THE PARIS OF DUMAS
Dumas' real descent upon the Paris of letters and art was in 1823, when he
had given up his situation in the notary's office at Crepy, and after the
eventful holiday journey of a few weeks before. His own account of this,
his fourth entrance into the city, states that he was "landed from the
coach at five A. M. in the Rue Bouloi, No. 9. It was Sunday morning, and
Bourbon Paris was very gloomy on a Sunday."
Within a short time of his arrival the young romancer was making calls, of
a nature which he hoped would provide him some sort of employment until he
should make his way in letters, upon many bearers of famous Bourbon names
who lived in the Faubourgs St. Germain and St. Honore--all friends and
compatriots of his father.
He had brought with him letters formerly written to his father, and hoped
to use them as a means of introduction. He approached Marshal Jourdain,
General Sebastiani, the Duc de Bellune, and others, but it was not until
he presented himself to General Foy, at 64 Rue du Mont Blanc,--the deputy
for his department,--that anything to his benefit resulted.
Finally, through the kindly aid of General Foy, Dumas--son of a republican
general though he was--found himself seated upon a clerk's stool, quill in
hand, writing out dictation at the secretary's bureau of the Duc
d'Orleans.
"I then set about to look for lodgings," said Dumas, "and, after going up
and down many staircases, I came to a halt in a little room on a fourth
story, which belonged to that immense pile known as the 'Pate des
Italiens.' The room looked out on the courtyard, and I was to have it for
one hundred and twenty francs per annum."
From that time on Dumas may be said to have known Paris intimately--its
life, its letters, its hotels and restaurants, its theatres, its salons,
and its boulevards.
So well did he know it that he became a part and parcel of it.
His literary affairs and relations are dealt with elsewhere, but the
various aspects of the social and economic life of Paris at the time Dumas
knew its very pulse-beats must be gleaned from various contemporary
sources.
[Illustration: General Foy's Residence]
The real Paris which Dumas knew--the Paris of the Second Empire--exists no
more. The order of things changeth in all but the conduct of the stars,
and Paris, more than any other centre of activity, scintillates and
fluctuates like the changings of the money-markets.
The life that Dumas lived, so far as it has no bearing on his literary
labours or the evolving of his characters, is quite another affair from
that of his yearly round of work.
He knew intimately all the gay world of Paris, and fresh echoes of the
part he played therein are being continually presented to us.
He knew, also, quite as intimately, certain political and social movements
which took place around about him, in which he himself had no part.
It was in the fifties of the nineteenth century that Paris first became
what one might call a coherent mass. This was before the days of the
application of the adjective "Greater" to the areas of municipalities.
Since then we have had, of course, a "Greater Paris" as we have a "Greater
London" and a "Greater New York," but at the commencement of the Second
Empire (1852) there sprang into being,--"jumped at one's eyes," as the
French say,--when viewed from the heights of the towers of Notre Dame, an
immense panorama, which showed the results of a prodigious development,
radiating far into the distance, from the common centre of the _Ile de la
Cite_ and the still more ancient _Lutece_.
Up to the construction of the present fortifications,--under
Louis-Philippe,--Paris had been surrounded, at its outer confines, by a
simple _octroi_ barrier of about twenty-five kilometres in circumference,
and pierced by fifty-four entrances. Since 1860 this wall has been raised
and the limits of what might be called Paris proper have been extended up
to the fortified lines.
This fortification wall was thirty-four kilometres in length; was
strengthened by ninety-four bastions, and surrounded and supported by
thirteen detached forts. Sixty-five openings gave access to the inner
city, by which the roadways, waterways, and railways entered. These were
further distinguished by classification as follows: _portes_--of which
there were fifty; _poternes_--of which there were five; and _passages_--of
which there were ten. Nine railways entered the city, and the "_Ceinture_"
or girdle railway, which was to bind the various _gares_, was already
conceived.
At this time, too, the Quais received marked attention and development;
trees were planted along the streets which bordered upon them, and a vast
system of sewerage was planned which became--and endures until to-day--one
of the sights of Paris, for those who take pleasure in such unsavoury
amusements.
Lighting by gas was greatly improved, and street-lamps were largely
multiplied, with the result that Paris became known for the first time as
"_La Ville Lumiere_."
A score or more of villages, or _bourgs_, before 1860, were between the
limits of these two barriers, but were at that time united by the _loi
d'annexion_, and so "Greater Paris" came into being.
The principle _bourgs_ which lost their identity, which, at the same time
is, in a way, yet preserved, were Auteuil, Passy, les Ternes, Batignolles,
Montmartre, la Chapelle, la Villette, Belleville, Menilmontant, Charenton,
and Bercy; and thus the population of Paris grew, as in the twinkling of
an eye, from twelve hundred thousand to sixteen hundred thousand; and its
superficial area from thirty-four hundred _hectares_ to more than eight
thousand--a _hectare_ being about the equivalent of two and a half acres.
During the period of the "Restoration," which extended from the end of the
reign of the great Napoleon to the coming of Louis-Philippe (1814-30),
Paris may be said to have been in, or at least was at the beginning of,
its golden age of prosperity.
In a way the era was somewhat inglorious, but in spite of liberal and
commonplace opinion, there was made an earnest effort to again secure the
pride of place for French letters and arts; and it was then that the
romantic school, with Dumas at its very head, attained its first
importance.
It was not, however, until Louis-Philippe came into power that civic
improvements made any notable progress, though the Pont des Invalides had
been built, and gas-lamps, omnibuses, and sidewalks, had been introduced
just previously.
