The same thing had happened to Henri III.; the Censor always stopped everything; it was his business, and then the sentence could afterwards be relaxed, if the work justified its existence, or the author clamoured loudly enough. I had remonstrated and[Pg 500] Henri III. had escaped safe and sound out of his claws, thanks to M. de Martignac, who had come to my aid. So Hugo applied to M. de Martignac. But well-meaning, cultured and even literary as was this model of ministers past, present and future, he confessed himself powerless. It was a question that did not merely affect a Valois but a Bourbon; not merely a predecessor but the grandfather of Charles X. No one but Charles X. could pronounce judgment on this family question. Hugo decided to ask an audience of Charles X. and it was granted him. In those days persons who approached the kings of France had to wear court dress à la française and a sword. Hugo raised great objections at having to submit to this disguise; but Taylor undertook to collect the necessary articles of apparel. He set great store by Marion Delorme, and to gain permission to produce it he would have dressed up Hugo as a Turk or a Chinaman. The day of the audience came and Hugo went to Saint-Cloud, where he found the antechamber crowded. Among those in attendance were Madame du Cayla, who had just put the finishing touch to the Polignac ministry; and Michaud of the Académie, who was going to Palestine. Michaud was Reader to the king. He was covered with as much gold braid as the coats of four generals all put together! Nevertheless, he was a man of much genius. Hugo was busily talking to him when the two doors opened and His Royal Highness Monseigneur the Dauphin was announced. Hugo had never seen the being for whom he had wished the Arc de triomphe to be raised, except at a distance:—
The play was released, and right after it was received, rehearsals began. Mademoiselle Mars played Marion; Firmin took on Didier; Joanny was Nangis; and Menjaud portrayed Saverny, among others. But one morning, terrible news spread that the play had been stopped by the Censor! The same had happened with Henri III.; the Censor always shut everything down; that was his job, and then the ban could later be lifted if the work proved worthy or if the author made enough noise. I had protested, and[Pg 500] Henri III. had managed to slip through his grasp, thanks to M. de Martignac, who came to my rescue. So Hugo reached out to M. de Martignac. But despite being a well-meaning, educated, and even literary minister—a model for past, present, and future leaders—he admitted he was powerless. This issue didn’t just concern a Valois but a Bourbon; not just a predecessor but the grandfather of Charles X. Only Charles X. could make a decision on this family matter. Hugo decided to request a meeting with Charles X., and it was granted. Back then, anyone meeting the kings of France had to wear formal court dress à la française and carry a sword. Hugo had strong objections to this dress code, but Taylor offered to gather the necessary clothing. He valued Marion Delorme highly and would have dressed Hugo as a Turk or a Chinaman just to get permission to produce it. The day of the meeting arrived, and Hugo went to Saint-Cloud, where he found the waiting room packed. Among those present was Madame du Cayla, who had just finalized the Polignac ministry, and Michaud of the Académie, who was headed to Palestine. Michaud was the Reader to the king, draped in as much gold braid as the uniforms of four generals combined! Still, he was a man of great talent. Hugo was deep in conversation with him when the two doors opened, announcing His Royal Highness Monseigneur the Dauphin. Hugo had only ever seen the person for whom he wished the Arc de Triomphe to be built from a distance:—
"Que le géant de notre gloire
Pût y passer sans se baisser!"
"That the giant of our glory
Could pass through without bending down!"
He saw what looked like a monkey, yet without a monkey's grace; a kind of mummy, with its face perpetually contorted with neuralgia, crossing the hall, responding to all the bows and greetings and homage with a deep growl, from which you could not make out one single word clearly. And that was the conqueror of the Trocadero! the pacificator[Pg 501] of Spain! He took no more notice of Madame du Cayla than of the rest. Perhaps, if some courtier had whispered to him that a great poet was present, he might have stopped to see what sort of an animal a poet was. No courtier informed Monseigneur le Dauphin and he passed without stopping. Soon afterwards, King Charles X. passed through with as gracious and smiling a presence as his son's was grotesque and ill-tempered. He greeted Madame du Cayla with a word, shook hands with Michaud and Victor, bowed to others and entered his audience-chamber. A moment later, Madame la Comtesse du Cayla was summoned. Without troubling himself concerning the length of time she had been waiting, or whether she had come before the other visitors, the last king of the line of chivalrous kings sent for her first, because she was a woman. Madame du Cayla remained nearly an hour with the king. This was not too long wherein to give birth to a ministry which itself a year later was to give birth to the Revolution of July. Then, when Madame du Cayla withdrew, the poet was called. Charles X. first recollected that he was the successor of François I. and then that he was the descendant of Louis XIV. The poet went in, and we will let him relate what took place at that remarkable interview in his own words:—
He saw what looked like a monkey, but without any of a monkey's grace; it was more like a mummy, with a face constantly twisted in pain, crossing the hall and responding to all the bows and greetings with a deep growl that you couldn't quite make out. And that was the conqueror of the Trocadero! The peacemaker of Spain! He paid no more attention to Madame du Cayla than to anyone else. Perhaps if some courtier had whispered to him that a great poet was there, he might have paused to see what a poet was like. No courtier informed Monseigneur le Dauphin, and he walked by without stopping. Soon after, King Charles X passed through, with a gracious and smiling presence that contrasted sharply with his son's grotesque and sour demeanor. He greeted Madame du Cayla with a word, shook hands with Michaud and Victor, nodded to others, and entered his audience chamber. Moments later, Madame la Comtesse du Cayla was summoned. Without caring about how long she had been waiting or whether she had arrived before the other visitors, the last king of the line of chivalrous kings called for her first, simply because she was a woman. Madame du Cayla stayed with the king for almost an hour. That was not too long to lay the groundwork for a ministry that a year later would spark the July Revolution. Later, when Madame du Cayla left, the poet was called in. Charles X first remembered that he was the successor of François I and then that he descended from Louis XIV. The poet entered, and we'll let him describe what happened in that remarkable meeting in his own words:—
"C'était le sept août.—O sombre destinée!
C'était le premier jour de leur dernière année!
Seuls, dans un lieu royal, côte à côte marchant,
Deux hommes, par endroits du coude se touchant,
Causaient.... Grand souvenir qui dans mon cœur se grave!
Le premier avait l'air fatigué, triste et grave,
Comme un trop faible front qui porte un lourd projet.
Une double épaulette à couronne chargeait
Son uniforme vert à ganse purpurine,
Et l'ordre et la toison faisaient, sur sa poitrine,
Près du large cordon moiré de bleu changeant,
Deux foyers lumineux, l'un d'or, l'autre d'argent.
C'était un roi, vieillard à la tête blanchie,
Penché du poids des ans et de la monarchie!
L'autre était un jeune homme étranger chez les rois,
[Pg 502]Un poëte, un passant, une inutile voix ...
Dans un coin, une table, un fauteuil de velours
Miraient dans le parquet leurs pieds dorés et lourds;
Par une porte en vitre, au dehors, l'œil, en foule,
Apercevait au loin des armoires de Boule,
Des vases du Japon, des laques, des émaux
Et des chandeliers d'or aux immenses rameaux.
Un salon rouge orné de glaces de Venise,
Plein de ces bronzes grecs que l'esprit divinise,
Multipliait sans fin ses lustres de cristal;
Et, comme une statue à lames de métal,
On voyait, casque au front, luire, dans l'encoignure,
Un garde argent et bleu, d'une fière tournure.
Or, entre le poëte et le vieux roi courbé,
De quoi s'agissait-il?
D'un pauvre ange tombé
Dont l'amour refaisait l'âme avec son haleine:
De Marion, lavée ainsi que Madeleine,
Qui boitait et traînait son pas estropié,
La censure, serpent, l'ayant mordue au pied.
Le poëte voulait faire, un soir, apparaître
Louis-Treize, ce roi sur qui régnait un prêtre;
Tout un siècle: marquis, bourreaux, fous, bateleurs;
Et que la foule vînt, et qu'à travers les pleurs,
Par moments, dans un drame étincelant et sombre,
Du pâle cardinal on crût voir passer l'ombre.
Le vieillard hésitait.—Que sert de mettre à nu
Louis-Treize, ce roi, chétif et mal venu?
A quoi bon remuer un mort dans une tombe?
Que veut-on? où court-on? sait-on bien où l'on tombe?
Tout n'est-il pas déjà croulant de tout côté?
Tout ne s'en va-t-il pas dans trop de liberté?
N'est-il pas temps plutôt, après quinze ans d'épreuve,
De relever la digue et d'arrêter le fleuve?
Certe, un roi peut reprendre alors qu'il a donné.
Quant au théâtre, il faut, le trône étant miné,
Étouffer des deux mains sa flamme trop hardie;
Car la foule est le peuple, et d'une comédie
Peut jaillir l'étincelle aux livides rayons
Qui met le feu dans l'ombre aux révolutions!
Puis il niait l'histoire, et, quoi qu'il en puisse être,
[Pg 503]A ce jeune rêveur disputait son ancêtre;
L'accueillant bien, d'ailleurs; bon, royal, gracieux,
Et le questionnant sur ses propres aïeux.
Tout en laissant aux rois les noms dont on les nomme,
Le poëte luttait fermement, comme un homme
Épris de liberté, passionné pour l'art,
Respectueux pourtant pour ce noble vieillard.
Il disait: 'Tout est grave, en ce siècle où tout penche.
L'art, tranquille et puissant, veut une allure franche.
Les rois morts sont sa proie; il faut la lui laisser.
Il n'est pas ennemi; pourquoi le courroucer
Et le livrer, dans l'ombre, à des tortionnaires,
Lui dont la main fermée est pleine de tonnerres?
Cette main, s'il l'ouvrait, redoutable envoyé,
Sur la France éblouie et le Louvre effrayé,
On s'épouvanterait—trop tard, s'il faut le dire,—
D'y voir subitement tant de foudres reluire!
Oh! les tyrans d'en has nuisent au roi d'en haut.
Le peuple est toujours là qui prend la muse au mot,
Quand l'indignation, jusqu'au roi qu'on révère,
Monte du front pensif de l'artiste sévère!
Sire, à ce qui chancelle est-on bien appuyé?
La censure est un toit mauvais, mal étayé,
Toujours prêt à tomber sur les noms qu'il abrite.
Sire, un souffle imprudent, loin de l'éteindre, irrite
Le foyer, tout à coup terrible et tournoyant,
Et, d'un art lumineux, fait un art flamboyant.
D'ailleurs, ne cherchât-on que la splendeur royale,
Pour cette nation moqueuse mais loyale,
Au lieu des grands tableaux qu'offrait le grand Louis,
Roi-soleil fécondant les lis épanouis,
Qui, tenant sous son sceptre un monde en équilibre,
Faisait Racine heureux, laissait Molière libre,
Quel spectacle, grand Dieu! qu'un groupe de censeurs
Armés et parlant has, vils esclaves chasseurs,
A plat ventre couchés, épiant l'heure où rentre
Le drame, fier lion, dans l'histoire, son antre!'
Ici, voyant vers lui, d'un front plus incliné,
Se tourner doucement le vieillard étonné,
Il hasardait plus loin sa pensée inquiète,
Et, laissant de côté le drame et le poëte,
Attentif, il sondait le dessein vaste et noir
[Pg 504]Qu'au fond de ce roi triste, il venait d'entrevoir.
—Se pourrait-il? quelqu'un aurait cette espérance?
Briser le droit de tous! retrancher à la France,
Comme on ôte un jouet à l'enfant dépité,
De l'air, de la lumière et de la liberté!
Le roi ne voudrait pas, lui? roi sage et roi juste!
Puis, choisissant les mots pour cette oreille auguste,
Il disait que les temps ont des flots souverains;
Que rien, ni ponts hardis, ni canaux souterrains,
Jamais, excepté Dieu, rien n'arrête et ne dompte
Le peuple qui grandit ou l'Océan qui monte;
Que le plus fort vaisseau sombre et se perd souvent,
Qui veut rompre de front et la vague et le vent,
Et que, pour s'y briser, dans la lutte insensée,
On a derrière soi, roche partout dressée,
Tout son siècle, les mœurs, l'esprit qu'on veut braver,
Le port même où la nef aurait pu se sauver!...
Charles-Dix, souriant, répondit: 'O poète!'
Le soir, tout rayonnant de lumière et de fête.
Regorgeant de soldats, de princes, de valets,
Saint-Cloud, joyeux et vert, autour du fier palais
Dont la Seine, en fuyant, reflète les beaux marbres,
Semblait avec amour presser sa touffe d'arbres;
L'arc de triomphe, orné de victoires d'airain;
Le Louvre, étincelant, fleurdelysé, serein,
Lui répondaient de loin du milieu de la ville;
Tout ce royal ensemble avait un air tranquille,
Et, dans le calme aspect d'un repos solennel,
Je ne sais quoi de grand qui semblait éternel!"
"C'était le sept août.—Oh, sombre destinée!
C'était le premier jour de leur dernière année!
Seuls, dans un lieu royal, côte à côte marchant,
Deux hommes, par endroits du coude se touchant,
Causaient.... Grand souvenir qui dans mon cœur se grave!
Le premier avait l'air fatigué, triste et grave,
Comme un trop faible front qui porte un lourd projet.
Une double épaulette à couronne chargeait
Son uniforme vert à ganse purpurine,
Et l'ordre et la toison faisaient, sur sa poitrine,
Près du large cordon moiré de bleu changeant,
Deux foyers lumineux, l'un d'or, l'autre d'argent.
C'était un roi, vieillard à la tête blanchie,
Penché du poids des ans et de la monarchie!
L'autre était un jeune homme étranger chez les rois,
[Pg 502]Un poëte, un passant, une inutile voix ...
Dans un coin, une table, un fauteuil de velours
Miraient dans le parquet leurs pieds dorés et lourds;
Par une porte en vitre, au dehors, l'œil, en foule,
Apercevait au loin des armoires de Boule,
Des vases du Japon, des laques, des émaux
Et des chandeliers d'or aux immenses rameaux.
Un salon rouge orné de glaces de Venise,
Plein de ces bronzes grecs que l'esprit divinise,
Multipliait sans fin ses lustres de cristal;
Et, comme une statue à lames de métal,
On voyait, casque au front, luire, dans l'encoignure,
Un garde argent et bleu, d'une fière tournure.
Or, entre le poëte et le vieux roi courbé,
De quoi s'agissait-il?
D'un pauvre ange tombé
Dont l'amour refaisait l'âme avec son haleine:
De Marion, lavée ainsi que Madeleine,
Qui boitait et traînait son pas estropié,
La censure, serpent, l'ayant mordue au pied.
Le poëte voulait faire, un soir, apparaître
Louis-Treize, ce roi sur qui régnait un prêtre;
Tout un siècle: marquis, bourreaux, fous, bateleurs;
Et que la foule vînt, et qu'à travers les pleurs,
Par moments, dans un drame étincelant et sombre,
Du pâle cardinal on crût voir passer l'ombre.
Le vieillard hésitait.—Que sert de mettre à nu
Louis-Treize, ce roi, chétif et mal venu?
A quoi bon remuer un mort dans une tombe?
Que veut-on? où court-on? sait-on bien où l'on tombe?
Tout n'est-il pas déjà croulant de tout côté?
Tout ne s'en va-t-il pas dans trop de liberté?
N'est-il pas temps plutôt, après quinze ans d'épreuve,
De relever la digue et d'arrêter le fleuve?
Certe, un roi peut reprendre alors qu'il a donné.
Quant au théâtre, il faut, le trône étant miné,
Étouffer des deux mains sa flamme trop hardie;
Car la foule est le peuple, et d'une comédie
Peut jaillir l'étincelle aux livides rayons
Qui met le feu dans l'ombre aux révolutions!
Puis il niait l'histoire, et, quoi qu'il en puisse être,
[Pg 503]A ce jeune rêveur disputait son ancêtre;
L'accueillant bien, d'ailleurs; bon, royal, gracieux,
Et le questionnant sur ses propres aïeux.
Tout en laissant aux rois les noms dont on les nomme,
Le poëte luttait fermement, comme un homme
Épris de liberté, passionné pour l'art,
Respectueux pourtant pour ce noble vieillard.
Il disait: 'Tout est grave, en ce siècle où tout penche.
L'art, tranquille et puissant, veut une allure franche.
Les rois morts sont sa proie; il faut la lui laisser.
Il n'est pas ennemi; pourquoi le courroucer
Et le livrer, dans l'ombre, à des tortionnaires,
Lui dont la main fermée est pleine de tonnerres?