Under Louis-Philippe were completed the Eglise de la Madeleine and the Arc
de Triomphe d'Etoile. The Obelisk,--a gift from Mohammed Ali, Viceroy of
Egypt, to Louis-Philippe,--the Colonne de Juillet, and the Ponts
Louis-Philippe and du Carrousel were built, as well as the modern
fortifications of Paris, with their detached forts of Mont Valerien, Ivry,
Charenton, Nogent, etc.
There existed also the encircling boulevards just within the
fortifications, and yet another parallel series on the north, beginning at
the Madeleine and extending to the Colonne de Juillet.
It was not, however, until the Second Republic and the Second Empire of
Napoleon III. that a hitherto unparallelled transformation was undertaken,
and there sprung into existence still more broad boulevards and spacious
squares, and many palatial civic and private establishments, the Bourse,
the New Opera, and several theatres, the Ceinture Railway, and the Bois de
Boulogne and the Bois de Vincennes.
By this time Dumas' activities were so great, or at least the product
thereof was so great, that even his intimate knowledge of French life of a
more heroic day could not furnish him all the material which he desired.
It was then that he produced those essentially modern stories of life in
Paris of that day, which, slight though they are as compared with the
longer romances, are best represented by the "Corsican Brothers," "Captain
Pamphile," and "Gabriel Lambert."
* * * * *
Among the buildings at this time pulled down, on the Place du Carrousel,
preparatory to the termination of the Louvre, was the Hotel Longueville,
the residence of the beautiful duchess of that name, celebrated for her
support of the Fronde and her gallantries, as much as for her beauty.
Dumas would have revelled in the following incident as the basis of a
tale. In the arched roof of one of the cellars of the duchess' hotel two
skeletons of a very large size and in a perfect state of preservation were
discovered, which have since been the object of many discussions on the
part of the antiquarians, but _adhuc sub judice lis est_. Another
discovery was made close by the skeletons, which is more interesting from
a literary point of view; namely, that of a box, in carved steel,
embellished with gilded brass knobs, and containing several papers. Among
them was an amatory epistle in verse, from the Prince de Marsillac to the
fair duchess. The other papers were letters relating to the state of
affairs at that time; some from the hand of the celebrated Turenne, with
memorandums, and of the Prince de Conti, "of great value to autograph
collectors," said the newspaper accounts of the time, but assuredly of
still more value to historians, or even novelists.
At this time Paris was peopled with many hundreds--perhaps thousands--of
_mauvais sujets_, and frequent robberies and nightly outrages were more
numerous than ever. The government at last hit on the plan of sending to
the _bagnes_ of Toulon and Brest for several of the turnkeys and gaolers
of those great convict _depots_, to whom the features of all their former
prisoners were perfectly known. These functionaries, accompanied by a
policeman in plain clothes, perambulated every part of Paris by day, and
by night frequented all the theatres, from the Grand Opera downward, the
low _cafes_ and wine-shops. It appears that more than four hundred of
these desperadoes were recognized and retransferred to their old quarters
at Toulon. Some of these worthies had been carrying on schemes of
swindling on a colossal scale, and more than one is described as having
entered into large speculations on the Bourse. Perhaps it was from some
such circumstance as this that Dumas evolved that wonderful narrative of
the life of a forger, "Gabriel Lambert." One of the most noted in the
craft was known by the _soubriquet_ of Pierre Mandrin, the name of that
_celebre_ being conferred on account of his superiority and skill in
assuming disguises. When arrested he was figuring as a Polish count, and
covered with expensive rings and jewelry. The career of this ruffian is
interesting. In 1839, while undergoing an imprisonment of two years for
robbery, he attempted to make his escape by murdering the gaoler, but
failed, however, and was sent to the galleys at Toulon for twenty years.
In 1848 he did escape from Brest, and, notwithstanding the greatest
exertions on the part of the police, he succeeded in crossing the whole
of France and gaining Belgium, where he remained for some time. Owing to
the persecutions of the Belgian police, he subsequently returned to
France. He was so unfortunate as to be captured in the very act of
breaking into a house at Besancon, but his prodigious activity enabled him
once again to escape while on his way to prison, and he came to Paris.
Being possessed of some money, he resolved to abandon his evil courses,
and set up a greengrocer's shop in the Rue Rambuteau, which went on
thrivingly for some time. But such an inactive life was insupportable to
him, and he soon resumed his former exciting pursuits. Several robberies
committed with consummate skill soon informed the police of the presence
in Paris of some great master of the art of Mercury. The most experienced
officers were accordingly sent out, but they made no capture until one of
the Toulon gaolers fancied he recollected the convict under the features
of an elegantly attired _lion_ on the Boulevard des Italiens. A few hours
afterward the luckless _echappe_ was safely lodged at the Conciergerie. At
his lodgings, besides the usual housebreaking implements, a complete
assortment of costumes of every kind was discovered--from that of the
dandy of the first water to the blouse of the artisan.
There is something more than a morbid interest which attaches itself to
the former homes and haunts of a great author or artist. The emotion is
something akin to sentiment, to be sure, but it is pardonable; far more so
than the contemplation of many more popular and notorious places.
He who would follow the footsteps of Alexandre Dumas about Paris must
either be fleet of foot, or one who can sustain a long march. At any rate,
the progress will take a considerable time.
It is impossible to say in how many places he lived, though one gathers
from the "Memoires," and from contemporary information, that they numbered
many score, and the uncharitable have further said that he found it more
economical to move than to pay his rents. Reprehensible as this practice
may be, Dumas was no single exponent of it--among artists and authors; and
above all in his case, as we know, it resulted from imprudence and
ofttimes misplaced confidence and generosity.
One of Dumas' early homes in Paris, jocularly called by him "La Pate
d'Italie," was situated in that famous centre of unconventionality, the
Boulevard des Italiens, a typical tree-shaded and cafe-lined boulevard.