Cette main, s'il l'ouvrait, redoutable envoyé,
Sur la France éblouie et le Louvre effrayé,
On s'épouvanterait—trop tard, s'il faut le dire,—
D'y voir subitement tant de foudres reluire!
Oh! les tyrans d'en has nuisent au roi d'en haut.
Le peuple est toujours là qui prend la muse au mot,
Quand l'indignation, jusqu'au roi qu'on révère,
Monte du front pensif de l'artiste sévère!
Sire, à ce qui chancelle est-on bien appuyé?
La censure est un toit mauvais, mal étayé,
Toujours prêt à tomber sur les noms qu'il abrite.
Sire, un souffle imprudent, loin de l'éteindre, irrite
Le foyer, tout à coup terrible et tournoyant,
Et, d'un art lumineux, fait un art flamboyant.
D'ailleurs, ne cherchât-on que la splendeur royale,
Pour cette nation moqueuse mais loyale,
Au lieu des grands tableaux qu'offrait le grand Louis,
Roi-soleil fécondant les lis épanouis,
Qui, tenant sous son sceptre un monde en équilibre,
Faisait Racine heureux, laissait Molière libre,
Quel spectacle, grand Dieu! qu'un groupe de censeurs
Armés et parlant has, vils esclaves chasseurs,
A plat ventre couchés, épiant l'heure où rentre
Le drame, fier lion, dans l'histoire, son antre!'
Ici, voyant vers lui, d'un front plus incliné,
Se tourner doucement le vieillard étonné,
Il hasardait plus loin sa pensée inquiète,
Et, laissant de côté le drame et le poëte,
Attentif, il sondait le dessein vaste et noir
[Pg 504]Qu'au fond de ce roi triste, il venait d'entrevoir.
—Se pourrait-il? quelqu'un aurait cette espérance?
Briser le droit de tous! retrancher à la France,
Comme on ôte un jouet à l'enfant dépité,
De l'air, de la lumière et de la liberté!
Le roi ne voudrait pas, lui? roi sage et roi juste!
Puis, choisissant les mots pour cette oreille auguste,
Il disait que les temps ont des flots souverains;
Que rien, ni ponts hardis, ni canaux souterrains,
Jamais, excepté Dieu, rien n'arrête et ne dompte
Le peuple qui grandit ou l'Océan qui monte;
Que le plus fort vaisseau sombre et se perd souvent,
Qui veut rompre de front et la vague et le vent,
Et que, pour s'y briser, dans la lutte insensée,
On a derrière soi, roche partout dressée,
Tout son siècle, les mœurs, l'esprit qu'on veut braver,
Le port même où la nef aurait pu se sauver!...
Charles-Dix, souriant, répondit: 'O poète!'
Le soir, tout rayonnant de lumière et de fête.
Regorgeant de soldats, de princes, de valets,
Saint-Cloud, joyeux et vert, autour du fier palais
Dont la Seine, en fuyant, reflète les beaux marbres,
Semblait avec amour presser sa touffe d'arbres;
L'arc de triomphe, orné de victoires d'airain;
Le Louvre, étincelant, fleurdelysé, serein,
Lui répondaient de loin du milieu de la ville;
Tout ce royal ensemble avait un air tranquille,
Et, dans le calme aspect d'un repos solennel,
Je ne sais quoi de grand qui semblait éternel!"
The day after this interview and the refusal—for Charles X. refused to allow Marion Delorme to be played—Victor Hugo's pension, which had been 2400 francs, was raised to 6000 livres, in compensation. Everybody knows how the poet refused—we will not say scornfully, but with dignity—this increase of his pension. A great deal of discussion has since raged round this refusal. Certain puritans even now hold to the opinion of the senator of M. Louis Bonaparte, and blame the poet for keeping his original pension of 2400 francs after the interdiction of Marion Delorme by Charles X. God have mercy on them! They are now in the Halls of Elysium and[Pg 505] the finest poet of France, and therefore of the world, is in Jersey! I ask Lamartine's forgiveness for speaking of Hugo as the first poet of France and of the world: Hugo is exiled, and Lamartine is too generous not to yield the palm to him. If Lamartine were banished like Hugo—and, for the sake of his fame, I am sorry that he is not—I would have said, "The first two poets of France and of the world!"
The day after this interview and the refusal—for Charles X. wouldn’t allow Marion Delorme to be performed—Victor Hugo's pension, which had been 2400 francs, was increased to 6000 livres as compensation. Everyone knows how the poet declined—we won’t say scornfully, but with dignity—this boost to his pension. There has been a lot of debate surrounding this refusal since then. Some puritans still cling to the opinion of the senator of M. Louis Bonaparte, criticizing the poet for keeping his original pension of 2400 francs after Charles X. banned Marion Delorme. God have mercy on them! They are now in the Halls of Elysium, and[Pg 505] the finest poet of France, and by extension the world, is in Jersey! I ask Lamartine’s forgiveness for calling Hugo the top poet of France and the world: Hugo is in exile, and Lamartine is too generous not to concede that title to him. If Lamartine were exiled like Hugo—and, for the sake of his reputation, I wish he weren’t—I would have said, "The top two poets of France and the world!"
One day, in a club, I was speaking of Prince Louis Bonaparte, and I called him "Monseigneur." It was at the time of Prince Louis Bonaparte's exile. A voice shouted to me—
One day, at a club, I was talking about Prince Louis Bonaparte, and I referred to him as "Monseigneur." This was during Prince Louis Bonaparte's exile. Suddenly, a voice shouted at me—
"There is no longer any Monseigneur."
"There’s no longer any Monseigneur."
"I always speak of those who are exiled by that title," I replied.
"I always refer to those who are exiled by that title," I replied.
And my voice was drowned by applause.
And my voice was drowned out by applause.
When Hugo returned from Saint-Cloud, he found Taylor awaiting him. The news he brought back was bad enough, like the news of Madame Malbrouck's page. Taylor was in despair.
When Hugo got back from Saint-Cloud, he found Taylor waiting for him. The news he brought was pretty bleak, similar to the news about Madame Malbrouck's page. Taylor was distraught.
"We have nothing else in our portfolios!" he repeated.
"We don't have anything else in our portfolios!" he repeated.
At that time the Comédie-Française had ten plays of M. Viennet, four or five of M. Delrieu, two or three of M. Lemercier, without reckoning M. Arnault's Pertinax and M. de Jouy's Julien, etc. etc. And that was what Taylor called having nothing in his portfolios!
At that time, the Comédie-Française had ten plays by M. Viennet, four or five by M. Delrieu, two or three by M. Lemercier, not to mention M. Arnault's Pertinax and M. de Jouy's Julien, and so on. And that was what Taylor called having nothing in his portfolios!
"We were building on Marion Delorme for the winter season," he said, "and now our winter season will be ruined!"
"We were working on Marion Delorme for the winter season," he said, "and now our winter season is going to be ruined!"
Hugo let him go on lamenting and then asked—
Hugo let him continue complaining and then asked—
"When did you hope to play Marion Delorme?"
"When did you plan to perform Marion Delorme?"
"Why, either in January or February."
"Why, either in January or February."
"Ah, good! then we shall have a margin.... Very well...." and he fell to making a calculation. "This is the 7th of August: come back to me on the 1st of October."
"Ah, great! Then we’ll have some leeway.... Sounds good...." and he started to do some calculations. "Today is August 7th: come back to me on October 1st."
Taylor returned on the 1st of October. Hugo picked up a manuscript and gave it to him. It was Hernani. Hugo had[Pg 506] begun this second work on 17 September and had finished it on the 25th of the same month. He had taken three days less over its composition than in the case of Marion Delorme. Let us, however, hasten to explain that the plots of both plays had been matured beforehand in the poet's head.
Taylor returned on October 1st. Hugo handed him a manuscript. It was Hernani. Hugo had[Pg 506] started this second work on September 17 and finished it on the 25th of the same month. He took three days less to write it than he did for Marion Delorme. However, let's clarify that the plots of both plays were already fully formed in the poet's mind before he began writing.
CHAPTER XII
The invasion of barbarians—Rehearsals of Hernani—Mademoiselle Mars and the lines about the lion—The scene over the portraits—Hugo takes away from Mademoiselle Mars the part of Doña Sol—Michelot's flattering complaisance to the public—The quatrain about the cup-board—Joanny
The invasion of barbarians—Rehearsals of Hernani—Mademoiselle Mars and the lines about the lion—The scene with the portraits—Hugo takes the role of Doña Sol away from Mademoiselle Mars—Michelot's flattering agreement with the audience—The quatrain about the cupboard—Joanny
There was this time nothing to fear from the Censorship: unless it were on the ground of modesty, there was nothing in Hernani to which it could take exception. I really believe I have spoken of the modesty of the Censorship! Upon my word, how shocking of me! but since I have said it, let it stay!
There was a time when the Censorship posed no real threat: unless it was for reasons of decency, there was nothing in Hernani that it could criticize. I honestly think I've mentioned the decency of the Censorship! I can't believe I just said that! But since I've mentioned it, let's leave it as it is!
The piece naturally took the place of his first-born, Marion Delorme; it was read for form's sake, received with shouts of hurrahs and acclamation—Hugo read very well, especially his own works—the parts were allotted and the rehearsals started at once. I do not state the fact of Hugo's fine reading here because I think his manner of reading had any influence either way on the enthusiasm of his reception, but because, never having heard him speak at the Tribune, I cannot form any idea of the style of his public speaking from the very different opinions I have heard expressed concerning his oratorical style. I can only say that his speeches when read always seemed to me to be masterpieces of language and logic.
The piece naturally took the place of his first-born, Marion Delorme; it was read just for form's sake, received with cheers and applause—Hugo read really well, especially his own works—the roles were assigned, and rehearsals started right away. I'm not mentioning Hugo's great reading here because I think his style had any impact on the enthusiasm of his reception, but because, since I’ve never heard him speak at the Tribune, I can’t form any idea of his public speaking style from the very different opinions I’ve heard about his oratory. All I can say is that his speeches, when read, always seemed to me to be masterpieces of language and logic.
With the rehearsals began the worries. No one at the Théâtre-Français felt much real sympathy with the Romantic school save old Joanny; the rest (and Mademoiselle Mars was first among their number, in spite of the splendid success she had just achieved in the Duchesse de Guise) really looked[Pg 508] upon the encroachment as a species of invasion by barbarians, to which they were laughingly obliged to submit. Underneath the flattery paid us by Mademoiselle Mars, there was always the mental reservation of an outraged woman. Michelot, professor at the Conservatoire, a man of the world, with finished manners, showed us his most gracious and agreeable side; but at heart he loathed us. And as to Firmin, whose talent was so essential to us—a real talent, although it had nothing to do with the highest reaches of form, namely, the plastic side of art—well, his literary judgment was worthless; he merely possessed a kind of dramatic instinct, which served in lieu of art, and gave movement and life to his acting. He liked us well enough, because we supplied him with means to exercise his qualities of action and life; but he was terribly in fear of the older school, and accordingly remained neutral in all the literary quarrels, rarely appearing at a reading, so that he might avoid being obliged to give his opinion. He was not a stumbling-block, but, on the other hand, he was certainly not a support.
With the rehearsals came the worries. No one at the Théâtre-Français felt much real sympathy for the Romantic school except old Joanny; the rest (and Mademoiselle Mars was at the top of the list, despite her recent success in the Duchesse de Guise) viewed this trend as an invasion by barbarians, which they were humorously forced to tolerate. Beneath the compliments from Mademoiselle Mars, there was always the underlying frustration of a wounded woman. Michelot, a teacher at the Conservatoire, a polished man with great manners, showed us his most charming and pleasant side; but deep down, he despised us. And as for Firmin, whose talent was crucial to us—a real talent, although it didn’t align with the highest standards of form, specifically the aesthetic aspect of art—his literary judgment was useless; he had a sort of dramatic instinct that made up for the lack of artistry and brought energy and life to his performances. He liked us well enough because we allowed him to showcase his abilities in action and vitality; however, he was extremely wary of the older generation, so he stayed neutral in all the literary debates, rarely attending readings to avoid having to share his opinion. He wasn’t a hindrance, but he certainly wasn’t a help either.
The play—by which we mean the leading parts—was distributed between the four principal actors of the Théâtre-Français whom we have just mentioned. Mademoiselle Mars played Doña Sol; Joanny, Ruy Gomez; Michelot, Charles V.; and Firmin, Hernani. I have said that Mademoiselle Mars felt no sympathy with our style of literature; but I ought to add or, rather, to repeat that, in her theatrical dealings, she was strictly honourable, and, when she had gone through her first representation of a part and endured the fire of applause or of hissings that had greeted the fall of the curtain, no matter what the play was in which she was acting, she would have died rather than give in; she would submit to a martyrdom rather than—we will not say deny her faith, because our School was not included in her creed—break her word.
The play—by which we mean the main roles—was shared among the four lead actors at the Théâtre-Français that we've just mentioned. Mademoiselle Mars played Doña Sol; Joanny was Ruy Gomez; Michelot took on Charles V.; and Firmin portrayed Hernani. I've mentioned that Mademoiselle Mars didn’t connect with our style of literature; however, I should add or rather reiterate that, in her theatrical dealings, she was completely honorable. After her first performance of a role and facing the rush of applause or boos that followed the curtain's fall, no matter what play it was, she would have rather died than give in; she would endure a kind of martyrdom rather than—we won’t say deny her beliefs, since our School wasn't part of her faith—break her promise.
But, before this point was reached, there were between fifty and sixty rehearsals to be gone through, at which an incalculable number of observations were hazarded at the expense[Pg 509] of the author, faces were made, and pin-pricks given him. And of course it often happened that these pin-pricks penetrated through the skin and stabbed to the heart. I have recounted my own sufferings from Mademoiselle Mars during the rehearsals of Henri III.; the discussions, quarrels, disputes even which I had with her, the passionate scenes which, in spite of my obscurity, I was unable to refrain from causing, no matter what I risked in the future. The same thing was just as likely to happen to Hugo, and did happen. But Hugo and I were two absolutely different characters: he was cold and calm and polished and severe, and harboured the remembrance of good or ill done him; whilst I am open and quick and demonstrative, and make game of things, forgetful of ill, and sometimes of good. So the arguments between Mademoiselle Mars and Hugo were entirely different from mine. And remember that, on the stage, dialogues between actor and author usually take place before the foot-lights—that is to say, between the stage and the orchestra—so that not a word is lost by all the thirty to forty actors, musicians, managers, supernumeraries, call-boys, lighters-up, and firemen present at rehearsals. This audience, as will be understood, always does its best to catch any episode likely to distract the ennui of the daily work, the rehearsal itself; this fact considerably adds to the nervous irritability of the interlocutors and, in consequence, tends to introduce a certain amount of tartness in the telephonic communications which take place between the orchestra and the stage.
But before we got to that point, there were between fifty and sixty rehearsals to get through, during which countless comments were thrown at the author, faces were made, and barbs were aimed at him. Naturally, these barbs often cut deeper, hitting right at his heart. I’ve shared my own frustrations with Mademoiselle Mars during the rehearsals of Henri III.; the discussions, arguments, and even fights I had with her, the heated moments that I couldn't help but create, regardless of what I risked later on. The same kind of thing happened to Hugo, and it did happen. But Hugo and I were two completely different people: he was cold, calm, polished, and serious, remembering every slight—good or bad—while I am open, quick, and expressive, joking about things, forgetting the bad, and sometimes even the good. So the exchanges between Mademoiselle Mars and Hugo were not at all like mine. And keep in mind that, on stage, the dialogues between the actor and author usually happen right in front of the audience—that is, between the stage and the orchestra—so none of it goes unheard by the thirty to forty actors, musicians, managers, extras, stagehands, and fire safety personnel present at rehearsals. This audience, as you might guess, always tries to catch any distraction that breaks the monotony of the daily grind, the rehearsal itself; this significantly heightens the nervous tension of those involved and tends to add a bit of sharpness to the exchanges that happen between the orchestra and the stage.
Things happened somewhat after this fashion. In the middle of the rehearsal Mademoiselle Mars would suddenly stop.
Things happened more or less like this. In the middle of the rehearsal, Mademoiselle Mars would suddenly stop.
"Excuse me, my friend," she would say to Firmin or Michelot or Joanny, "I want a word with the author."
"Excuse me, my friend," she would say to Firmin or Michelot or Joanny, "I need to talk to the author."
The actor to whom she addressed her remark would bow his assent and stand motionless and silent where he happened to be.
The actor she was speaking to would nod in agreement and remain still and quiet wherever he was.
Mademoiselle Mars would come up close to the footlights, with her hand shading her eyes, although she knew well[Pg 510] enough in what part of the orchestra to look for the author whom she was pretending to find. This was her little curtain raiser.
Mademoiselle Mars would lean in close to the stage lights, her hand shielding her eyes, even though she knew exactly[Pg 510] where in the orchestra to look for the author she was pretending to look for. This was her little opening act.
"M. Hugo?" she would ask. "Is M. Hugo here?".
"M. Hugo?" she would ask. "Is M. Hugo here?"
"I am here, madame," Hugo would reply, as he rose from his seat.
"I’m here, ma'am," Hugo would respond as he got up from his seat.
"Ah! that is all right!—thanks.... Will you please tell me, M. Hugo...."
"Ah! that's all good!—thanks.... Can you please tell me, M. Hugo...."
"Madame?"
"Ma'am?"
"I have this line to say—
I have this line to say—
'Vous êtes, mon lion, superbe et généreux!'"
'You are, my lion, magnificent and generous!'"
"Yes, madame; Hernani says to you—
"Yes, ma'am; Hernani is saying to you—
'Hélas! j'aime pourtant d'une amour bien profonde!
Ne pleure pas ... Mourons plutôt! Que n'ai-je un monde,
Je te le donnerais! Je suis bien malheureux!'
'Hélas! I love you with a deep love!
Don't cry ... Let's rather die! If only I had a world,
I would give it to you! I am so unhappy!'
And you reply to him—
And you respond to him—
"Vous êtes, mon lion, superbe et généreux!'"
"You are, my lion, magnificent and generous!"
"Do you like that phrase, M. Hugo?"
"Do you like that saying, M. Hugo?"
"Which?"
"Which one?"
'"Vous êtes, mon lion!'"
'You are my lion!'
"That was how I wrote it, madame; so I think it is all right."
"That's how I wrote it, ma'am; so I think it's all good."
"Then you stick to your lion?"
"Then you stick with your lion?"
"I may or may not, madame. If you can find something better, I will insert it instead."
"I might or might not, ma'am. If you can find something better, I'll put that in instead."
"It is not my place to do so; I am not the author."
"It’s not my place to do that; I’m not the author."
"Very well, then, madame; if that be so, leave what is written exactly as you find it."
"Alright then, ma'am; if that's the case, keep what is written just as it is."
"Really it does sound to me very comic to call M. Firmin mon lion!"
"Honestly, it sounds really funny to me to call M. Firmin my lion!"
"Oh! that is because while acting the part of Doña Sol you think of yourself as Mademoiselle Mars. If you were a true pupil of Ruy Gomez de Sylva, a noble Castilian of the sixteenth century, you would only see Hernani in M. Firmin; you would look upon him as a terrible robber-chief, who made[Pg 511] even Charles V. tremble in his capital; then you would comprehend how such a woman could call such a man son lion, and you would no longer look upon it as comic!"
"Oh! that's because while playing the role of Doña Sol, you see yourself as Mademoiselle Mars. If you were a true student of Ruy Gomez de Sylva, a noble Castilian from the sixteenth century, you would only see Hernani in M. Firmin; you'd view him as a fearsome bandit leader who made[Pg 511] even Charles V. shake in his own capital; then you would understand how such a woman could call such a man son lion, and you wouldn’t see it as funny anymore!"
"Very well! if you stick to your lion we will say no more. It is my duty to say what is written, and as the manuscript has 'mon lion!' I will say 'mon lion!' Of course, it is all one to me. Let us go on, Firmin!
"Alright! If you insist on your lion, we won't say anything more. It's my job to say what's written, and since the manuscript says 'mon lion!', I'll say 'mon lion!'. Honestly, I don't mind either way. Let's continue, Firmin!"
'Vous êtes, mon lion, superbe et généreux!'"
'You are, my lion, magnificent and generous!'"
And the rehearsal would be resumed.
And they would continue the rehearsal.
But, the next day, when Mademoiselle Mars reached the same place, she stopped as on the day before and, as on the day before, she approached the footlights, again going through the pretence of looking for the author with her hands shading her eyes.
But the next day, when Mademoiselle Mars arrived at the same place, she stopped just like the day before and, like the day before, she walked up to the footlights, once more pretending to search for the author with her hands shading her eyes.
"M. Hugo?" she would say in her harsh voice, the voice of Mademoiselle Mars and not of Célimène. "Is M. Hugo there?"
"M. Hugo?" she would say in her grating voice, the voice of Mademoiselle Mars and not of Célimène. "Is M. Hugo there?"
"Here I am, madame," Hugo would reply with the same placidity.
"Here I am, ma'am," Hugo would reply with the same calmness.
"Oh! that is all right. I am glad you are here."
"Oh! that's all good. I'm glad you're here."
"I had the honour of presenting you my compliments before the rehearsal, madame."
"I had the pleasure of giving you my compliments before the rehearsal, ma'am."
"True.... Well, have you thought over it?"
"Really... Have you thought about it?"
"Over what, madame?"
"About what, ma'am?"
"Over what I said to you yesterday."
"About what I told you yesterday."
"You did me the honour of saying a great many things to me yesterday."
"You gave me the honor of saying a lot of things to me yesterday."
"Yes, that was so ... but I mean about that famous hemistich."
"Yeah, that was true ... but I'm talking about that famous half-line."
"Which?"
"Which one?"
"Oh, good gracious! you know quite well the one I mean!"
"Oh, my goodness! You know exactly who I mean!"
"I swear I do not, madame; you make so many neat and valuable suggestions that I confuse one with the other."
"I promise I don't, ma'am; you come up with so many great and useful suggestions that I mix them up."
"I mean the line about the lion."
"I mean the line about the lion."
"Ah yes! 'Vous êtes, mon lion!' I remember...."
"Ah yes! 'You are, my lion!' I remember...."
"Well, have you found another line?"
"Well, have you found a different option?"
"I confess I have not tried to think of one."
"I admit I haven't tried to think of one."
"You do not then think the line risky?"
"You don't think the line is risky, then?"
"What do you mean by risky?"
"What do you mean by risky?"
"Anything that is likely to be hissed."
"Anything that could get booed."
"I have never presumed to claim exemption from being hissed."
"I've never thought I could avoid being hissed at."
"That may be; but you should avoid being hissed as much as possible."
"That might be true; but you should try to avoid getting booed as much as you can."
"So you think the lion phrase will be hissed?"
"So you think the lion phrase will be booed?"
"I am certain of it!"
"I'm sure of it!"
"Then, madame, it will be because you have not rendered it with your usual talent."
"Then, madam, it’s because you haven’t done it with your usual skill."
"I shall say it as well as I can.... All the same, I should prefer...."
"I'll say it as best as I can.... Even so, I would rather...."
"What?"
"What?"
"To say something different...."
"To say something else...."
"What?"
"Wait, what?"
"To have it altered altogether!"
"To change it completely!"
"For what?"
"Why?"
"To say"—and Mademoiselle Mars made a show of trying to find the word which she had really been turning over in her mind for three days—"to say, for instance ... ahem!... say ... ahem!
"To say"—and Mademoiselle Mars pretended to search for the word she had actually been thinking about for three days—"to say, for example ... ahem!... say ... ahem!
'Vous êtes, monseigneur, superbe et généreux!'
'You are, my lord, superb and generous!'
Monseigneur enables the line to be scanned just the same as mon lion, does it not?"
Monseigneur allows the line to be read just like mon lion, right?
"Quite so, madame; only mon lion lightens the line, and monseigneur makes it heavy."
"Exactly, ma'am; only my lion lightens the line, and my lord makes it heavy."
"I would much rather be hissed for a good line than applauded for a bad one. Very well, very well ... we will not bother any longer about it.... I will say your good line without changing anything in it! Come, Firmin, my friend, let us go on....
"I would much rather be booed for a good line than cheered for a bad one. Alright, alright ... we won't dwell on it any longer.... I will say your good line exactly as it is! Come on, Firmin, my friend, let’s keep going....
'Vous êtes, mon lion, superbe et généreux!'"
'You are, my lion, magnificent and generous!'"
It is a well-known fact that, on the day of the first representation, Mademoiselle Mars said, "Vous êtes, monseigneur!" instead of "Vous êtes, mon lion!"
It is a well-known fact that, on the day of the first performance, Mademoiselle Mars said, "You are, my lord!" instead of "You are, my lion!"
The line was neither applauded nor hissed: it was not worth either notice.
The line received neither applause nor boos: it was not worth paying attention to.
A little farther on, Ruy Gomez, after having surprised Hernani and Doña Sol in one another's arms, at the announcement of the king's coming hides Hernani in a room, the door of which is hidden by a picture. Then begins the famous scene known by the title of the scène des portraits, which is composed of seventy-six lines and takes place between Don Carlos and Ruy Gomez, the scene in which Doña Sol listens as mute and motionless as a statue, in which she only takes part when the king wishes to have the duke arrested; when she tears off her veil and flings herself between the duke and the guards, exclaiming—
A little further along, Ruy Gomez, after catching Hernani and Doña Sol in each other's arms, hides Hernani in a room with a door disguised by a painting. This sets the stage for the famous scene known as the scène des portraits, which consists of seventy-six lines and takes place between Don Carlos and Ruy Gomez. During this scene, Doña Sol listens silently and motionlessly like a statue, only joining in when the king orders the arrest of the duke; she rips off her veil and throws herself between the duke and the guards, shouting—
"Roi don Carlos, vous êtes
Un mauvais roi!..."
"King Don Carlos, you are
A terrible king!..."
This long silence and absence of movement had always been an offence to Mademoiselle Mars. The Théâtre-Français was used to the traditions of Molière's comedies or the tragedies of Corneille and was up in arms against the mise en scène of the modern drama, neither understanding, as a whole, the passion of action nor the poetry of stillness. The consequence was that poor Doña Sol did not know what to do with herself during these seventy-six lines. One day she decided to have the matter out with the author. You know her way of interrupting the rehearsals and of advancing to the footlights. The author was in front of the orchestra and Mademoiselle Mars was behind the footlights.
This long silence and lack of movement had always bothered Mademoiselle Mars. The Théâtre-Français was accustomed to the traditions of Molière's comedies and Corneille's tragedies, and was strongly opposed to the staging of modern drama, not fully grasping the passion of action or the beauty of stillness. As a result, poor Doña Sol didn’t know what to do with herself during these seventy-six lines. One day, she decided to confront the author. You know her style of interrupting rehearsals and stepping up to the front of the stage. The author was in front of the orchestra, and Mademoiselle Mars was behind the footlights.
"Are you there, M. Hugo?"
"Are you there, Mr. Hugo?"
"Yes, madame."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Ah, good!... Do me a service."
"Ah, great!... Do me a favor."
"With the greatest pleasure.... What is it?"
"With the greatest pleasure.... What is it?"
"Tell me what I am to do here."
"Tell me what I should do here."
"Where?"
"Where at?"
"On the stage, while M. Michelot and M. Joanny are holding their dialogue."
"On stage, while Mr. Michelot and Mr. Joanny are having their conversation."
"You are to listen, madame."
"Please listen, madam."
"Yes! I am to listen.... I know that; but I find listening rather tedious."
"Yeah! I’m supposed to listen... I get that, but I find listening pretty boring."
"Yet you know the scene was originally much longer and I have already cut it down by twenty lines."
"Yet you know the scene was originally much longer and I've already cut it down by twenty lines."
"Yes, but could you not cut out another twenty lines?"
"Yes, but could you cut out another twenty lines?"
"Impossible, madame!"
"Not possible, ma'am!"
"Or, at all events, arrange that I take some sort of part in it."
"Or, in any case, make sure that I play some role in it."
"But you naturally take part by your very presence. It is a question of the man you love whose life or death is being debated; it seems to me that the situation is sufficiently moving and strong to enable you to wait in patient silence to the close."
"But you naturally participate just by being here. It's about the man you love, whose life or death is under discussion; I believe the situation is compelling and profound enough for you to patiently wait in silence until it's over."
"All the same ... it is long!"
"Still... it's too long!"
"I do not feel it so, madame."
"I don't feel that way, ma'am."
"Very good! then we will say no more about it.... But the public are certain to ask, 'What is Mademoiselle Mars supposed to be doing with her hand upon her breast? It was not necessary to give her a part just to remain standing still, with a veil over her eyes, without saying a word for half an act!'"
"Great! Then we won’t say anything more about it.... But people will definitely ask, 'What’s Mademoiselle Mars supposed to be doing with her hand on her chest? There was no need to give her a role just to stand still, with a veil over her eyes, not saying a word for half the act!'"
"The public will say that under the hand of Doña Sol—not of Mademoiselle Mars—her heart is beating; that, beneath the veil of Doña Sol—not of Mademoiselle Mars—her face is crimsoning with hope or turning pale with terror; that, during the silence—not of Mademoiselle Mars but—of Doña Sol, Hernani's lover, the tempest is gathering in her heart which bursts forth in these words, none too respectful from a subject to her sovereign—
"The public will say that under the hand of Doña Sol—not of Mademoiselle Mars—her heart is beating; that, beneath the veil of Doña Sol—not of Mademoiselle Mars—her face is turning red with hope or going pale with fear; that, during the silence—not of Mademoiselle Mars but—of Doña Sol, Hernani's lover, the storm is building in her heart which erupts in these words, not very respectful from a subject to her ruler—
'Roi don Carlos, vous êtes
Un mauvais roi!...'
'King Carlos, you are
A bad king!...'
And, believe me, madame, it will be sufficient for the public."
And trust me, ma'am, that will be enough for the public."
"If that is your idea, well and good. It is not on my account I am troubling myself about it: if they hiss during the scene it will not be at me they are hissing, as I do not speak one word.... Come on, Michelot; come on, Joanny; let us proceed.
"If that's your idea, that's fine. I'm not worrying about it for my sake: if they boo during the scene, it won't be at me since I don't say a word.... Let's go, Michelot; come on, Joanny; let's move on."
'Roi don Carlos, vous êtes
Un mauvais roi!..
'King Charles, you are
A bad king!..
There, does that satisfy you, M. Hugo?"
There, does that satisfy you, Mr. Hugo?
"Perfectly, madame." And Hugo bowed and sat down with his imperturbable serenity.
"Perfectly, ma'am." And Hugo bowed and sat down with his unshakeable calm.
The next day, Mademoiselle Mars stopped the rehearsal at the same place, came up to the footlights and, shading her eyes with her hand, said, in exactly the same voice as that of the day before—
The next day, Mademoiselle Mars halted the rehearsal at the same spot, walked up to the front of the stage and, shielding her eyes with her hand, said, in exactly the same tone as the day before—
"Are you there, M. Hugo?"
"Are you there, Mr. Hugo?"
"I am here, madame."
"I'm here, ma'am."
"Well, have you found me something to say?"
"Well, have you found me something to say?"
"Where?"
"Where at?"
"Why, you know where ... in the famous scene where these gentlemen say a hundred and fifty lines while I stare at them and do not utter a word.... I know they are charming to contemplate, but a hundred and fifty lines take a long time to say."
"Well, you know that famous scene where these guys speak a hundred and fifty lines while I just watch them and don’t say a word... I get that they’re delightful to look at, but saying a hundred and fifty lines takes a lot of time."
"In the first place, madame, the scene is not a hundred and fifty lines in length, it is only seventy-six, for I have counted them; then, I did not make you any promise to put in something for you to say, since, on the contrary, I tried to prove to you that your silence and immobility, from which you emerge with terrible éclat, is one of the beauties of the whole scene."
"In the first place, ma’am, the scene isn’t a hundred and fifty lines long; it’s only seventy-six because I’ve counted them. Also, I didn’t promise to write something for you to say since, on the contrary, I tried to show you that your silence and stillness, which you break out of with a dramatic flair, is one of the highlights of the entire scene."
"Beauties, beauties!... I am much afraid the public will not agree with you."
"Beauties, beauties!... I'm really worried that the public won't agree with you."
"We shall see."
"We'll see."
"Yes, but you may see a little too late.... So you definitely mean to have your way in not giving me anything to say through the whole scene?"
"Yes, but you might realize a bit too late... So you really expect to have it all your way without giving me anything to say during the entire scene?"
"I do."
"I do."
"It is all one to me; I will go to the back of the stage and let these gentlemen talk over their business in the front of it."
"It doesn't matter to me; I'll head to the back of the stage and let these guys discuss their business in the front."