Its name was obviously acquired from its resemblance to, or suggestion of
being constructed of, that mastic which is known in Germany as noodles,
in Italy as macaroni, and in English-speaking countries as dough.
To-day the structure, as it then was, exists no more, though the present
edifice at the corner of the Rue Louis le Grand, opposite the vaudeville
theatre, has been assuredly stated as in no wise differing in general
appearance from its prototype, and, as it is after the same ginger-cake
style of architecture, it will serve its purpose.
Albert Vandam, in "An Englishman in Paris," that remarkable book of
reminiscence whose authorship was so much in doubt when the work was first
published, devoted a whole chapter to the intimacies of Dumas _pere_;
indeed, nearly every feature and character of prominence in the great
world of Paris--at the time of which he writes--strides through the pages
of this remarkably illuminating book, in a manner which is unequalled by
any conventional volume of "Reminiscence," "Observations," or "Memoirs"
yet written in the English language, dealing with the life of Paris--or,
for that matter, of any other capital.
His account, also, of a "literary cafe" of the Paris of the forties could
only have been written by one who knew the life intimately, and, so far as
Dumas' acquaintances and contemporaries are concerned, Vandam's book
throws many additional side-lights on an aspect which of itself lies in no
perceptible shadow.
Even in those days the "boulevards"--the popular resort of the men of
letters, artists, and musical folk--meant, as it does to-day, a somewhat
restricted area in the immediate neighbourhood of the present Opera. At
the corner of the Rue Lafitte was a tobacconist's shop, whose genius was a
"splendid creature," of whom Alfred de Musset became so enamoured that his
friends feared for an "imprudence on his part." The various elements of
society and cliques had their favourite resorts and rendezvous; the actors
under the trees in the courtyard of the Palais Royal; the _ouvrier_ and
his family meandered in the Champs Elysees or journeyed countryward to
Grenelle; while the soldiery mostly repaired to La Plaine de St. Denis.
A sister to Thiers kept a small dining establishment in the Rue Drouet,
and many journalistic and political gatherings were held at her _tables
d'hote_. When asked whether her delicious pheasants were of her
illustrious brother's shooting, she shook her head, and replied: "No, M.
the President of the Council has not the honour to supply my
establishment."
Bohemia, as Paris best knew it in the fifties, was not that pleasant land
which lies between the Moravian and the Giant Mountains; neither were the
Bohemians of Paris a Slavonic or Teutonic people of a strange, nomad race.
But the history of the Bohemia of arts and letters--which rose to its
greatest and most prophetic heights in the Paris of the nineteenth
century--would no doubt prove to be as extensive a work as Buckle's
"History of Civilization," though the recitation of tenets and principles
of one would be the inevitable reverse of the other.
The intellectual Bohemian--the artist, or the man of letters--has
something in his make-up of the gipsy's love of the open road; the
vagabond who instinctively rebels against the established rules of
society, more because they are established than for any other reason.
Henri Muerger is commonly supposed to have popularized the "Bohemia" of
arts and letters, and it is to him we owe perhaps the most graphic
pictures of the life which held forth in the _Quartier Latin_, notorious
for centuries for its lack of discipline and its defiance of the laws of
Church, state, and society. It was the very nursery of open thought and
liberty against absolutism and the conventional proprieties.
Gustave Nadaud described this "unknown land" in subtle verse, which loses
not a little in attempted paraphrase:
"There stands behind Ste. Genevieve,
A city where no fancy paves
With gold the narrow streets,
But jovial youth, the landlady
On gloomy stairs, in attic high,
Gay hope, her tenant, meets.
* * * * *
'Twas there that the Pays Latin stood,
'Twas there the world was _really_ good,
'Twas there that she was gay."
Of the freedom and the unconventionally of the life of the Bohemian world
of Paris, where the lives of literature and art blended in an almost
imperceptible manner, and the gay indifference of its inhabitants, one has
but to recall the incident where George Sand went to the studio of the
painter Delacroix to tell him that she had sad news for him; that she
could never love him; and more of the same sort. "Indeed," said Delacroix,
who kept on painting.--"You are angry with me, are you not? You will never
forgive me?"--"Certainly I will," said the painter, who was still at his
work, "but I've got a bit of sky here that has caused me a deal of trouble
and is just coming right. Go away, or sit down, and I will be through in
ten minutes." She went, and of course did not return, and so the _affaire_
closed.
Dumas was hardly of the Pays Latin. He had little in common with the
Bohemianism of the _poseur_, and the Bohemia of letters and art has been
largely made up of that sort of thing.
More particularly Dumas' life was that of the boulevards, of the
journalist, of tremendous energy and output rather than that of the
_dilettante_, and so he has but little interest in the south bank of the
Seine.
* * * * *
Michelet, while proclaiming loudly for French literature and life in _Le
Peuple_, published in 1846, desponds somewhat of his country from the fact
that the overwhelming genius of the popular novelists of that day--and who
shall not say since then, as well--have sought their models, too often, in
dingy cabarets, vile dens of iniquity, or even in the prisons themselves.
He said: "This mania of slandering oneself, of exhibiting one's sores, and
going, as it were, to look for shame, will be mortal in the course of
time."
This may, to a great extent, have been true then--and is true
to-day--manifestly, but no lover of the beautiful ought to condemn a
noisome flower if but its buds were beautiful, and Paris--the Paris of
the Restoration, the Empire, or the Republic--is none the worse in the
eyes of the world because of the iniquities which exist in every large
centre of population, where creeds and intellects of all shades and
capacities are herded together.
The French novelist, it is true, can be very sordid and banal, but he can
be as childlike and bland as an unsophisticated young girl--when he has a
mind to.
Dumas' novels were not lacking in vigour, valour, or action, and he wrote
mostly of romantic times; so Michelet could not have referred to him.
Perhaps he had the "Mysteries of Paris" or "The Wandering Jew" in mind,
whose author certainly did give full measure of sordid detail; but then,
Sue has been accused before now as not presenting a strictly truthful
picture.
So much for the presentation of the _tableaux_. But what about the actual
condition of the people at the time?
Michelet's interest in Europe was centred on France and confined to _le
peuple_; a term in which he ofttimes included the _bourgeois_, as well he
might, though he more often regarded those who worked with their hands. He
repeatedly says: "I myself have been one of those workmen, and, although
I have risen to a different class, I retain the sympathies of my early
conditions."
Michelet's judgment was quite independent and original when he compared
the different classes; and he had a decided preference for that section
which cultivates the soil, though by no means did he neglect those engaged
in trade and manufacture. The _ouvrier industriel_ was as much entitled to
respect as the labourer in the fields, or even the small tenant-farmer. He
regretted, of course, the competition which turned _industrialisme_ into a
cut-throat policy. He furthermore had this to say concerning foreign
trade:
"Alsace and Lyons have conquered art and science to achieve beauty for
others.... The 'fairy of Paris' (the _modiste_) meets, from minute to
minute, the most unexpected flights of fancy--and she _or he_ does to-day,
be it recalled. _Les etrangers_ come in spite of themselves, and they buy
of her (France); _ils achetent_--but what?--patterns, and then go basely
home and copy them, to the loss, _but to the glory_, of France.
"The Englishman or the German buys a few pieces of goods at Paris or
Lyons; just as in letters France writes and Belgium sells."
On the whole, Michelet thought that the population was more successful in
tilling the soil than in the marts of the world; and there is this to be
said, there is no question but what France is a self-contained country,
though its arts have gone forth into the world and influenced all nations.
Paris is, ever has been, and proudly--perhaps rightly--thinks that it ever
will be, the artistic capital of the world.
Georges Avenel has recently delivered himself of a screed on the
"Mechanism of Modern Life," wherein are many pertinent, if sometimes
trite, observations on the more or less automatic processes by which we
are lodged, fed, and clothed to-day.
He gives rather a quaint, but unquestionably true, reason for the alleged
falling-off in the cookery of French--of course he means
Parisian--restaurants. It is, he says, that modern patrons will no longer
pay the prices, or, rather, will not spend the money that they once did.
In the first half of the last century--the time of Dumas' activities and
achievements--he tells us that many Parisian lovers of good fare were
accustomed to "eat a napoleon" daily for their dinner. Nowadays, the same
persons dine sufficiently at their club for eight and a half francs.
Perhaps the abatement of modern appetites has something to say to this, as
many folk seldom take more than thirty-five or forty minutes over their
evening meal. How would this compare with the Gargantuan feasts described
by Brillat-Savarin and others, or the gastronomic exploits of those who
ate two turkeys at a sitting?
Clearly, for comfort, and perhaps luxury, the Parisian hotels and
restaurants of a former day compare agreeably with those of our own time;
not so much, perhaps, with regard to time and labour-saving machinery,
which is the equipment of the modern _batterie de cuisine_, but with the
results achieved by more simple, if more laborious, means, and the
appointments and surroundings amid which they were put upon the board.
"The proof of the pudding is in the eating" is still applicable, whether
its components be beaten or kneaded by clockwork or the cook's boy.
With the hotels himself, Avenel is less concerned, though he reminds us
again that Madame de Sevigne had often to lie upon straw in the inns she
met with in travelling, and looked upon a bed in a hotel, which would
allow one to undress, as a luxury. We also learn that the travellers of
those days had to carry their own knives, the innkeeper thinking that he
did enough in providing spoons and forks. Nor were hotels particularly
cheap, a small suite of rooms in a hotel of the Rue Richelieu costing 480
francs a week. It was Napoleon III. who, by his creation of the Hotel de
Louvre,--not the present establishment of the same name, but a much
larger structure,--first set the fashion of monster hostelries. But what
was this compared with the Elysees Palace, which M. d'Avenel chooses as
his type of modern luxury, with its forty-three cooks, divided into seven
brigades, each commanded by an officer drawing 3,750 francs a year, and
its thirty-five hundred pairs of sheets and fifty thousand towels, valued
together at little short of 250,000 francs? Yet, as we well know, even
these totals pale before some of the hotels of America, in which M.
d'Avenel sees the _ne plus ultra_ of organization and saving of labour by
the ingenious use of machinery, and incidentally a great deal of the
sentiment of good cheer, which was as much an ingredient of former
hospitality as was the salt and pepper of a repast.
It is pleasant to read of Alexandre Dumas' culinary skill, though the
repetition of the fact has appeared in the works of well-nigh every writer
who has written of the Paris of the fifties and sixties. The dinners at
his apartments in the Boulevard Malesherbes were worthy of Soyer or even
of Brillat-Savarin himself in his best days. In his last "Causeries
Culinaires," the author of "Monte Cristo" tells us that the Bourbon kings
were specially fond of soup. "The family," he writes, "from Louis XIV. to
the last of their race who reigned in France, have been great eaters. The
Grand Monarque commenced his dinner by two and sometimes three different
kinds of soup; Louis-Philippe by four plates of various species of this
comestible; in the fifth plate his Majesty usually mixed portions of the
four varieties he had eaten, and appeared to enjoy this singular culinary
combination."