"You can retire to the back of the stage if you wish, madame, but as the affairs under discussion are as much yours as theirs, you will spoil the scene.... When it suits you, madame, the rehearsal shall be proceeded with."
"You can step back from the stage if you want, ma'am, but since the matters we're discussing are just as much yours as they are theirs, you'll ruin the moment.... Whenever you feel ready, ma'am, we can continue with the rehearsal."
And the rehearsal was continued.
And the rehearsal continued.
But, every day, there were some interruptions of the kind to which we have just drawn attention; this annoyed Hugo greatly, for he was still only at the outset of his dramatic career, and imagined that the greatest difficulty was the creation of the play and the most vexatious that of putting it into proper form; he now discovered that all this was child's play compared with the rehearsals. At last, one day, he lost patience and, when the rehearsal was over, he went on the stage and, approaching Mademoiselle Mars, he said—
But every day, there were interruptions like the ones we just mentioned; this really annoyed Hugo because he was still just starting out in his theater career and thought the hardest part was creating the play and the most frustrating part was getting it into the right shape. He soon realized that all of that was easy compared to the rehearsals. Finally, one day, he lost his patience and, after the rehearsal was done, he went on stage and, approaching Mademoiselle Mars, he said—
"Madame, may I be allowed the honour of a few words with you?"
"Excuse me, may I have the honor of speaking with you for a moment?"
"With me?" replied Mademoiselle Mars in astonishment at this solemn beginning.
"With me?" replied Mademoiselle Mars, shocked by this serious start.
"With you."
"By your side."
"Where?"
"Where at?"
"Where you will."
"Wherever you want."
"Come this way, then"; and, walking first, Mademoiselle Mars led Hugo into what in those days was called the petit foyer (small green-room), which was, I believe, situated where nowadays is the salon belonging to the manager's box. Louise Despréaux was seated in a corner by herself.
"Come this way, then," and starting to walk, Mademoiselle Mars led Hugo into what was then known as the petit foyer (small green-room), which I think is now where the manager's box salon is located. Louise Despréaux was sitting alone in a corner.
We have mentioned that Louise Despréaux was one of the pet aversions of Mademoiselle Mars, Madame Menjaud being her favourite. I have described, in due course, the scene I had with Mademoiselle Mars over Louise Despréaux concerning the distribution of the part of page to the Duchesse de Guise. When she saw Mademoiselle Mars and Hugo enter, she discreetly rose and left the room; although I have strong suspicions that, with the inquisitiveness of seventeen years of[Pg 517] age, she glued her ear and her rosy young face to the keyhole.
We mentioned that Louise Despréaux was one of Mademoiselle Mars’s least favorites, while Madame Menjaud was her top choice. I’ve already described the confrontation I had with Mademoiselle Mars over Louise Despréaux about the role of page for the Duchesse de Guise. When she saw Mademoiselle Mars and Hugo walk in, she quietly stood up and left the room; although I strongly suspect that, with the curiosity of a seventeen-year-old, she pressed her ear and her rosy young face against the keyhole.
Mademoiselle Mars leant against the mantelpiece, holding her part in her hand.
Mademoiselle Mars leaned against the mantelpiece, holding her script in her hand.
"Well, what do you wish to say to me?" she asked.
"Well, what do you want to say to me?" she asked.
"I wished to tell you, madame, that I have just made a resolution."
"I wanted to let you know, ma'am, that I've just made a decision."
"What is it, monsieur?"
"What is it, sir?"
"To ask you to give up your part."
"To ask you to give up your share."
"My part!... Which?"
"My role!... Which one?"
"The one you asked for in my drama, to my great honour."
"The one you requested in my play, which I truly appreciate."
"What! the part of Doña Sol," exclaimed Mademoiselle Mars, astounded; "do you mean this part?" ... And she pointed to the roll of paper which she held in her hand, frowning her black eyebrows over those eyes which could on occasion assume an incredibly hard expression.
"What! Doña Sol's part," Mademoiselle Mars exclaimed, shocked; "are you talking about this part?" ... And she pointed to the roll of paper in her hand, furrowing her dark eyebrows over her eyes that could sometimes have an incredibly tough look.
Hugo bowed.
Hugo bowed.
"Yes," he said, "the part of Doña Sol which you hold in your hand."
"Yes," he said, "the part of Doña Sol that you're holding in your hand."
"Ah! that is it, is it?" said Mademoiselle Mars; and she struck the marble chimneypiece with the roll, and stamped on the floor with her foot. "This is the first time an author has ever asked me to give up my part!"
"Ah! Is that what it is?" said Mademoiselle Mars; and she hit the marble mantelpiece with the script and stomped her foot on the floor. "This is the first time an author has ever asked me to give up my role!"
"Very well, madame; I think it is time an example should be set and I will set it."
"Alright, ma'am; I think it’s time to set an example, and I will do that."
"But why do you want to take it from me?"
"But why do you want to take it away from me?"
"Because I believe I am right in saying, madame, that when you honour me with your remarks you appear totally to forget to whom you are speaking."
"Because I believe I'm correct in saying, ma'am, that when you engage with me, you seem to completely forget who you're talking to."
"In what way, monsieur?"
"How, sir?"
"Oh! I am aware that you are a highly talented lady ... but there is one point, I repeat, upon which you seem to be ignorant, to which I ought to call your attention; namely, that I also, madame, am a talented person: take this fact into consideration, I beg of you, and treat me accordingly."
"Oh! I know that you are a very talented woman ... but there’s one thing, I must emphasize, that you seem to overlook and that I need to bring to your attention; namely, that I too, madam, am a talented individual: please keep this in mind and treat me accordingly."
"You think, then, that I shall act your part badly?"
"You think I’m going to perform your role poorly?"
"I know that you will play it admirably well, madame, but I also know that, from the beginning of the rehearsals, you have been extremely rude to me—conduct that is unworthy both of Mademoiselle Mars and of M. Victor Hugo."
"I know you'll perform it beautifully, ma'am, but I've also noticed that since the start of rehearsals, you've been very rude to me—behavior that's not worthy of Mademoiselle Mars or M. Victor Hugo."
"Oh!" she muttered, biting her pale lips, "you do indeed deserve to have your part given back to you!"
"Oh!" she whispered, biting her pale lips, "you really do deserve to have your role returned to you!"
Hugo held out his hand.
Hugo extended his hand.
"I am ready to take it, madame," he said.
"I’m ready to take it, ma'am," he said.
"And if I do not play it, who will?"
"And if I don't play it, who will?"
"Oh! upon my word, madame, the first person that comes to hand.... Why, Mademoiselle Despréaux, for instance. She, of course, does not possess your talent, but she is young and she is pretty, and so will fulfil two out of the three conditions the part demands; then, too, she will yield me the deference to which I am entitled, of the lack of which, on your part, I have had to complain."
"Oh! I swear, ma'am, the first person that comes to mind.... Why, Mademoiselle Despréaux, for example. She may not have your talent, but she's young and pretty, so she'll meet two out of the three requirements for the role; plus, she'll show me the respect I deserve, which I've had to say you've been lacking."
And Hugo stood with his arm stretched out and his hand open, waiting for Mademoiselle Mars to give him back the part.
And Hugo stood with his arm outstretched and his hand open, waiting for Mademoiselle Mars to return the part to him.
"Mademoiselle Despréaux! Mademoiselle Despréaux!" muttered Mademoiselle Mars. "Ah! indeed that is a good joke!... So it seems you are paying attentions to Mademoiselle Despréaux?"
"Mademoiselle Despréaux! Mademoiselle Despréaux!" whispered Mademoiselle Mars. "Ah! That’s quite the joke!... So it looks like you’re interested in Mademoiselle Despréaux?"
"I? I have never spoken a word to her in my life!"
"I? I've never said a word to her in my life!"
"And you definitely and formally ask me to give you back my part?"
"And you are seriously asking me to return my share?"
"Formally and definitely I ask you to give me back the part."
"Seriously and definitely, I ask you to give me back the part."
"Very well; I shall keep the rôle.... I shall play it, and as no one else would play it in Paris, I swear."
"Alright; I'll take on the role.... I'll play it, and since no one else would play it in Paris, I swear."
"So be it. Keep the rôle; only, do not forget what I have said to you with regard to the courtesy that should obtain between people of our distinction."
"Alright. Keep the role; just remember what I've said about the respect that should exist between people of our status."
And Hugo bowed to Mademoiselle Mars and left her utterly overcome by that haughty dignity to which the authors of the Empire had not accustomed her; they had grovelled[Pg 519] before her talent, conscious that, without her, their plays would not bring them in a halfpenny.
And Hugo bowed to Mademoiselle Mars and left her completely stunned by that proud confidence she wasn't used to from the writers of the Empire; they had always adulated[Pg 519] her talent, aware that without her, their plays wouldn't earn them a dime.
From that day, Mademoiselle Mars was cold but polite to Hugo and, as she had promised him, when the night of the first representation came, she played the part to perfection.
From that day on, Mademoiselle Mars was distant yet courteous to Hugo, and as she had promised him, when the night of the first performance arrived, she played her role flawlessly.
Michelot, a very different person from Mademoiselle Mars, was polite almost to the verge of sycophancy; but as he detested us in his heart of hearts, when the hour of the struggle came, instead of fighting loyally and valiantly, as Mademoiselle Mars did, he slyly went over to the enemy and gave the sharpshooters in the pit the hint where, at the most opportune moments, they might find our weakest places. Many liberties were taken with Michelot's part which an actor who had cared less for popular opinion would never have allowed himself to take. As a matter of fact, before the representation, we had waged rude warfare against the risky passages in the part of Don Carlos; I remember among others having very regretfully made Hugo cut out a quatrain to which Michelot seemed to cling tenaciously: I have since discovered why. These four lines were of that charmingly quaint turn which is natural to Hugo and to no one else.
Michelot, quite different from Mademoiselle Mars, was almost overly polite; however, since he secretly loathed us, when it came time to face off, instead of fighting honorably and bravely like Mademoiselle Mars, he sneakily allied with the enemy, tipping off the snipers in the pit about our vulnerabilities at the best moments. Many liberties were taken with Michelot's role that an actor less concerned about public opinion would never have dared to take. In fact, before the performance, we had engaged in a tough battle over the risky lines in Don Carlos's part; I particularly remember having to insist that Hugo cut out a quatrain that Michelot seemed to hold onto stubbornly: I have since found out why. Those four lines had that charmingly eccentric quality that only Hugo can embody.
When Ruy Gomez de Sylva goes back to his niece's house and is on the point of taking Don Carlos and Hernani by surprise, the latter, fearful for the reputation of Doña Sol, wishes to hide the king and himself in the very narrow cupboard which Don Carlos was about to vacate, wherein he was sufficiently uncomfortable by himself; but the king rebelled against the suggestion. Is it, indeed, he says—
When Ruy Gomez de Sylva returns to his niece's house, ready to catch Don Carlos and Hernani off guard, Hernani, worried about Doña Sol's reputation, wants to hide both himself and the king in the cramped cupboard that Don Carlos was about to leave, where Don Carlos had already felt pretty uncomfortable alone; however, the king disagreed with the idea. "Is it really," he says—
"Est-ce donc une game à mettre des chrétiens?
Nous nous pressons un peu; vous y tenez, j'y tiens.
Le duc entre et s'en vient vers l'armoire où nous sommes,
Pour y prendre un cigare.... Il y trouve deux hommes!"
"Is this really a game for Christians?
We're hurrying a bit; you care about it, I care about it.
The duke enters and approaches the cabinet where we are,
To grab a cigar.... He finds two men there!"
For these lines to have their comic effect, they ought to be flung off with the lightheartedness and easy bearing of a king who numbers only nineteen years, and who is in the heyday of prosperity (notice that Charles V. was but nineteen when[Pg 520] he was made Emperor of Germany)—well, they were declaimed in the same tones as Mahomet saying—
For these lines to be funny, they need to be delivered with the carefree attitude and relaxed demeanor of a king who is only nineteen years old and at the peak of success (remember that Charles V was just nineteen when[Pg 520] he became Emperor of Germany)—well, they were proclaimed in the same manner as Mahomet saying—
"Si j'avais à répondre à d'autres que Topyre,
Je ne ferais parler que le Dieu qui m'inspire;
Le glaive et l'Alcoran, dans mes terribles mains,
Imposeraient silence au reste des humains!"
"Si je devais répondre à d'autres que Topyre,
Je ferais parler uniquement le Dieu qui m'inspire;
L'épée et le Coran, dans mes mains redoutables,
Fermeraient la bouche au reste des humains!"
It was perfectly idiotie! so, on my persuasion, and in spite of Michelot's objections, who privately hoped those lines would produce their effect, the erasure was decided on and pitilessly adhered to.
It was completely absurd! So, after I convinced everyone, and despite Michelot's objections, who secretly hoped those lines would have an impact, we decided to erase it and stuck to that decision without mercy.
I have said that it was very different with Joanny: he was an old soldier, the soul of honour and openness, who came to the fourth rehearsal without his manuscript, for he already knew his part thoroughly; so if one had to find any fault with him at all, it was that he became blasé, by the thirty to forty general rehearsals, before the first public performance of the piece.
I mentioned that Joanny was very different: he was a seasoned soldier, full of honor and openness, who came to the fourth rehearsal without his script because he already knew his role inside and out. So, if one had to criticize him at all, it was that he became blasé after the thirty to forty general rehearsals before the first public performance of the piece.
This first representation was an important affair for our party. I had won the Valmy of the literary revolution; Hugo must win the Jemmapes in order that the new school might be well on the way to victory. So, when the time comes to speak of the first reproduction of Hernani, we will give it the full attention it deserves. But for the moment we must be slaves to chronology and pass from Victor Hugo to de Vigny, from Hernani to Othello.
This first performance was a big deal for our group. I had secured the Valmy for the literary revolution; Hugo needs to win the Jemmapes so that the new school can move confidently toward victory. So, when it’s time to discuss the first showing of Hernani, we will give it the full attention it deserves. But for now, we need to stick to the timeline and move from Victor Hugo to de Vigny, from Hernani to Othello.
CHAPTER XIII
Alfred de Vigny—The man and his works—Harel, the manager at the Odéon—Downfall of Soulié's Christine—Parenthesis about Lassailly—Letter of Harel, with preface by myself and postscript by Soulié—I read my Christine at the Odéon—Harel asks me to put it into prose—First representation of the More de Venise—The actors and the papers
Alfred de Vigny—The man and his works—Harel, the manager at the Odéon—The failure of Soulié's Christine—Note about Lassailly—Letter from Harel, including my preface and Soulié's postscript—I read my Christine at the Odéon—Harel asks me to turn it into prose—First performance of More de Venise—The actors and the newspapers
Whilst the Théâtre-Français was waiting for the famous 1st of October, on which Hugo had engaged to provide the unnamed drama at which he was working, in place of Marion Delorme, they decided to rehearse Shakespeare's Othello, translated by Alfred de Vigny, which, in common with Henri III. and Marion Delorme, had been received with enthusiastic acclamation at its reading before the committee.
While the Théâtre-Français was waiting for the famous October 1st, when Hugo had promised to deliver the unnamed drama he was working on to replace Marion Delorme, they decided to rehearse Shakespeare's Othello, translated by Alfred de Vigny. Like Henri III. and Marion Delorme, it had been received with enthusiastic applause during its reading before the committee.
Alfred de Vigny completed the poetic trinity of the period, although his work was of a lower order: people talked of Hugo and Lamartine, or Lamartine and Hugo, and spoke of Alfred de Vigny as of the next rank. Alfred de Vigny possessed very little imagination, but he had a fine and correct style; he was known by his romance Cinq-Mars, which would only have met with a medium success had it appeared nowadays, but, coming as it did at a time of dearth in literature, it had a great run.
Alfred de Vigny completed the poetic trio of the time, although his work was seen as less significant: people discussed Hugo and Lamartine, or Lamartine and Hugo, and mentioned Alfred de Vigny as being in the next tier down. Alfred de Vigny had very little imagination, but he had a polished and accurate style; he was recognized for his novel Cinq-Mars, which would only achieve moderate success if it were released today, but, coming as it did during a time when literature was lacking, it was highly successful.
When Hugo read Marion Delorme de Vigny had whispered to his friends—this sort of thing is always said to one's friends—that Didier and Saverny, the two principal characters in the drama, were an imitation of Cinq-Mars and de Thou. But I am convinced that, when Hugo wrote his play, he never even thought of de Vigny's romance.