Dumas' reputation as an epicure must have been formed early; he describes
in his "Memoires" how, on a certain occasion, when he had first become
installed in Paris, he met a gentleman, Charles Nodier, in the stalls of
the Porte St. Martin, who was reading a well-worn Elzevir entitled "La
Pastissier Francaise." He says, "I address him.... 'Pardon my
impertinence, but are you very fond of eggs?' 'Why so?' 'That book you are
reading, does it not give recipes for cooking eggs in sixty different
ways?' 'It does.' 'If I could but procure a copy.' 'But this is an
Elzevir,' says my neighbour."
The Parisian is without a rival as an epicure and a _gastronome_, and he
associates no stigma with the epithet. In Anglo-Saxon lands the reverse is
the case, though why it is hard to see.
"Frog-legs" came to be a tidbit in the _tables d'hote_ of New York and
London many years ago, but sympathy has been withheld from the luscious
_escargot_. There be those fearless individuals who by reason of the
_entente cordiale_ have tasted of him and found him good, but learning
that in the cookshops of Paris they have at last learned to fabricate them
to equal the native grown article of Bourgogne, have tabooed them once for
all, and threaten to withdraw their liking for that other succulent
dainty, the frog.
At any rate, the schoolboy idea that the Parisian's staple fare is snails
and frogs is quite exploded, and small wonder it is that Anglo-Saxon
palates never became wholly inured to them. But what about England's
peculiar dishes? Marrow-bones and stewed eels, for instance?
* * * * *
Dumas' familiarity with the good things of the table is nowhere more
strongly advanced than in the opening chapter of "The Queen's Necklace,"
wherein the author recounts the incident of "the nobleman and his _maitre
d'hotel_."
The scene was laid in 1784, and runs as follows:
"The marshal turned toward his _maitre d'hotel_, and said, 'Sir, I
suppose you have prepared me a good dinner?'
"'Certainly, your Grace.'
"'You have the list of my guests?'
"'I remember them perfectly.'
"'There are two sorts of dinners, sir,' said the marshal.
"'True, your Grace, but--'
"'In the first place, at what time do we dine?'
"'Your Grace, the citizens dine at two, the bar at three, the
nobility at four--'
"'And I, sir?'
"'Your Grace will dine to-day at five.'
"'Oh, at five!'
"'Yes, your Grace, like the king--'
"'And why like the king?'
"'Because, on the list of your guests is the name of a king.'
"'Not so, sir, you mistake; all my guests to-day are simple
noblemen.'
"'Your Grace is surely jesting; the Count Haga, who is among the
guests--'
"'Well, sir!'
"'The Count Haga is a king.' (The Count Haga was the well-known name
of the King of Sweden, assumed by him when travelling in France.)
"'In any event, your Grace _cannot_ dine before five o'clock.'
"'In heaven's name, do not be obstinate, but let us have dinner at
four.'
"'But at four o'clock, your Grace, what I am expecting will not have
arrived. Your Grace, I wait for a bottle of wine.'
"'A bottle of wine! Explain yourself, sir; the thing begins to
interest me.'
"'Listen, then, your Grace; his Majesty, the King of Sweden--I beg
pardon, the Count Haga, I should have said--drinks nothing but
Tokay.'
"'Well, am I so poor as to have no Tokay in my cellar? If so, I must
dismiss my butler.'
"'Not so, your Grace; on the contrary, you have about sixty bottles.'
"'Well, do you think Count Haga will drink sixty bottles with his
dinner?'
"'No, your Grace; but when Count Haga first visited France when he
was only prince royal, he dined with the late king, who had received
twelve bottles of Tokay from the Emperor of Austria. You are aware
that the Tokay of the finest vintages is reserved exclusively for the
cellar of the emperor, and that kings themselves can only drink it
when he pleases to send it to them.'
"'I know it.'
"'Then, your Grace, of these twelve bottles of which the prince
royal drank, only two remain. One is in the cellar of his Majesty
Louis XVI.--'
"'And the other?'
"'Ah, your Grace!' said the _maitre d'hotel_, with a triumphant
smile, for he felt that, after the long battle he had been fighting,
the moment of victory was at hand, 'the other one was stolen.'
"'By whom, then?'
"'By one of my friends, the late king's butler, who was under great
obligations to me.'
"'Oh! and so he gave it to you.'
"'Certainly, your Grace,' said the _maitre d'hotel_, with pride.
"'And what did you do with it?'
"'I placed it carefully in my master's cellar.'
"'Your master? And who was your master at that time?'
"'His Eminence the Cardinal de Rohan.'
"'Ah, _mon Dieu!_ at Strasbourg?'
"'At Saverne.'
"'And you have sent to seek this bottle for me!' cried the old
marshal.
"'For you, your Grace,' replied the _maitre d'hotel_, in a tone which
plainly said, 'ungrateful as you are.'
"The Duke de Richelieu seized the hand of the old servant, and
cried, 'I beg pardon; you are the king of _maitres d'hotel_.'"
The French noblesse of the eighteenth century may have had retainers of
the perspicacity and freedom of manners of this servant of the Marechal de
Richelieu, but it is hard to picture them in real life to-day. At any
rate, it bespeaks Dumas' fondness of good eating and good drinking that he
makes so frequent use of references thereto, not only in this novel of a
later day, but throughout the mediaeval romances as well.
Dumas' knowledge of gastronomy again finds its vent in "The Count of Monte
Cristo," when the unscrupulous Danglars is held in a dungeon pending his
giving up the five millions of francs which he had fraudulently obtained.
It is not a very high-class repast that is discussed, but it shows at
least Dumas' familiarity with the food of man.
"At twelve the guard before Danglars' cell was replaced by another
functionary, and, wishing to catch sight of his new guardian,
Danglars approached the door again. He was an athletic, gigantic
bandit, with large eyes, thick lips, and a flat nose; his red hair
fell in dishevelled masses like snakes around his shoulders. 'Ah!
ah!' cried Danglars, 'this fellow is more like an ogre than anything
else; however, I am rather too old and tough to be very good eating!'
We see that Danglars was quite collected enough to jest; at the same
time, as though to disprove the ogreish propensities, the man took
some black bread, cheese, and onions from his wallet, which he began
devouring voraciously. 'May I be hanged,' said Danglars, glancing at
the bandit's dinner through the crevices of the door, 'may I be
hanged if I can understand how people can eat such filth!' and he
withdrew to seat himself upon his goatskin, which recalled to him the
smell of the brandy....
"Four hours passed by, the giant was replaced by another bandit.
Danglars, who really began to experience sundry gnawings at the
stomach, rose softly, again applied his eye to the crack of the door,
and recognized the intelligent countenance of his guide. It was,
indeed, Peppino, who was preparing to mount guard as comfortably as
possible by seating himself opposite to the door, and placing between
his legs an earthen pan, containing chick-pease stewed with bacon.
Near the pan he also placed a pretty little basket of grapes and a
bottle of Vin d'Orvieto. Peppino was decidedly an epicure. While
witnessing these preparations, Danglars' mouth watered.... 'I can
almost imagine,' said he, 'that I were at the Cafe de Paris.'"
Dumas, like every strong personality, had his friends and his enemies. It
is doubtful which class was in the ascendency as to numbers. When asked,
on one occasion, when he had been dining at the Cafe de Paris, if he were
an archaeologist,--he had been admiring a cameo portrait of Julius
Caesar,--he replied, "No, I am absolutely nothing." His partisans were
many, and they were as devoted as his enemies were jealous and
uncharitable. Continuing, he said, "I admire this portrait in the capacity
of Caesar's historian." "Indeed," said his interlocutor, "it has never been
mentioned in the world of savants." "Well," said Dumas, "the world of
savants never mentions me."
This may be conceit or modesty, accordingly as one takes one view or
another. Dumas, like most people, was not averse to admiration. Far from
it. He thrived exceedingly on it. But he was, as he said, very much alone,
and quite felt a nobody at times. Of his gastronomic and epicurean
abilities he was vainly proud.
The story is told of the sole possession by Dumas of a certain recipe for
stewed carp. Veron, the director of the opera, had instructed his own
cook to serve the celebrated dish; she, unable to concoct it
satisfactorily, announced her intention of going direct to the novelist to
get it from his own lips. Sophie must have been a most ingenious and
well-informed person, for she approached Dumas in all hostility and
candour. She plunged direct into the subject, presuming that he had
acquired the knowledge of this special tidbit from some outside source.
Dumas was evidently greatly flattered, and gave her every possible
information, but the experiment was not a success, and the fair
_cordon-bleu_ began to throw out the suspicion that Dumas had acquired his
culinary accomplishments from some other source than that he had generally
admitted. It was at this time that Dumas was at the crux of his affairs
with his collaborators.
Accordingly Sophie made her pronouncement that it was with Dumas' cooking
as it was with his romances, and that he was "_un grand diable de
vaniteux_."
At his home in the Rue Chaussee d'Antin Dumas served many an epicurean
feast to his intimates; preparing, it is said, everything with his own
hands, even to the stripping of the cabbage-leaves for the _soupe aux
choux_, "sleeves rolled up, and a large apron around his waist."
A favourite menu was _soupe aux choux_, the now famous carp, a _ragout de
mouton, a l'Hongroise_; _roti de faisans_, and a _salade
Japonaise_--whatever that may have been; the ices and _gateaux_ being sent
in from a _patissier's_.
* * * * *
The customs of the theatre in Paris are, and always have been, peculiar.
Dumas himself tells how, upon one occasion, just after he had come
permanently to live there, he had placed himself beside an immense _queue_
of people awaiting admission to the Porte St. Martin.
He was not aware of the procedure of lining up before the entrance-doors,
and when one well up in the line offered to sell him his place for _twenty
sous_--held since midday--Dumas willingly paid it, and, not knowing that
it did not include admission to the performance, was exceedingly
distraught when the time came to actually pay for places. This may seem a
simple matter in a later day, and to us who have become familiar with
similar conditions in Paris and elsewhere; but it serves to show the
guilelessness of Dumas, and his little regard for business procedure of
any sort.
The incident is continued in his own words, to the effect that he "finally
purchased a bit of pasteboard that once had been white, which I presented
to the check-taker and received in return another of red.... My appearance
in the amphitheatre of the house must have been astonishing. I was the
very latest Villers-Cotterets fashion, but a revolution had taken place in
Paris which had not yet reached my native place. My hair was long, and,
being frizzled, it formed a gigantic aureole around my head. I was
received with roars of laughter.... I dealt the foremost scoffer a
vigorous slap in the face, and said, at the same time, 'My name is
Alexandre Dumas. For to-morrow, I am staying at the Hotel des
Vieux-Augustins, and after that at No. 1 Place des Italiens.'"
By some incomprehensible means Dumas was hustled out of the theatre and on
to the sidewalk--for disturbing the performance, though the performance
had not yet begun. He tried his luck again, however, and this time bought
a place at two francs fifty centimes.
Every visitor to Paris has recognized the preeminence of the "Opera" as a
social institution. The National Opera, or the Theatre Imperial de
l'Opera, as it was originally known, in the Rue Lepelletier, just off the
Boulevard des Italiens, was the progenitor of the splendid establishment
which now terminates the westerly end of the Avenue de l'Opera. The more
ancient "Grand Opera" was uncontestably the most splendid, the most
pompous, and the most influential of its contemporary institutions
throughout Europe.