When Hugo read Marion Delorme, de Vigny had quietly mentioned to his friends—this kind of thing is always shared with friends—that Didier and Saverny, the two main characters in the play, were a copy of Cinq-Mars and de Thou. But I'm sure that when Hugo wrote his play, he didn't even think about de Vigny's novel.
Besides the novel Cinq-Mars, de Vigny had composed[Pg 522] several dainty little poems in the then current manner: Byron had set the fashion for this kind of poem. Among these five or six charming little poems were Eloa and Dolorida. Finally, he had just published an extremely touching elegy on two unhappy young people who had committed suicide at Montmorency, under cover of the noise of the music of a ball.
Besides the novel Cinq-Mars, de Vigny had composed[Pg 522] several lovely little poems in the popular style of the time: Byron had set the trend for this type of poetry. Among these five or six delightful poems were Eloa and Dolorida. Finally, he had just published a deeply moving elegy about two unfortunate young people who took their own lives at Montmorency, amidst the noise of the music from a ball.
De Vigny was a very singular man; he was polite and affable and gentle in all his dealings, but he affected the most utter unworldliness—an affectation, moreover, that accorded perfectly with his charming face, its delicate and refined features, encased in long fair curly hair, making him look like a brother of the cherubim. De Vigny never descended to earthly things if he could avoid it; if perchance he folded his wings and rested on the peak of a mountain, it was a concession which he made to humanity, because, after all, it was useful to him when he held his brief intercourse with us. Hugo and I used to marvel greatly at his utter unconsciousness of the material needs of our nature, which many of us, Hugo and I among the number, satisfied not only without any feeling of shame but with a certain sensual enjoyment. None of us had ever surprised de Vigny at table. Dorval, who for seven years of her life had passed several hours a day with him, declared to us with an astonishment almost amounting to terror, that she had never even seen him eat a radish! Now even Proserpine, a goddess, was not so abstemious as that; carried off by Pluto to the lower regions, she had, from the first, in spite of the preoccupation of mind to which her unappetising sojourn had naturally disposed her, managed to eat seven pomegranate seeds! Nevertheless, these characteristics did not prevent de Vigny from being an agreeable companion, a gentleman to his finger-tips, always ready to do you a kindness and totally incapable of doing you a bad turn. Nobody exactly knew de Vigny's age; but, judging approximately, as it was known that de Vigny had served in the guards on the return of Louis XVIII., and supposing he was eighteen at the time he entered the service, say in 1815, he must have been thirty-two in 1829.
De Vigny was a very unique person; he was polite, friendly, and gentle in all his interactions, but he put on an air of complete unworldliness—an attitude that matched perfectly with his charming face, with its delicate and refined features framed by long, curly light hair, making him look like a brother of the cherubs. De Vigny never engaged with earthly matters if he could help it; if he occasionally folded his wings and rested on the peak of a mountain, it was a concession he made to humanity, because, after all, it was useful to him when he briefly interacted with us. Hugo and I often marveled at his complete obliviousness to the material needs of our nature, which many of us, including Hugo and I, satisfied not only without any shame but with a certain sensual enjoyment. None of us had ever seen de Vigny at a meal. Dorval, who had spent several hours a day with him for seven years, told us with astonishment bordering on terror that she had never even seen him eat a radish! Even Proserpine, a goddess, wasn't that abstinent; taken by Pluto to the underworld, she had managed to eat seven pomegranate seeds despite the concerns that her unappetizing stay naturally brought her. Nevertheless, these traits didn't stop de Vigny from being an enjoyable companion, a true gentleman, always ready to do you a kindness and completely incapable of doing you harm. No one really knew de Vigny’s age; but judging roughly, since it was known that de Vigny had served in the guards when Louis XVIII returned, and assuming he was eighteen when he joined up in 1815, he must have been thirty-two in 1829.
It will be observed that all these great revolutionaries were very young and that the revolutionary poets were very much like the three generals of the Revolution of whom I have, I believe, spoken, who commanded the army of Sambre-et-Meuse, and whose combined ages reckoned seventy years: Hoche, Marceau and my father.
It’s noticeable that all these major revolutionaries were quite young and that the revolutionary poets resembled the three generals of the Revolution that I think I’ve mentioned, who led the army of Sambre-et-Meuse, and whose total age added up to seventy years: Hoche, Marceau, and my father.
The coming representation of Othello made a great stir. We all knew de Vigny's translation, and although we should have preferred to have been supported by national troops and a French general, rather than by this poetical condottiere, we realised that we must accept all the arms we could against our enemies, especially when such arms came from the arsenal of the great master of us all—Shakespeare. Mademoiselle Mars and Joanny were allotted the principal parts. They were powerful auxiliaries, but they were not precisely the kind we wanted. Mademoiselle Mars and Joanny looked a little awkward in the habiliments which (dramatically speaking) were not suitable to their figures. Mademoiselle Mars was a charming woman of the Empire period, refined, light, delicate, graceful, satirical, possessing none of the gentle, innocent melancholy of the Moor's mistress; and Joanny, with his retroussé nose à la Odry and his gestures with no grandeur or majesty in them, did not recall the gloomy and terrible lover of Desdemona. The part of Iago that Ducis had replaced by that of Pezarre, as one replaces a flesh-and-bone leg by a wooden one, fell to the lot of Perrier, and was to make its appearance in full daylight for the first time.
The upcoming performance of Othello created quite a buzz. We were all familiar with de Vigny's translation, and while we would have preferred to be backed by national troops and a French general rather than this poetic mercenary, we understood that we had to accept whatever support we could get against our foes, especially when that support came from the great master of all—Shakespeare. Mademoiselle Mars and Joanny were given the leading roles. They were strong allies, but not exactly the type we were hoping for. Mademoiselle Mars and Joanny looked a bit out of place in the outfits that (dramatically speaking) didn't flatter their figures. Mademoiselle Mars was a charming woman from the Empire period—refined, light, delicate, graceful, and satirical—lacking any of the gentle, innocent sadness of the Moor's mistress; while Joanny, with his retroussé nose à la Odry and gestures devoid of any grandeur or majesty, didn't evoke the dark and tragic lover of Desdemona. The role of Iago, which Ducis had swapped for that of Pezarre—like replacing a real leg with a wooden one—was assigned to Perrier and was about to be unveiled in full daylight for the first time.
So the representation was looked forward to with much impatience; but, whilst awaiting this solemn occasion, which, as we have mentioned, was to take place at the Théâtre-Français, another production was being prepared at the Odéon which was of special importance to me, namely, the Christine à Fontainebleau by Frédéric Soulié. M. Brault's Christine died a few days after its birth, as I have said in due course, and had disappeared without leaving any trace!
So everyone was eagerly anticipating the performance; however, while waiting for this important event, which, as we mentioned, was set to happen at the Théâtre-Français, another show was being prepared at the Odéon that was particularly significant to me: Christine à Fontainebleau by Frédéric Soulié. M. Brault's Christine vanished just a few days after it premiered, as I mentioned earlier, and had disappeared without a trace!
The Odéon had been recently reorganised on new lines. Harel, whom we have seen attempting to seize Marion[Pg 524] Delorme at Hugo's house by surprise, formerly secretary to Cambacérès, formerly sous-préfet of the department of l'Aisne, formerly préfet of the Landes, a political refugee in 1815, editor of the Nain Jaune in Belgium, in short, one of the most versatile men who ever lived, had just been appointed director of the Odéon, I believe in place of Éric Bernard. He had opened the theatre with Lucien Arnault's États de Blois, which did not meet with a great success, in spite of the sumptuous manner in which the piece had been mounted; and, being a good journalist and clever at handling the triple element which comprises the feuilleton, the short paragraph and the puff, Harel knew how to set the drums sounding in favour of my friend Frédéric Soulié's Christine à Fontainebleau.
The Odéon had recently been reorganized. Harel, who we saw trying to catch Marion[Pg 524] Delorme by surprise at Hugo's house, was previously the secretary to Cambacérès, earlier the sous-préfet of the l'Aisne department, and formerly the préfet of the Landes. He was a political refugee in 1815, the editor of the Nain Jaune in Belgium, and overall one of the most adaptable people ever. He had just been appointed director of the Odéon, I believe replacing Éric Bernard. He opened the theatre with Lucien Arnault's États de Blois, which didn't achieve much success, despite the lavish production. As a skilled journalist who was good at managing the three elements of the feuilleton, short paragraphs, and promotional pieces, Harel knew how to make a buzz for my friend Frédéric Soulié's Christine à Fontainebleau.
I had not seen Frédéric since the night upon which we had parted with feelings of coldness towards one another and had each—decided to go on with our own Christines. Henri III. and its success and all the renown it had brought with it had passed without my hearing mention of Soulié's name. His Christine was finished and that was the last I heard of him. He had sent me two seats in the gallery for his Juliette and I had sent him two balcony tickets for my Henri III., and that was the extent of our exchange of politeness. I expected seats to be sent me for Christine, but, to my great astonishment, I did not receive them. Later, I found out that this was due to Harel, who feared I should do the play an ill turn, and so opposed tickets being sent me.
I hadn't seen Frédéric since the night we parted on such chilly terms, each of us deciding to move forward with our own Christines. Henri III. had been a success, bringing with it a lot of fame, but I hadn't heard Soulié's name in connection with it. His Christine was completed, and that was the last I heard from him. He sent me two gallery seats for his Juliette, and I replied with two balcony tickets for my Henri III., and that was the limit of our polite exchanges. I expected to receive tickets for Christine, but to my surprise, they never came. Later, I learned that Harel had stopped them from being sent because he was concerned I might harm the play’s reputation.
As I had no seat for the first production I made no effort to procure one for myself; and I went to bed quite satisfied that I should hear first thing next morning whether the play had been received with applause or hissed at. As a matter of fact, one of my good friends, a lad who had done nothing then beyond showing promise of talent but who has since made his mark, Achille Comte, came to my room at seven next morning. Poor Christine had fallen quite flat. Soulié, apparently, had conceived the notion of introducing an Italian bandit in the forest of Fontainebleau, and this had produced[Pg 525] the most grotesque effect imaginable. The day before, I should have thought that this news would have delighted me after Soulié's treatment of me; but, on the contrary, it made me feel wretchedly miserable. The innocent and primitive friendships of our youth are the only real friendships.
As I didn’t have a ticket for the first performance, I didn’t bother to get one for myself; I went to bed feeling content that I would find out first thing the next morning whether the play was met with applause or boos. In fact, one of my good friends, a guy who hadn’t achieved much at that point but had shown promise, Achille Comte, came to my room at seven the next morning. Poor Christine had flopped completely. Soulié, it seemed, thought it would be a good idea to introduce an Italian bandit in the forest of Fontainebleau, and this created[Pg 525] the most ridiculous effect imaginable. The day before, I would have thought this news would make me happy, especially after how Soulié had treated me; but instead, it left me feeling deeply miserable. The innocent and simple friendships of our youth are the only true friendships.
The reading of Marion had not only impressed me deeply, but it had done me immense service: it had opened out to me hitherto undreamed-of poetic suggestions; it had revealed to me possibilities in the way of treating poetry of which I had never thought; finally, it had given me my first idea for Antony. The day after the reading of Marion Delorme I set to work with unusual courage. Before the music of the lines I had listened to the previous night had ceased ringing in my ears, I had started, inspired by the harmony of their dying strains; and the new Christine opened its eyes to the strains of the distant and melodious echo which still lived in my spirit, although the sound itself had ceased.
The reading of Marion not only left a deep impression on me, but it also did me a huge favor: it opened my eyes to poetic ideas I had never considered before; it showed me new possibilities for writing poetry I hadn’t thought of; and, finally, it sparked my first idea for Antony. The day after I read Marion Delorme, I began working with an unusual sense of courage. Before the music of the lines I had heard the previous night faded from my mind, I started, inspired by the harmony of their lingering notes; and the new Christine came to life to the sounds of the distant and beautiful echo that still resonated within me, even though the actual sound had stopped.
I must be allowed a brief digression on the subject of Christine: I give it as a study in manners and customs and I hope it will not be mistaken for boasting.
I need to take a moment to talk about Christine: I present it as a study of social behaviors and customs, and I hope it won’t be seen as bragging.
There was in those days, outside the literary world, a big fellow who was half an idiot, with a long crooked nose and legs like Seringuinos in the Pilules du Diable. He was, I believe, the son of an Orléans apothecary and he played the young Don Juan to chambermaids and daughters of the porter, whom he transformed into baronesses and duchesses in his elegies and sonnets; he wrote a novel which was published but, I am certain, was never read. This novel was entitled the Roueries de Trialph. His name was Lassailly.
There was, back in those days, a big guy outside the literary scene who was sort of an idiot, with a long crooked nose and legs like Seringuinos in the Pilules du Diable. I think he was the son of a pharmacist from Orléans, and he fancied himself a young Don Juan to chambermaids and the daughters of the porter, whom he turned into baronesses and duchesses in his elegies and sonnets. He wrote a novel that got published, but I’m pretty sure nobody actually read it. This novel was called the Roueries de Trialph. His name was Lassailly.
There are certain people who acquire the odd privilege of introducing the grotesque into the most mournful and heartrending of scenes, and Lassailly was one of the most highly favoured of these purveyors of the ridiculous. Once, I had gone to bed and was writing the first scene between Paula and Monaldeschi and had got to these lines—
There are certain people who have the unique ability to bring the absurd into the most sorrowful and heart-wrenching situations, and Lassailly was one of the luckiest of these providers of the ridiculous. Once, I had gone to bed and was writing the first scene between Paula and Monaldeschi and had got to these lines—
"Oh! garde-moi! je serai ta servante!
Tout ce qu'une amour pure ou délirante invente
[Pg 526]
De bonheurs, oui, pour toi, je les inventerai!
Quand tu me maudiras, moi, je te bénirai—
J'aurai des mots d'amour qui guériront ton âme;
Garde-moi! Je consens qu'une autre soit ta femme;
Je promets de l'aimer, d'obéir à sa loi;
Mais, par le Dieu vivant, garde-moi! garde-moi!..."
"Oh! keep me! I will be your servant!
Everything that pure or wild love creates
[Pg 526]
Of happiness, yes, for you, I will create!
When you curse me, I will bless you—
I will have words of love that will heal your soul;
Keep me! I agree that another can be your wife;
I promise to love her, to obey her rules;
But, by the living God, keep me! keep me!..."
Suddenly I heard the door of my sitting room open and a howling being of some sort or other approached my bedroom; next I saw my bedroom door open and Lassailly entered, flinging himself on the carpet and tearing his hair. The apparition was so unexpected, so strange and even so terrifying that I stretched out my hand for the double-barrelled pistols I kept in a recess at the head of my bed. When I saw that it was Lassailly, I pushed the pistols back and awaited an explanation of this exhibition of buffoonery. The explanation was sad enough: the poor devil's father had thrown himself into the river and Lassailly had just learned both that his father had been drowned and that his body, after having been taken out of the water, was exposed at the Orléans Morgue, whence it could not be taken away without the payment of a certain sum of money. Lassailly had not a halfpenny towards this sum and he had come to ask it of me. At the sight of the son weeping for his father, who had met with his death in this deplorable manner, I could only visualize one mental picture: I was not so much impressed by the son's grief, which, however extravagant in expression, to the point of grotesqueness, was still, perhaps, sincere at bottom; but by the thought of the real, unforeseen and irreparable misery of the poor wretch that had been drawn from the waters of the Loire, pale and streaming, and sad, with eyes dimmed by death, and face smeared with river weeds, now laid on the damp stones of the Morgue. I did not attempt to console Lassailly: one does not offer comfort unless people ask for it. Rachel weeping for her children in Ramah, and filling the air with her lamentations, would not be comforted, because they were not.
Suddenly, I heard the door to my living room open, and some sort of wailing figure approached my bedroom. Then, I saw my bedroom door open, and Lassailly rushed in, throwing himself on the carpet and tearing at his hair. The sight was so unexpected, so strange, and even so terrifying that I reached for the double-barreled pistols I kept in a nook at the head of my bed. When I realized it was Lassailly, I put the pistols back and waited for an explanation of this bizarre display. The explanation was quite sad: the poor guy's father had jumped into the river, and Lassailly had just found out that his father had drowned and that his body, once retrieved from the water, was on display at the Orléans Morgue, which couldn’t be released without payment of a certain amount. Lassailly didn’t have a penny to his name and had come to ask me for the money. Seeing the son weeping for his father, who had died in such a tragic way, I could only think of one image: I wasn’t as affected by the son’s grief, which, despite its exaggerated display and almost comical aspect, might still have been sincere. What struck me more was the thought of the real, unforeseen, and irreversible misery of the poor wretch pulled from the Loire, pale and wet, with sad, lifeless eyes and a face covered in river weeds, now laying on the damp stones of the Morgue. I didn’t try to comfort Lassailly; you don’t offer comfort unless people ask for it. Rachel weeping for her children in Ramah, filling the air with her cries, couldn’t be comforted because they were no more.