The origin of the "Grand Opera" was as remote as the times of Anne of
Austria, who, it will be recalled, had a most passionate regard for
_musique_ and spectacle, and Mazarin caused to be brought from Italy
musicians who represented before the queen "musical pieces" which proved
highly successful.
Later, in 1672, Louis XIV. accorded the privilege of the Opera to Lulli, a
distinguished musician of Florence, and the theatre of the Palais Royal
was ceded to the uses of Academie de Musique.
After the fire of 1763, the Opera was transferred to the Tuileries, but
removed again, because of another fire, to the Porte St. Martin, where it
remained until 1794, when it was transferred to a new house which had been
constructed for it in the Rue Richelieu.
Again in 1820 it was removed to a new establishment, which had been
erected on the site of the former Hotel de Choiseul.
This house had accommodations for but two thousand spectators, and, in
spite of its sumptuousness and rank, was distinctly inferior in point of
size to many opera-houses and theatres elsewhere.
Up to this time the management had been governed after the manner of the
old regime, "by three gentlemen of the king's own establishment, in
concurrence with the services of a working director," and the royal privy
purse was virtually responsible for the expenses. Louis-Philippe astutely
shifted the responsibility to the public exchequer.
In 1831, Dr. Louis Veron, the founder of the _Revue de Paris_,--since
supplanted by the _Revue des Deux Mondes_,--became the manager and
director. Doctor Veron has been called as much the quintessence of the
life of Paris of the first half of the nineteenth century as was Napoleon
I. of the history of France.
Albert Vandam, the author of "An Englishman in Paris," significantly
enough links Veron's name in his recollections with that of Dumas, except
that he places Dumas first.
"Robert le Diable" and Taglioni made Veron's success and his fortune,
though he himself was a master of publicity. From 1831 onward, during
Veron's incumbency, the newspapers contained column after column of the
"puff personal," not only with respect to Veron himself, but down through
the galaxy of singers and dancers to the veriest stage-carpenter, scenic
artist, and call-boy.
The modern managers have advanced somewhat upon these premature efforts;
but then the art was in its infancy, and, as Veron himself was a
journalist and newspaper proprietor, he probably well understood the
gentle art of exchanging favouring puffs of one commodity for those of
another.
These were the days of the first successes of Meyerbeer, Halevy, Auber,
and Duprez; of Taglioni, who danced herself into a nebula of glory, and
later into a shadow which inspired the spiteful critics into condemnation
of her waning power.
It has been said that Marie Taglioni was by no means a good-looking woman.
Indeed, she must have been decidedly plain. Her manners, too, were
apparently not affable, and "her reception of Frenchmen was freezing to a
degree--when she thawed it was to Russians, Englishmen, or Viennese." "One
of her shoulders was higher than the other, she limped slightly, and,
moreover, waddled like a duck." Clearly a stage setting was necessary to
show off her charms. She was what the French call "_une pimbeche_."
The architectural effect produced by the exterior of this forerunner of
the present opera was by no means one of monumental splendour. Its
architect, Debret, was scathingly criticized for its anomalies. A
newspaper anecdote of the time recounts the circumstance of a provincial
who, upon asking his way thither, was met with the direction, "That
way--the first large gateway on your right."
Near by was the establishment of the famous Italian _restaurateur_, Paolo
Broggi, the resort of many singers, and the Estaminet du Divan, a sort of
humble counterpart of the Cafe Riche or the Cafe des Anglais, but which
proclaimed a much more literary atmosphere than many of the bigger
establishments on the boulevards. Vandam relates of this house of call
that "it is a positive fact that the _garcon_ would ask, 'Does monsieur
desire Sue's or Dumas' _feuilleton_ with his _cafe_?'"
Of the Opera which was burned in 1781, Dumas, in "The Queen's Necklace,"
has a chapter devoted to "Some Words about the Opera." It is an
interesting, albeit a rather superfluous, interpolation in a romance of
intrigue and adventure:
"The Opera, that temple of pleasure at Paris, was burned in the month
of June, 1781. Twenty persons had perished in the ruins; and, as it
was the second time within eighteen years that this had happened, it
created a prejudice against the place where it then stood, in the
Palais Royal, and the king had ordered its removal to a less central
spot. The place chosen was La Porte St. Martin.
"The king, vexed to see Paris deprived for so long of its Opera,
became as sorrowful as if the arrivals of grain had ceased, or bread
had risen to more than seven sous the quartern loaf. It was
melancholy to see the nobility, the army, and the citizens without
their after-dinner amusement; and to see the promenades thronged with
the unemployed divinities, from the chorus-singers to the prima
donnas.
"An architect was then introduced to the king, full of new plans, who
promised so perfect a ventilation, that even in case of fire no one
could be smothered. He would make eight doors for exit, besides five
large windows placed so low that any one could jump out of them. In
the place of the beautiful hall of Moreau he was to erect a building
with ninety-six feet of frontage toward the boulevard, ornamented
with eight caryatides on pillars forming three entrance-doors, a
bas-relief above the capitals, and a gallery with three windows. The
stage was to be thirty-six feet wide, the theatre seventy-two feet
deep and eighty across, from one wall to the other. He asked only
seventy-five days and nights before he opened it to the public.
"This appeared to all a mere gasconade, and was much laughed at. The
king, however, concluded the agreement with him. Lenoir set to work,
and kept his word. But the public feared that a building so quickly
erected could not be safe, and when it opened no one would go.
"Even the few courageous ones who did go to the first representation
of 'Adele de Ponthieu' made their wills first. The architect was in
despair. He came to the king to consult him as to what was to be
done.