"My friend," I said, "let us get to the most pressing part of the business. You want to go to Orléans, do you not? To[Pg 527] bury your father? You say it will cost you a hundred francs; I think it will cost you more than that, and I would like to offer you as much as you will need; but I can only offer you as much as I possess.... Open that chiffonier drawer, which contains a hundred and thirty-five francs, take a hundred and thirty and leave me five...."
"My friend," I said, "let's get to the most important part of the matter. You want to go to Orléans, right? To[Pg 527] bury your father? You say it will cost you a hundred francs; I believe it will actually be more than that, and I want to offer you whatever you need; but I can only give you what I have.... Open that dresser drawer, which has a hundred and thirty-five francs, take a hundred and thirty, and leave me five...."
Lassailly tried to throw himself into my arms, made an attempt to embrace me and called me his saviour; but I gently pushed him away, pointed with my hand to the drawer and repeated—
Lassailly tried to throw himself into my arms, made an attempt to embrace me, and called me his savior; but I gently pushed him away, pointed with my hand to the drawer, and repeated—
"There, there ... take it; ... take a hundred and thirty francs, and leave me five."
"There, there ... just take it; ... take one hundred thirty francs, and leave me five."
He took the sum and left, and when he had gone I resumed and finished my scene between Paula and Monaldeschi. A fortnight later, the first, and to be accurate also the last, number of a little paper was brought to me. A critic announced in a prefatory article that it meant to tell the truth for the first time about the various high-flown false reputations that sprang up in a night. The article went on to say that it meant at last to put men and things in the places God had intended them to occupy.
He took the money and left, and after he was gone, I went back to work and finished my scene between Paula and Monaldeschi. Two weeks later, the first—and to be precise, the only—issue of a small publication was delivered to me. A critic stated in an introductory article that it aimed to reveal the truth for the first time about the various inflated false reputations that appeared overnight. The article continued by saying it intended to finally place people and things where God had meant them to be.
I This series of the avengers of justice, these literary executions, began with Alexandre Dumas. The article was signed "Lassailly," and had brought him in a hundred francs! The man who brought me the paper was acquainted with what I had done for Lassailly a fortnight before.
I This series of the avengers of justice, these literary executions, began with Alexandre Dumas. The article was signed "Lassailly," and earned him one hundred francs! The person who delivered the paper knew about what I had done for Lassailly two weeks prior.
"Well," he asked, "what do you say to that?"
"Well," he asked, "what do you think about that?"
"Poor boy!" I replied; "he has perhaps had to bury his mother!"
"Poor kid!" I replied; "he might have had to bury his mom!"
And I stuffed the journal into the chiffonier drawer from whence he had taken the hundred and thirty francs which he never paid back. Lassailly has since died, and the paper was never resuscitated.
And I shoved the journal into the dresser drawer where he took the hundred and thirty francs that he never paid back. Lassailly has since passed away, and the paper was never brought back to life.
Let us now return to the two Christines. Directly, as I have said, I learnt the failure of Soulié's, I finished mine within a month almost, and it then had the form it now bears. I went, that same day, to find the manager of the Théâtre-Français,[Pg 528] whose name I have forgotten. He was a kind of mulatto, with big eyes and yellow skin, and, with the letter of the committee in my hand, M. Brault's Christine having been played, I asked that mine should be put in rehearsal. There was, indeed, to be a committee the next day; and the manager replied that he would lay the matter before them. The committee decided that as it was a matter of common knowledge that I had altered my work, I ought to submit to a second reading. But as this second reading was, in reality, a third reading, I declined the proposal outright. And with this struggle with the Comédie-Française began a lasting series of friendly dealings between us. In the middle of the conflict I received a letter from Harel couched in the following terms:—
Let’s return to the two Christines. Just as I mentioned, I found out about Soulié's failure, and I finished mine in about a month, and it took the form it has now. On that same day, I went to see the manager of the Théâtre-Français,[Pg 528] whose name I've forgotten. He was a sort of mixed-race man with big eyes and yellowish skin, and with the committee's letter in my hand, since M. Brault's Christine had just been performed, I requested that mine be put into rehearsal. There was supposed to be a committee meeting the next day, and the manager said he would bring it up with them. The committee decided that since it was well known that I had revised my work, I needed to submit it for a second reading. However, since this second reading was essentially a third reading, I outright refused the proposal. And that’s how my ongoing friendly dealings with the Comédie-Française began. In the midst of this conflict, I received a letter from Harel that read as follows:—
"MY DEAR DUMAS,—What do you think of this idea of Mademoiselle Georges? To play your Christine immediately, on the same stage and with the same actors as those who played Soulié's Christine? The conditions to be settled by yourself. You need not trouble your head with the idea that you will strangle a friend's work, because it yesterday died a natural death.—Yours ever, HAREL"
"MY DEAR DUMAS,—What do you think about Mademoiselle Georges' idea? To perform your Christine right away, on the same stage and with the same actors who played in Soulié's Christine? You can set the terms yourself. Don’t worry about potentially overshadowing a friend's work; it just naturally faded away yesterday.—Yours always, HAREL"
I called my servant, and on the epistle which I have above transcribed I wrote the words—
I called my servant, and on the letter that I copied above, I wrote the words—
"MY DEAR FRÉDÉRIC,—Read this letter. What a rascal your friend Harel is!—Yours, ALEX. DUMAS"
"MY DEAR FRÉDÉRIC,—Look at this letter. Your friend Harel is such a trickster!—Yours, ALEX. DUMAS"
My servant took the letter to the sawmill at la Gare and, an hour later, he brought me back this answer at the bottom of the same letter. Frédéric had written—
My servant took the letter to the sawmill at the station and, an hour later, he returned with this response at the end of the same letter. Frédéric had written—
"MY DEAR DUMAS,—Harel is not my friend, he is a manager. Harel is not a rascal, only a speculator. I would not do what he is doing, but I would advise him to accept. Gather up the fragments of my Christine—and I warn you there are plenty of them—throw them into the basket of the first rag-and-bone man that passes your way and get your own piece played.—Yours ever, F. SOULIÉ"
"MY DEAR DUMAS,—Harel isn't really my friend; he's just a manager. Harel isn't dishonest, just a businessman. I wouldn't do what he's doing, but I think he should go for it. Gather all the pieces of my Christine—and trust me, there are many—throw them in the basket of the first junk collector who passes by, and get your own show on stage.—Always yours, F. SOULIÉ"
It will be admitted that Harel's letter was a very curious document, with its preface and its postscript. With this authorisation, I did not see any difficulty in the way of accepting Harel's offers. My sole stipulation was that, whether my play were received or not at the reading of the committee, it should be proceeded with within six weeks of the date of the agreement.
It’s true that Harel’s letter was quite an interesting document, with its introduction and its ending. With this approval, I had no problem accepting Harel’s offers. My only condition was that, regardless of whether my play was accepted or not during the committee's reading, it should move forward within six weeks from the date of the agreement.
The reading before the committee was fixed for the following Saturday and the reading before the actors for Sunday night. I had my reasons for being suspicious of the committee: it had received me under reservation of correction and, as the committee of the Théâtre-Français had given me Samson as reviser, the committee of the Odéon appointed MM. Tissot and Sainte-Beuve as their advisers. As Cavé rose to leave, he declared that the play contained some fine passages, but that it was not suitable for acting. And he was the only friend I had on the committee!
The reading for the committee was scheduled for the next Saturday, and the reading for the actors was set for Sunday night. I had my reasons to be wary of the committee: they had accepted me with the condition of possible changes, and since the committee from the Théâtre-Français assigned me Samson as the reviser, the Odéon committee appointed MM. Tissot and Sainte-Beuve as their advisors. As Cavé stood up to leave, he said the play had some great parts, but that it wasn't suitable for performance. And he was my only friend on the committee!
Harel was completely staggered; for, although he was an able man, he could not distinguish good poetry from bad, and did not know what was great or beautiful.
Harel was totally taken aback; because, even though he was capable, he couldn't tell good poetry from bad and didn't understand what was great or beautiful.
I wish it to be thoroughly understood that I do not mean these remarks to apply to his doubts about Christine, but only to his judgment generally. He worshipped Voltaire, and, before he died, he had the happiness to be decorated for his eulogium on the author of Zaïre. While I strongly admired Voltaire as a philosopher and narrator, on the other hand I thought but little of him as a poet, and specially as a dramatic poet; as a dramatist, his methods are ordinary, worn-out and melodramatic; as a writer, his lines are poor, sententious and badly rhymed. It is unfortunate for the philosopher of Ferney, but it must be, confessed that it is only in his infamous poem the Pucelle that he is well-nigh unapproachable; and even those who are revolted by the impiety, historical calumny and patriotic ingratitude of it are compelled to admire the work, for it is a masterpiece.
I want to make it clear that my comments aren’t about his doubts regarding Christine, but just about his overall judgment. He was a huge fan of Voltaire, and before he died, he was thrilled to receive an award for his praise of the author of Zaïre. While I have great respect for Voltaire as a philosopher and storyteller, I don’t think highly of him as a poet, especially as a playwright. His approach to drama feels clichéd, tired, and overly dramatic; as a writer, his lines are weak, preachy, and poorly rhymed. It’s unfortunate for the philosopher from Ferney, but the truth is that he’s only truly exceptional in his infamous poem Pucelle; even those who are offended by its blasphemy, historical inaccuracies, and lack of patriotic spirit can’t help but admire it because it is a masterpiece.
In spite of Cavé's opinion and Harel's perturbation, the[Pg 530] reading before the actors was still allowed to take place on the following day: it had been agreed upon. I say it had been agreed upon, because, if it bad not been, the reading would certainly never have taken place. And Harel asked permission for Jules Janin to be present at the reading. Janin had then made over all his rights to Harel, and although I did not place absolute reliance in the fanciful and capricious taste of the future prince of critics, I made no opposition to his presence. I possessed, at that time, the horrifying amount of assurance that always accompanies inexperience and supreme self-satisfaction. It has taken a great deal of success to cure me of my conceit!
Despite Cavé's opinion and Harel's concern, the[Pg 530] reading for the actors was still allowed to happen the next day: it had been agreed upon. I say it had been agreed upon because if it hadn’t been, the reading definitely wouldn’t have taken place. Harel then asked for permission for Jules Janin to attend the reading. Janin had transferred all his rights to Harel, and even though I didn’t fully trust the unpredictable and whimsical tastes of the future prince of critics, I didn't oppose his presence. At that time, I had a shocking level of confidence that often comes with inexperience and overwhelming self-satisfaction. It took a lot of success to humble me!
I read to the actors—that class of people which, taking all things into consideration, is the quickest at judging beforehand of the effect of a piece, although every actor, in general, listens to the work that is being read to him from his own particular point of view, thinks mainly of the effect of his own part and does not worry himself over those of his neighbours. The reading was a great success, but Harel was none the less troubled by an idea that he did not reveal until next day. He came to me at break of day to propose to me, in all simplicity, to put Christine into prose. And this was how Harel exhibited himself to me in all his glory at the very outset. Of course I laughed in his face and, after laughing at him, I showed him the door.
I read to the actors—a group that, all things considered, is the quickest to judge how a piece will play out. However, every actor usually listens to the reading from their own perspective, focusing mainly on how their part will land and not paying much attention to the others. The reading went really well, but Harel was still bothered by an idea he didn’t share until the next day. He came to me at dawn to suggest, quite simply, that I turn Christine into prose. And that’s how Harel presented himself to me in all his glory right from the start. Of course, I laughed in his face, and after I was done laughing, I showed him the door.
The following day, the first rehearsal took place, as though no such suggestion had ever been made. The piece was capitally mounted: Georges played Christine; Ligier, Sentinelli; Lockroy, Monaldeschi; and Mademoiselle Noblet, whose début it almost was, played Paula. It had been decreed on high that the person for whom the latter rôle had been made was not to play it! "Man proposes, God disposes." Even the two slight parts of the assassins of Monaldeschi were played by two actors of the very highest merit, Stockleit and Duparay.
The next day, the first rehearsal happened, as if no such suggestion had ever been made. The production was excellently staged: Georges played Christine; Ligier, Sentinelli; Lockroy, Monaldeschi; and Mademoiselle Noblet, whose debut it almost was, played Paula. It had been decided by higher-ups that the person for whom the latter role was created was not to perform it! "Man proposes, God disposes." Even the two small roles of Monaldeschi’s assassins were played by two outstanding actors, Stockleit and Duparay.
Just as my rehearsals began, Alfred de Vigny's ended. Our relative partisans were exasperated with us, and with some[Pg 531] reason. They demanded loudly that we should not be played, whilst we demanded with even louder outcries that we should be played.
Just as my rehearsals started, Alfred de Vigny's ended. Our respective supporters were frustrated with us, and for some[Pg 531] reason. They loudly insisted we shouldn't perform, while we responded with even louder shouts that we should.
The first representation of the More de Venise was introduced with every appearance of a battle. Mademoiselle Mars had gone over bag and baggage from the old style of comedy to the new modern school of drama; we had won over Joanny, Perrier and Firmin, and in short there was not an actor down to the excellent David, who had accepted the small part of Cassio, who would not be acting in the Shakespearian exhibition that was preparing. The rage of the men who for thirty years had monopolised the Théâtre-Français had to be seen, before an idea could be conceived of the howls and curses that were flung at us. These gentlemen only seemed acquainted with Shakespeare through what Voltaire had said about him, and Schiller by means of M. Petitot. When M. Lebrun and M. Ancelot had borrowed their Maria Stuart and Fiesque from the German Shakespeare, they decided that MM. Ancelot and Lebrun had done Schiller great honour thereby, and a host of articles had demonstrated that very indifferent works—works only fit for the stage of a fair—were real classical masterpieces! This time, the public was not going to see Shakespeare corrected, castrated and docked, but—save for the loss he must necessarily sustain from translation—the giant himself, who had kept the crowning place in England during the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. If these sacrilegious exhibitions continued, what could Zaïre say confronted with Desdemona, Ninus with Hamlet or the Deux Gendres with King Lear? Such pale and sickly counterfeits of nature and truth must fail and come to nothing or suffer by comparison!
The first showing of the More de Venise came with all the excitement of a battle. Mademoiselle Mars had completely switched from the old style of comedy to the new modern style of drama; we had won over Joanny, Perrier, and Firmin, and in short, there wasn’t a single actor, down to the brilliant David, who had taken the small role of Cassio, who wouldn’t be performing in the Shakespeare production that was in the works. You should have seen the anger of the men who had dominated the Théâtre-Français for thirty years to understand the howls and insults they directed at us. These gentlemen seemed to know Shakespeare only through what Voltaire had said about him, and Schiller only through M. Petitot. When M. Lebrun and M. Ancelot borrowed their Maria Stuart and Fiesque from the German Shakespeare, they believed that MM. Ancelot and Lebrun had honored Schiller, and a slew of articles argued that mediocre works—performances only suitable for a fair—were true classical masterpieces! This time, the audience was not going to see Shakespeare edited, altered, or sanitized, but—aside from the inevitable losses from translation—the giant himself, who had held the top spot in England during the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. If these disrespectful performances continued, what could Zaïre possibly say when faced with Desdemona, or Ninus with Hamlet, or the Deux Gendres with King Lear? Such weak and feeble imitations of nature and truth would surely fail or be crushed in comparison!
I opened a paper by chance and in it I read:—
I opened a newspaper by chance and in it I read:—
"The representation of the More de Venise is being prepared for as though there were going to be a battle to decide some great literary question. It is to settle whether Shakespeare, Schiller and Goethe are to drive Corneille, Racine and Voltaire from the French stage."
"The presentation of the More de Venise is being arranged as if there's going to be a showdown to settle a significant literary debate. It's intended to decide whether Shakespeare, Schiller, and Goethe will oust Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire from the French stage."
This was a delicious lapse from truth and exquisitely spiteful; for, thanks to the notion of the expulsion of the masters, it excited the bourgeois classes, and the question, which was entirely beside the mark, by the very form it took, gave justification to those who put it.
This was a tasty twist of truth and beautifully spiteful; because of the idea of expelling the masters, it stirred up the middle class, and the question, which was completely irrelevant, in the way it was presented, gave justification to those who asked it.
No! indeed no! These masters of art were no more driven from their time-honoured Parnassus than the bourgeoisie drove out the aristocracy from the positions they had occupied since the beginning of the monarchy. No, we did not say to these great masters, "Retire and give up your places to us!" but, "Allow us to aspire to the same rights with you, if we deserve to do so. The heathen Olympus was large enough to contain six thousand gods, make then a little space, ye gods of old France, for the Scandinavian and Teutonic gods. The religion of Molière, of Corneille and of Racine was ever that of the State; but let liberty for all religions be proclaimed!"
No! Absolutely not! These masters of art were not pushed off their revered Parnassus any more than the bourgeoisie pushed the aristocracy out of their long-held positions since the start of the monarchy. No, we didn’t tell these great masters, "Step back and let us take your places!" but rather, "Let us have the same rights as you, if we have earned them. The pagan Olympus had enough room for six thousand gods, so make a little space, you gods of old France, for the Scandinavian and Teutonic gods. The faith of Molière, Corneille, and Racine was always that of the State; but let’s declare freedom for all religions!"
But they were too narrow and exclusive, and, instead of welcoming these new gods, instead of hailing all that was lofty in them and only criticising what was unworthy in them, the political exiles of yesterday wanted to-day to enforce a literary proscription. It seems incredibly strange and mysterious, but nevertheless so it was!
But they were too narrow-minded and exclusive, and instead of embracing these new ideas, instead of celebrating everything great about them and only criticizing what was lacking, the political exiles from yesterday wanted to impose a literary ban today. It seems incredibly strange and mysterious, but that’s how it was!
In spite of violent opposition, Othello succeeded. The groans of the jealous African were heard for the first time, and people were moved and shivered and trembled under the sobs of that terrible wrath. Joanny, carried away by his part, was often remarkable in his acting, and once or twice he was sublime. I never saw anything more picturesque than that great African figure as it strode the stage in the darkness of night, draped like a spectre in its large white burnous, whispering in a gloomy voice, with arms extended towards Desdemona's dwelling—
In spite of the intense opposition, Othello triumphed. The cries of the jealous African rang out for the first time, stirring the audience, causing them to shudder and tremble at the intensity of his anger. Joanny, fully immersed in his role, was often outstanding in his performance, and there were moments when he was truly magnificent. I’ve never seen anything more striking than that imposing African figure as it strode across the stage in the dark of night, dressed like a ghost in its large white burnous, speaking in a dark tone, with arms outstretched toward Desdemona's home—
"... Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned forthwith ..."
"... Get you to bed right now; I will be back right away ..."
Mademoiselle Mars, who was of a much wider discernment in her art than Joanny, was uniformly excellent;[Pg 533] once she was sublime, namely, where, springing up on her bed, she exclaims, giving the lie in advance to Iago's accusation—
Mademoiselle Mars, who had a much broader understanding of her craft than Joanny, was consistently outstanding;[Pg 533] once she was exceptional, specifically when, rising from her bed, she exclaims, preemptively denying Iago's accusation—
"He will not say so."
"He won't say that."
I am writing all this from memory, as will be readily guessed, so I quote only the parts that stand out most clearly in my mind, after an interval of twenty-two years. I may therefore be pardoned for not quoting more than these two instances.
I’m writing all this from memory, which is easy to figure out, so I only mention the parts that stand out the most in my mind, after twenty-two years. Thus, I hope it’s understandable that I’m not providing more than these two examples.
Well, the strange part of the situation was that the Liberal papers, those which cried up movement and progress in politics, were the reactionaries in literature; while the Royalist papers, those which took the side of stagnation and conservatism in politics, were the revolutionaries in literature. It was still more difficult to comprehend if one did not know that the Constitutionnel, the Courrier français and the Pandore were edited by MM. Jay, Jouy, Arnault, Étienne, Viennet, etc., whilst the Quotidienne, the Drapeau blanc and the Foudre were under the management of Merle, Théaulon, Brisset, Martainville, Lassagne, Nodier and Mély-Jeannin. The one set worked for the Théâtre-Français and, having usurped the position, meant to keep it; the others, in general, had only worked for the boulevard theatres, and these were eager to have a breach made in the classical ramparts to give access to themselves. Merle was, besides, the husband of Madame Dorval, whose talent was just beginning to make a sensation and who had created with incontestable success the rôles of Amélie in Trente Ans ou la Vie d'un Joueur and of Charlotte Corday in Sept Heures, also of Louise in l'Incendiaire. We need not mention the part of Héléna in Marino Faliero, for the part was poor and Madame Dorval was not able to transform a bad part into a good one.
The strange thing about the situation was that the Liberal newspapers, which championed movement and progress in politics, were actually conservative when it came to literature; while the Royalist newspapers, which supported stagnation and conservatism in politics, were the ones pushing for literature to change. It was even harder to understand if you didn’t know that the Constitutionnel, the Courrier français, and the Pandore were run by people like Jay, Jouy, Arnault, Étienne, Viennet, and others, while the Quotidienne, the Drapeau blanc, and the Foudre were managed by Merle, Théaulon, Brisset, Martainville, Lassagne, Nodier, and Mély-Jeannin. The first group worked for the Théâtre-Français and, having taken that position, aimed to hold onto it; the others mostly worked for the boulevard theaters and were eager to break down the classical barriers to let themselves in. Merle was also the husband of Madame Dorval, whose talent was just starting to make waves, and who had successfully played Amélie in Trente Ans ou la Vie d'un Joueur and Charlotte Corday in Sept Heures, as well as Louise in l'Incendiaire. There’s no need to mention her role as Héléna in Marino Faliero, since it was a poor role and Madame Dorval couldn’t turn a bad part into a good one.
I have mentioned that the rehearsals of Christine had begun. Let us leave them to pursue their course and take a peep into the world of city-life, which we have deserted for a very long time for the world of the stage. Whilst changing scenes, we will nevertheless conduct our reader to the house of a comedian[Pg 534] who was worth quite as much attention as the actors we are leaving. Furthermore, he was not among those who for fifty years had been playing the less conspicuous parts in the great drama which had attracted all attention and occupied all minds, during the conclusion of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century. Let us reveal the fact that we are about to speak of Paul-François-Jean-Nicodème, Comte de Barras.
I’ve mentioned that the rehearsals for Christine have started. Let’s leave them to carry on and take a look at the world of city life, which we’ve ignored for a long time in favor of the stage. While changing scenes, we’ll still guide our reader to the home of a comedian[Pg 534] who deserves just as much attention as the actors we’re leaving behind. Besides, he wasn’t one of those who had spent fifty years playing minor roles in the major drama that captured everyone’s attention and occupied all minds at the end of the eighteenth and the start of the nineteenth century. Let’s reveal that we’re about to talk about Paul-François-Jean-Nicodème, Comte de Barras.
CHAPTER XIV
Citizen-general Barras—Doctor Cabarrus introduces me to him—Barras's only two regrets—His dinners—The Princess de Chimay's footman—Fauche-Borel—The Duc de Bordeaux makes a mess—History lesson given to an ambassador—Walter Scott and Barras—The last happiness of the old directeur—His death
Citizen-general Barras—Doctor Cabarrus introduces me to him—Barras's only two regrets—His dinners—The Princess de Chimay's footman—Fauche-Borel—The Duke of Bordeaux makes a mess—A history lesson given to an ambassador—Walter Scott and Barras—The last happiness of the old director—His death
I have related how my successful play Henri III. had launched me in the world and the curiosity there was excited over its author. Barras was among the number of those who wanted to be introduced to me. The name which I inherited from my father was of special historic significance to the Man of the Convention, the Directoire, 9 thermidor and 13 vendémiaire.
I have shared how my hit play Henri III. had opened doors for me and sparked interest in its creator. Barras was among those eager to meet me. The name I got from my father held particular historical importance for the Man of the Convention, the Directoire, 9 thermidor, and 13 vendémiaire.
The history of Barras is known by heart. He was the son of an ancient Provençal family, and he had entered the army early; he had been sent to the isle of France and to India, where he had valiantly taken part in the defence of Pondicherry. He left the service with the rank of captain, and had come to Paris, where he had led an extremely dissipated life. Taken from this life of pleasure by his fellow-citizens of Var, who made him their député, in 1792, he had been a member of the Convention amongst the Montagnards; was charged with a mission, the following year, to suppress both the Federalist and Royalist movement which was agitating the South; had assisted at the recapture of Toulon from the English; and here had become acquainted with Major Bonaparte, thus being able to judge the advantage such a man would be to any party. On 9 thermidor, he was made commander of the armed forces of Paris: he it was who seized Robespierre and gave him up to the scaffold. Some days later, he was himself[Pg 536] attacked by the Sections (called by the Convention instead of my father, who could not, as we have seen, respond to the appeal because of his absence); he pushed Bonaparte forward, who was on his side on 13 vendémiaire and against him on 18 brumaire. It was said at that time (but this, I think, is one of the calumniating statements that conquerors are only too willing to make, concerning the vanquished, with respect to their victories, when not fairly won) that Barras was carrying on negotiations for the return of the Bourbons and twelve millions were promised to this new General Monk as the price of their restoration.
The story of Barras is well-known. He was the son of an old Provençal family and had joined the army early on; he had been sent to the Isle of France and India, where he bravely defended Pondicherry. He left the army with the rank of captain and moved to Paris, where he lived a very extravagant life. He was pulled from this life of pleasure by his fellow citizens of Var, who elected him as their deputy in 1792. He became a member of the Convention among the Montagnards; the following year, he was given a mission to suppress both the Federalist and Royalist movements that were stirring up trouble in the South. He helped recapture Toulon from the British and met Major Bonaparte there, realizing the benefits such a man could bring to any cause. On 9 thermidor, he became the commander of the armed forces in Paris; he was the one who arrested Robespierre and turned him over to the guillotine. A few days later, he was attacked by the Sections (called by the Convention instead of my father, who couldn't respond to the appeal due to his absence); he brought Bonaparte into play, who was on his side on 13 vendémiaire but against him on 18 brumaire. At that time, it was rumored (but I believe this is one of those slanderous claims that victors often make about the defeated, regarding their victories when they aren't genuinely earned) that Barras was negotiating the return of the Bourbons and that twelve million were promised to this new General Monk as the price for their restoration.
The events on 18 brumaire having squashed the Bourbon counter-revolution, Barras, being proscribed by his former protector, retired to Brussels and then to Rome. He only returned to France in 1816; settling down at Chaillot, where he had since dwelt, and where, thanks to an income of 200,000 livres which he had saved out of the various shipwrecks of his political career, he kept a charming and very luxurious household, waited on by a large retinue of servants. I specially refer to the number of servants, because Barras always had at his sumptuous table as many servants as guests, and several times I have dined there when there were twenty to twenty-five guests.
The events on 18 Brumaire had crushed the Bourbon counter-revolution, and Barras, having been exiled by his former protector, retired to Brussels and then to Rome. He only returned to France in 1816, settling in Chaillot, where he had lived ever since. Thanks to an income of 200,000 livres that he managed to save from the various failures of his political career, he maintained a charming and very luxurious lifestyle, attended by a large staff of servants. I specifically mention the number of servants because Barras always had as many servants at his lavish table as he did guests, and I have dined there several times when there were twenty to twenty-five guests.
I was introduced to the old dictator by one of my oldest and best friends, a man whom I was always delighted to see when I was well and still more pleased to see if I were ill, namely, Doctor Cabarrus, son of the handsome Madame Tallien. Cabarrus was then, and indeed still is, a fine strongly built man, with a sympathetic face and a character to accord. Endowed with a charming nature, sound learning and untiring observation, Cabarrus had, less by his social position than by his own personal work, been thrown into the midst of all the aristocratic circles—the aristocracies of birth, talent and science. No one could tell a story better than he, or, rarer gift still, be a better listener than he: he had a fine, delicate smiling mouth, and showed a lovely set of teeth when he laughed, which lit up his face. Barras was very fond of him, which[Pg 537] was not astonishing, because everybody who knew Cabarrus liked him.
I was introduced to the old dictator by one of my oldest and closest friends, a man I was always happy to see when I was well and even more glad to see when I was sick, namely, Doctor Cabarrus, son of the beautiful Madame Tallien. At that time, Cabarrus was, and still is, a strong man with a friendly face and a character to match. With a charming personality, solid education, and a knack for keen observation, Cabarrus had, more through his own efforts than his social status, found himself in the midst of all the elite circles—the elite of birth, talent, and science. No one could tell a story better than he could, or, even more rare, be a better listener: he had a nice, gentle smile and showed off a beautiful set of teeth when he laughed, which brightened up his face. Barras was very fond of him, which[Pg 537] wasn't surprising because everyone who knew Cabarrus liked him.
So it was Cabarrus who took me, one Wednesday morning, to Barras's house. I had been warned that the old dictator was always addressed as Citizen-general; there was no compulsion in the matter, of course, but that was the title which pleased him best.
So it was Cabarrus who took me, one Wednesday morning, to Barras's house. I had been warned that the old dictator was always called Citizen-general; there was no pressure to do so, of course, but that was the title he preferred the most.
Barras received us seated in a great arm-chair, which he vacated as rarely during the last years of his life as Louis XVIII. left his. He remembered my father perfectly well and the accident that had prevented his taking command of the armed forces on 13 vendémiaire, and I recollect that several times that day he repeated over to me this sentence which I give word for word:—
Barras welcomed us from a large armchair, which he rarely left during the last years of his life, much like Louis XVIII. He remembered my father very well and the incident that had stopped him from taking command of the armed forces on 13 vendémiaire. I recall that he repeated this phrase to me several times that day, exactly as follows:—
"Young man, do not forget what an old Republican says to you: I have but two regrets, I ought rather to call them remorses, which will be the only ones present at my bedside when I come to die. I have the two-edged remorse of having, overthrown Robespierre by the 9 thermidor, and of having raised Bonaparte to power by the 13 vendémiaire."
"Young man, don’t forget what an old Republican is telling you: I have only two regrets—maybe I should call them regrets that haunt me—that will be the only ones by my side when I’m on my deathbed. I feel conflicted about having brought down Robespierre on the 9th of Thermidor, and about having elevated Bonaparte to power on the 13th of Vendémiaire."
It will be observed that I have not forgotten what Barras said to me, although on one of the two points (I will leave my reader to guess which) I am not entirely of his opinion.
It can be noticed that I haven't forgotten what Barras told me, although on one of the two points (I'll let my reader guess which one) I don't completely agree with him.
Wednesday was Barras's reception day. Cabarrus had chosen it hoping that the "Citizen-general" would keep me to dinner, where I should meet with various representatives of the end of the last century and of the early days of the present one—representatives who, by the way, whatever they might be, when inside Barras's house, became subdued to the Republican spirit, and were simply citizens, whether male or female. Cabarrus was not disappointed: the old dictator invited us to stay dinner and, if we did not wish to return to Paris, offered us the use of a carriage to take us a drive in the woods until the dinner-hour came. Cabarrus had his business to attend to, and I had mine; so we accepted the invitation to dinner, but declined the carriage, and took leave of Barras.
Wednesday was Barras's reception day. Cabarrus picked it, hoping that the "Citizen-general" would invite me to dinner, where I would meet various representatives from the end of the last century and the early days of this one—representatives who, by the way, no matter who they were, were brought under the Republican spirit inside Barras's house, and were simply citizens, regardless of being male or female. Cabarrus got his wish: the old dictator invited us to stay for dinner and, if we didn’t want to go back to Paris, offered us a carriage for a drive in the woods until dinner time. Cabarrus had his own business to attend to, and I had mine; so we accepted the dinner invitation but declined the carriage, and took our leave of Barras.
In 1829, Barras was an extremely fine-looking old man of[Pg 538] seventy-four. I can see him now in his arm-chair on wheels, his head and hands seeming to be the only portions of him which were still alive, but these appeared to contain vitality enough for his whole body: he wore a cap which never left his head and which he never took off for anybody. From time to time, this moral life, if one may use such a phrase, this artificial life, replete with will-power, deserted him and then he looked like a dying person.
In 1829, Barras was a remarkably handsome old man of[Pg 538] seventy-four. I can picture him now in his rolling armchair, with his head and hands seeming to be the only parts of him that were still alive, yet these seemed to hold enough energy for his entire body: he wore a cap that never left his head and that he never removed for anyone. Occasionally, this moral existence, if you can call it that, this artificial life filled with willpower, would leave him, and he would look like a dying person.