"It was just after the birth of the dauphin; all Paris was full of
joy. The king advised him to announce a gratuitous performance in
honour of the event, and give a ball after. Doubtless plenty would
come, and if the theatre stood, its safety was established.
"'Thanks, Sire,' said the architect.
"'But reflect, first,' said the king, 'if there be a crowd, are you
sure of your building?'
"'Sire, I am sure, and shall go there myself.'
"'I will go to the second representation,' said the king.
"The architect followed this advice. They played 'Adele de Ponthieu'
to three thousand spectators, who afterward danced. After this there
could be no more fear."
It was three years after that Madame and the cardinal went to the
celebrated ball, the account of which follows in the subsequent chapter of
the romance.
Dumas as a dramatist was not so very different from Dumas the novelist.
When he first came to Paris the French stage was by no means at a low and
stagnant ebb--at least, it was not the thin, watery concoction that many
English writers would have us believe; and, furthermore, the world's great
dramatist--Shakespeare--had been and was still influencing and inspiring
the French playwright and actor alike.
It was the "Hamlet" of Ducis--a very French Hamlet, but still Hamlet--and
the memory of an early interview with Talma that first set fire to the
fuel of the stage-fever which afterward produced Dumas the dramatist.
Dumas was not always truthful, or, at least, correct, in his facts, but he
did not offend exceedingly, and he was plausible; as much so, at any rate,
as Scott, who had erred to the extent of fifteen years in his account of
the death of Amy Robsart.
In 1824 was born Alexandre Dumas _fils_, and at this time the parent was
collaborating with Soulie in an attempted, but unfinished, dramatization
of Scott's "Old Mortality."
By 1830, after he had left official work, Dumas had produced that drama of
the Valois, "Henri III.," at the Theatre Francais, where more than a
century before Voltaire had produced his first play, "Oedipe," and
where the "Hernani" of Victor Hugo had just been produced.
It was a splendid and gorgeous event, and the adventures of the Duchesse
de Guise, St. Megrin, Henri III. and his satellites proved to the large
and distinguished audience present no inconspicuous element in the success
of the future king of romance. It was a veritable triumph, and for the
time the author was more talked of and better known than was Hugo, who had
already entered the arena, but whose assured fame scarcely dates from
before "Hernani," whose first presentation--though it was afterward
performed over three hundred times in the same theatre--was in February of
the same year.
Voltaire had been dead scarce a half-century, but already the dust lay
thick on his dramatic works, and the world of Paris was looking eagerly
forward to the achievements of the new school. One cannot perhaps claim
for Dumas that he was in direct lineage of Shakespeare,--as was claimed
for Hugo, and with some merit,--but he was undoubtedly one of the first of
the race of the popular French playwrights whose fame is perpetuated
to-day by Sardou. At any rate, it was a classic struggle which was
inaugurated in France--by literature and the drama--in the early half of
the nineteenth century, and one which was a frank rebellion against the
rigid rules by which their arts had been restrained--especially dramatic
art.
[Illustration: D'ARTAGNAN
From the Dumas Statue by Gustave Dore]
With all due credit, then, to Hugo, it was Dumas who led the romanticists
through the breach that was slowly opening; though at the same time one
may properly enough recall the names of Alfred de Musset, Theophile
Gautier, and Gerard de Nerval.
Dumas' next play was in "classical form"--"Christine."
Mere chance brought Dumas into an acquaintance with the history of
Christine of Sweden, and, though the play was written and accepted before
"Henri III. et Sa Cour," it was not until some time later that it was
produced at the Odeon; the recollection of which also brings up the name
of Mlle. Mars.
* * * * *
The statue in Paris in the Place Malesherbes, erected to the memory of
Dumas, has been highly commended in conception and execution. It was the
work of Gustave Dore, and, truth to tell, it has some wonderfully
effective sculptures in bronze. A group of three symbolical figures _en
face_, and a lifelike and life-sized representation of the courageous
D'Artagnan _d'arriere_. These details are charming when reproduced on
paper by process of photography or the hand of an artist. Indeed, they are
of much the same quality when viewed as details, but in the ensemble,
combined with a cold, inartistic base or pedestal, which is crowned by a
seated effigy of Dumas--also life-size--clad in the unlovely raiment of
the latter nineteenth century, there is much to be desired.
Statues, be they bronze or marble, are often artistically successful when
their figures are covered with picturesque mediaeval garments, but they are
invariably a failure, in an artistic sense, when clothed in latter-day
garb. Doublet and hose, and sword and cloak lend themselves unmistakably
to artistic expression. Trousers and top-hats do not. Just back of the
Place Malesherbes is the Avenue de Villiers--a street of fine houses, many
of them studio apartments, of Paris's most famous artists. Here at No. 94
lived Alexandre Dumas during the later years of his life; so it is fitting
that his monument should be placed in this vicinity. The house was
afterward occupied by Dumas _fils_, and more lately by his widow, but now
it has passed into other hands.
Of interest to Americans is the fact which has been recorded by some one
who was _au courant_ with Parisian affairs of the day, "that the United
States Minister to France, Mr. John Bigelow, breakfasted with Dumas at St.
Gratien, near Paris," when it came out that he (Dumas) had a notion to go
out to America as a war correspondent for the French papers; the Civil War
was not then over. Unhappily for all of us, he did not go, and so a truly
great book was lost to the world.
In this same connection it has been said that Dumas' "quadroon autographs"
were sold in the United States, to provide additional funds for the widows
and orphans of slain abolitionists. As it is apocryphally said that they
sold for a matter of a hundred and twenty dollars each, the sum must have
reached considerable proportions, if their number was great.