We returned to dinner. I have dined with Barras three times, and at each dinner I witnessed an unusually odd incident. On the first occasion—the one of which I am speaking—we were between twenty and twenty-five in number. Among the guests was Madame Tallien, who became the Princess of Chimay. She came accompanied by a footman whose marvellous plumes were the admiration of the whole company. We had been introduced into the salon, where the first comers did the honours of the house to those who arrived later. Barras never appeared except at the dinner-table. When the dinner-hour arrived, the folding doors were flung open into the dining-room and each guest found the place that had been put for him; the bedroom door was then opened and Barras was wheeled to the centre of the table; then the guests sat down and attacked the delicate repast with good appetite. Barras's own meal was very odd: a huge leg of mutton was brought to him and carved in such a fashion as to bring out all the gravy; the joint was then carried back to the kitchen, and the gravy was left in Barras's deep plate. He sopped bread in the gravy and this concoction formed his meal. I never saw him eat anything else on the three occasions I dined with him.
We went back to dinner. I’ve had dinner with Barras three times, and at each meal, I saw something really strange happen. On the first occasion—the one I’m talking about—we had between twenty and twenty-five people. Among the guests was Madame Tallien, who later became the Princess of Chimay. She came with a footman whose amazing plumes were the talk of the whole group. We had been introduced into the salon, where the early arrivers welcomed those who came later. Barras only showed up at the dinner table. When it was time to eat, the folding doors to the dining room were thrown open, and each guest found their assigned seat; then the bedroom door opened, and Barras was wheeled to the center of the table; after that, everyone sat down and eagerly dug into the delicious meal. Barras's own meal was very strange: a giant leg of mutton was brought to him and carved in a way that let all the gravy flow out; then the joint was taken back to the kitchen, leaving the gravy in Barras's deep plate. He soaked bread in the gravy, and that made up his meal. I never saw him eat anything else during the three dinners I had with him.
On this particular day, in the middle of dinner, a great noise was heard in the kitchen as though a fight were going on, and we could hear shouts mingled with bursts of laughter. Barras was accustomed to be admirably waited on and in an unusually silent manner. Not a single one of the servants who waited behind the guests ever breathed a word or rattled a plate or jingled the silver. Apart from the luxuriousness of[Pg 539] the food with which the table was loaded, one could have imagined oneself in a pythagorean school. Only one man was allowed to speak when he wished and that was the valet-de-chambre, the steward, and, better still, the friend of Barras. His name was Courtand.
On this particular day, in the middle of dinner, a loud commotion was heard in the kitchen as if a fight was happening, and we could hear shouts mixed with bursts of laughter. Barras was used to being served impeccably and in an unusually quiet way. Not a single servant who waited on the guests ever said a word or clinked a plate or jingled the silverware. Aside from the lavishness of[Pg 539] the food that filled the table, one could have thought they were in a Pythagorean school. Only one person was allowed to speak when he wanted, and that was the valet, the steward, and even better, Barras's friend. His name was Courtand.
"Courtand!" Barras asked, frowning, "what is all that noise?"
"Courtand!" Barras asked, frowning, "what's all that noise?"
"I do not know, citizen-general," Courtand replied, himself as greatly astonished at this infraction of the rules of the house; "I will go and see."
"I don't know, citizen-general," Courtand replied, just as surprised by this violation of the house rules; "I'll go check."
Courtand went out and, five seconds later, re-entered, every face turning to the door to look at him.
Courtand went out and, five seconds later, came back in, and every face turned to the door to look at him.
"Well?" asked Barras.
"Well?" Barras asked.
"Oh! it is nothing, citizen-general," Courtand replied, laughing.
"Oh! It's nothing, citizen-general," Courtand replied, laughing.
"But what was it about?"
"But what was it for?"
"The servants belonging to the citizens present"—and Courtand pointed towards the guests, who, it should be said, mostly belonged to Republican opinion—"are plucking feathers from citizen Tallien's footman and the poor devil shrieks because they pinch his skin a bit while they are doing it."
"The servants of the citizens here"—and Courtand pointed at the guests, who mostly held Republican views—"are pulling feathers from citizen Tallien's footman, and the poor guy screams because they’re pinching his skin a little while they're at it."
"And what has he done to deserve to be plucked alive by the other servants?" asked Barras.
"And what has he done to deserve being picked alive by the other servants?" asked Barras.
"He called his mistress Madame la Princesse de Chimay!"
"He called his mistress Madame la Princesse de Chimay!"
"Then he deserves his punishment: his mistress is not called the Princesse de Chimay, she is called citizen Tallien."
"Then he deserves his punishment: his mistress is not called the Princesse de Chimay, she is called Citizen Tallien."
On another occasion—this, too, happened at table—one place remained empty. The guest who was late was the famous Royalist agent with whom you are acquainted, Fauche-Borel, who, six months later, was reduced to misery by the ingratitude of the Bourbons, and committed suicide by throwing himself from a window at Neuchâtel. He was very intimate at Barras's house and it was said that it was through his mediation that the abortive negotiations were entered into in 1792 between the Bourbons and the old dictator. Well! Fauche-Borel was late: he arrived at the roast course,[Pg 540] with tear-stained face, holding his handkerchief in his hands.
On another occasion—this also happened at the table—one seat was empty. The late guest was the well-known Royalist agent you know, Fauche-Borel, who, six months later, fell into despair due to the Bourbons' ingratitude and committed suicide by jumping out of a window in Neuchâtel. He was very close to Barras's household, and it was rumored that through his influence, the failed negotiations between the Bourbons and the former dictator took place in 1792. Anyway! Fauche-Borel was late: he arrived during the roast course,[Pg 540] with a tear-streaked face, holding his handkerchief in his hands.
"Ah! here you are, my dear Fauche-Borel," Barras exclaimed. "Why are you so late as this?"
"Ah! there you are, my dear Fauche-Borel," Barras said. "Why are you so late?"
"Ah! citizen-general, rather ask why I am so upset."
"Hey! Citizen-General, maybe ask why I'm so upset."
"Well, my dear fellow, what is the matter?"
"Hey, buddy, what's up?"
"Oh, general, I have seen the most touching, the most moving, the most instructive spectacle ... I have just come from the Tuileries ..."
"Oh, general, I just witnessed the most touching, the most moving, the most informative scene... I’ve just come from the Tuileries..."
"Ah! ah!—and was it there you saw this touching, moving, instructive scene? You were very lucky, my friend, to have managed to fall on your feet! Come, tell us what you saw, so that we too may be moved and softened and edified."
"Wow!—was that where you witnessed this emotional, impactful, and enlightening scene? You were really fortunate, my friend, to have landed on your feet! Come on, share what you saw, so we can also feel moved, touched, and inspired."
"Well, citizen-general, M. le Duc de Bordeaux spilt some water on the floor of the great salon where he was playing."
"Well, citizen-general, Mr. Duke of Bordeaux spilled some water on the floor of the grand salon where he was playing."
"Really!"
"Seriously!"
"And the Duc de Damas said to him, 'Monseigneur, you have made a mess on the floor; I am much distressed about it, but you must wipe it up.' 'What! I must wipe it up!' the young prince exclaimed. 'Why are there no servants here?' 'There are, but, as the mess was made this time by your Highness, your Highness must wipe it up.... Go and fetch a mop!' said the duke to a footman; and, when the man hesitated, he added, 'Do as I command you!' The lackey arrived with a mop five minutes later, and His Highness shed many tears; but M. de Damas was firm and Monseigneur was himself obliged to mop up the mess he had made! What do you say to that, citizen-general?"
"And the Duke de Damas said to him, 'Your Highness, you've made a mess on the floor; I'm quite upset about it, but you need to clean it up.' 'What! I have to clean it up!' the young prince exclaimed. 'Why aren't there any servants here?' 'There are, but since you made the mess this time, you have to clean it up... Go and get a mop!' the duke told a footman; and when the man hesitated, he added, 'Do as I say!' The servant brought a mop five minutes later, and His Highness cried a lot; but Mr. de Damas was resolute, and the prince had no choice but to clean up the mess he had made! What do you think of that, citizen-general?"
"I should say," Barras replied, in the sarcastic tones that were habitual to him, "that the tutor of the Duc de Bordeaux did quite right to teach his pupil a trade; so that when his noble parents depart he will have something in his hands to take to."
"I should say," Barras replied, in the sarcastic tone he was known for, "that the tutor of the Duc de Bordeaux did well to teach his student a skill; that way, when his noble parents are gone, he’ll have something to fall back on."
Another time—again it happened at table—a famous general, who was an eminent soldier and a man of striking abilities, then ambassador at Constantinople, related, with bitter feeling, a scene that took place during the Revolution.
Another time—once again it happened at the table—a famous general, who was a notable soldier and a person of remarkable skills, then ambassador in Constantinople, described, with deep emotion, a scene that occurred during the Revolution.
By chance, Courtand, Barras's valet and steward and a free-spoken[Pg 541] friend, stood behind the general's chair. He touched the general on the shoulder in the very middle of his story.
By coincidence, Courtand, Barras's valet and steward, who was known for speaking his mind[Pg 541], was standing behind the general's chair. He tapped the general on the shoulder right in the middle of his story.
"General," he said, "I must stop you—it did not happen at all as you are telling it: you are slandering the Revolution!"
"General," he said, "I have to stop you—it didn't happen at all like you're saying: you're misrepresenting the Revolution!"
The general turned indignantly to Barras to call his attention to this familiarity on the part of his lackey. But Barras broke out—
The general turned angrily to Barras to point out this disrespect from his servant. But Barras interrupted—
"Messieurs, Courtand is right! Tell the episode as it happened, Courtand; re-establish the facts and give a lesson in history to Monsieur the ambassador."
"Guys, Courtand is right! Describe the episode as it actually happened, Courtand; set the record straight and give a history lesson to Monsieur the ambassador."
And Courtand related the facts as they had occurred, to the great satisfaction of Barras and the amazed astonishment of the company.
And Courtand recounted the events as they happened, much to the great satisfaction of Barras and the astonished amazement of the group.
When Walter Scott came to Paris to hunt up documents connected with the reign of Napoleon, whose life he was proposing to write, Barras, who had some precious papers to show him, desired to see him and begged Cabarrus—who knew the history of the Revolution as intimately as did Courtand, but could tell it better than he (we mean no offence to the memory of Citizen-general Barras)—to invite the celebrated romance-writer to come and dine with him. Cabarrus began by having a long conversation with Walter Scott, who, knowing that he was in the society of the son of Madame Tallien, talked much of all the events in which Cabarrus's mother had played a part: finally, the messenger approached the real object of his visit and transmitted Barras's invitation to the Scottish poet. But Walter Scott shook his head.
When Walter Scott came to Paris to track down documents related to Napoleon’s reign, which he planned to write about, Barras, who had some valuable papers to show him, wanted to meet him and asked Cabarrus—who understood the history of the Revolution as well as Courtand but could tell it better (no offense to the memory of Citizen-general Barras)—to invite the famous romance writer to dinner. Cabarrus started with a long conversation with Walter Scott, who, knowing he was in the company of Madame Tallien’s son, talked extensively about all the events involving Cabarrus’s mother. Finally, the messenger got to the real purpose of his visit and delivered Barras’s invitation to the Scottish poet. But Walter Scott shook his head.
"I cannot dine with that man," he replied. "I shall write against him, and it would be said, as we say in Scotland, 'that I have flung his own dinner-plates at his head!'"
"I can't have dinner with that guy," he replied. "I'll write against him, and it would be said, as we say in Scotland, 'that I have thrown his own dinner plates at his head!'"
One afternoon, Cabarrus invited me to spend an hour with him in the afternoon, and I put in my appearance punctual to the time appointed.
One afternoon, Cabarrus asked me to spend an hour with him, and I showed up right on time.
"Barras will die to-day," he said to me; "would you like to see him for the last time before his death?"
"Barras is going to die today," he said to me; "do you want to see him one last time before he passes away?"
"Certainly," I replied; for I was anxious to be able to say later to people, who had only known him by name, "I saw Barras on the day of his death."
"Sure," I replied; because I was eager to say later to people who only knew him by name, "I saw Barras on the day he died."
"Very well, come with me: I am going literally for the purpose of saying good-bye to him."
"Alright, come with me: I'm actually going to say goodbye to him."
We got into a carriage and went to Chaillot. We found Courtand looking very melancholy, and, when Cabarrus asked him how his master was, he only shook his head. He showed Cabarrus into the room of the dying man all the same, and, as I was with Cabarrus, let me go in too. We expected to find Barras sad and pale and weak and depressed, but he was merry and smiling and almost rosy-looking, though this colour was but the flush of fever. We began by apologising for my presence: I had met Cabarrus in the Champs-Élysées and, learning that he was going to inquire after Barras, I wished to accompany him. Barras made me a little friendly inclination with his head to indicate that I was welcome.
We got into a carriage and headed to Chaillot. We found Courtand looking very down, and when Cabarrus asked him how his master was, he just shook his head. He still showed Cabarrus into the room of the dying man, and since I was with Cabarrus, he let me go in too. We expected to find Barras sad, pale, weak, and depressed, but he was cheerful and smiling, almost looking rosy, though that color was just the flush of fever. We started by apologizing for my presence: I had bumped into Cabarrus in the Champs-Élysées and, finding out he was going to check on Barras, I wanted to join him. Barras gave me a little friendly nod to show that I was welcome.
"But," Cabarrus exclaimed, "what did that pessimist of a Courtand tell me, general? He made out that you were worse; on the contrary, you look ever so much better!"
"But," Cabarrus exclaimed, "what did that pessimist Courtand tell me, general? He claimed you were worse; on the contrary, you look so much better!"
"Ah yes!" said Barras, "because you find me alone and cheerful ... that does not alter the fact that I shall be dead to-night, my dear Cabarrus! Do you hear that, Dumas? I am like Leonidas and shall sup to-night with Pluto! I shall be able to tell your father, who would be happy enough to see you, that I have seen you to-day."
"Ah yes!" said Barras, "just because you see me alone and in good spirits ... it doesn't change the fact that I'm going to be dead tonight, my dear Cabarrus! Do you understand that, Dumas? I'm like Leonidas, and I’ll be dining with Pluto tonight! I’ll be able to tell your father, who would be so glad to see you, that I saw you today."
"But what were you laughing at when we came in?" Cabarrus inquired, trying to turn the conversation from talk of death to matters of life.
"But what were you laughing at when we walked in?" Cabarrus asked, trying to shift the conversation from discussions about death to topics about life.
"What made me laugh?" Barras replied. "I will tell you. Because I have just played a capital trick on our rulers.... As I have been a man of power, they have had their eyes on me; they know I am dying, and they have been watching for the moment of my death to seize hold of my papers. I have therefore, since the morning, been busy attaching my seal to these thirty or forty boxes. After my death, they will be seized; but I have given directions for counsel to be[Pg 543] called in and the matter will be publicly tried before a court of justice.... This may last for four or six months or a year ... after which my heirs will lose, my papers being State property. They will then solemnly open these forty boxes which you see there, before a council of ministers ... and, instead of the precious papers, which are in a place of safety, do you know what they will find?"
"What made me laugh?" Barras replied. "I’ll tell you. Because I just pulled a great trick on our leaders... Since I've been a man of power, they’ve had their eyes on me; they know I'm dying, and they’ve been waiting for my death to grab my papers. So, since this morning, I've been busy sealing these thirty or forty boxes. After I die, they’ll be taken; but I’ve instructed for legal counsel to be[Pg 543] called in and the matter will be publicly tried before a court of law... This could take four to six months or even a year... after which my heirs will lose, as my papers will be considered State property. Then, they will officially open these forty boxes you see there in front of a council of ministers... and instead of the valuable papers, which are securely stored away, do you know what they’ll find?"
"No, I confess I have not the slightest idea."
"No, I honestly have no clue."
"My laundress's bills for thirty-five years ... and they will take a lot of adding up, for I have sent plenty of dirty linen to the laundries since 9 thermidor...."
"My laundress's bills for thirty-five years ... and they will take a lot of calculating, since I have sent a ton of dirty laundry to the laundries since 9 thermidor...."
Barras burst into such a frank and merry peal of laughter that he fell back exhausted, and that evening he died, as he predicted, shortly before the Revolution of 1830.
Barras broke into such a genuine and joyful laugh that he fell back, worn out, and that evening he died, just as he had said, shortly before the Revolution of 1830.
END OF VOL. III
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