Alexandre Dumas pere -- Why he made himself particularly
agreeable to Englishmen -- His way of silencing people -- The
pursuit he loved best next to literature -- He has the privilege
of going down to the kitchens of the Cafe de Paris -- No one
questions his literary genius, some question his culinary
capacities -- Dr. Veron and his cordon-bleu -- Dr. Veron's
reasons for dining out instead of at home -- Dr. Veron's friend,
the philanthropist, who does not go to the theatre because he
objects to be hurried with his emotions -- Dr. Veron, instigated
by his cook, accuses Dumas of having collaborateurs in preparing
his dishes as he was known to have collaborateurs in his literary
work -- Dumas' wrath -- He invites us to a dinner which shall be
wholly cooked by him in the presence of a delegate to be chosen
by the guests -- The lot falls upon me -- Dr. Veron and Sophie
make the _amende honorable_ -- A dinner-party at Veron's -- A
curious lawsuit in connection with Weber's "Freyschutz" -- Nestor
Roqueplan, who became the successor of the defendant in the case,
suggests a way out of it -- Leon Pillet virtually adopts it and
wins the day -- A similar plan adopted years before by a fireman
on duty at the opera, on being tried by court-martial for having
fallen asleep during the performance of "Guido et Genevra" --
Firemen not bad judges of plays and operas -- They were often
consulted both by Meyerbeer and Dumas -- Dumas at work -- How he
idled his time away -- Dumas causes the traffic receipts of the
Chemin de Fer de l'Ouest to swell during his three years'
residence at Saint-Germain -- M. de Montalivet advises
Louis-Philippe to invite Dumas to Versailles, to see what his
presence will do for the royal city -- Louis-Philippe does not
act upon the advice -- The relations between Dumas and the
d'Orleans family -- After the Revolution of '48, Dumas becomes a
candidate for parliament -- The story of his canvass and his
address to the electors at Joigny -- Dumas' utter indifference to
money matters -- He casts his burdens upon others -- Dumas and
his creditors -- Writs and distraints -- How they are dealt with
-- Dumas' indiscriminate generosity -- A dozen houses full of new
furniture in half as many years -- Dumas' frugality at table --
Literary remuneration -- Dumas and his son -- "Leave me a hundred
francs."
Among my most pleasant recollections of those days are those of
Alexandre Dumas. To quote his own words, "whenever he met an Englishman
he considered it his particular duty to make himself agreeable to him,
as part of the debt he owed to Shakespeare and Walter Scott." I doubt
whether Dumas ever made himself deliberately disagreeable to any one;
even when provoked, he managed to disarm his adversary with an epigram,
rather than wound him. One evening, a professor at one of the provincial
universities had been dining at the Cafe de Paris, as the guest of Roger
de Beauvoir. He had a magnificent cameo breastpin. It elicited the
admiration of every one, and notably that of Dumas. He said at once that
it was a portrait of Julius Caesar.
"Are you an archaeologist?" asked the professor.
"I," replied Dumas, "I am absolutely nothing."
"Still," insisted the visitor, "you perceived at once that it was a
portrait of Julius Caesar."
"That is not very wonderful. Caesar is essentially a Roman type; and,
besides, I know Caesar as well as most people, and perhaps better."
To tell a professor of history--especially a provincial one--that one
knows Caesar as well as most people and perhaps better, is naturally to
provoke the question, "In what capacity?" As a matter of course the
question followed immediately.
"In the capacity of Caesar's historian," said Dumas imperturbably.
We were getting interested, because we foresaw that the professor would,
in a few minutes, get the worst of it. Dumas' eyes were twinkling with
mischief.
"You have written a history of Caesar?" asked the learned man.
"Yes; why not?"
"Well, you won't mind my being frank with you: it is because it has
never been mentioned in the world of savans."
"The world of savans never mentions me."
"Still, a history of Caesar ought to make somewhat of a sensation."
"Mine has not made any. People read it, and that was all. It is the
books which it is impossible to read that make a sensation: they are
like the dinners one cannot digest; the dinners one digests are not as
much as thought of next morning." That was Dumas' way of putting a
would-be impertinent opponent _hors de combat_, and his repartees were
frequently drawn from the pursuit he loved as well, if not better than
literature, namely, cooking. It may sound exaggerated, but I verily
believe that Dumas took a greater pride in concocting a stew than in
constructing a novel or a play. Very often, in the middle of the dinner,
he would put down his knife and fork. "Ca, c'est rudement bon: il faut
que je m'en procure la recette." And Guepet was sent for to authorize
Dumas to descend to the lower regions and have a consultation with his
chefs. He was the only one of the _habitues_ who had ever been in the
kitchens of the Cafe de Paris. As a rule these excursions were followed
by an invitation to dine at Dumas' two or three days hence, when the
knowledge freshly acquired would be put into practice.
There were few of us who questioned Dumas' literary genius; there were
many who suspected his culinary abilities, and notably among them, Dr.
Veron. The germs of this unbelief had been sown in the doctor's mind by
his own cordon-bleu, Sophie. The erstwhile director of the opera lived,
at that time, in a beautiful apartment on the first floor of a nice
house in the Rue Taitbout, at the corner of which the Cafe de Paris was
situated. Sophie had virtually a sinecure of it, because, with the
exception of a dinner-party now and then, her master, who was a
bachelor, took his dinners at the restaurant. And with regard to the
dejeuner, there was not much chance of her displaying her talents,
because the man, who was reputed to be a very Apicius, was frugality
itself. His reasons for dining out instead of at home were perfectly
logical, though they sounded paradoxical. One day, when I was remarking
upon the seemingly strange habit of dining out, when he was paying "a
perfect treasure" at home, he gave me these reasons. "My dear friend,
depend upon it that it is man's stomach which found the aphorism, 'Qui
va _piano_ va _sano_, qui va _sano_ va _lontano_.' In your own home the
soup is on the table at a certain hour, the roast is taken off the jack,
the dessert is spread out on the sideboard. Your servants, in order to
get more time over their meals, hurry you up; they do not serve you,
they gorge you. At the restaurant, on the contrary, they are never in a
hurry, they let you wait. And, besides, I always tell the waiters not to
mind me; that I like being kept a long while--that is one of the reasons
why I come here.
"Another thing, at the restaurant the door is opened at every moment and
something happens. A friend, a chum, or a mere acquaintance comes in;
one chats and laughs: all this aids digestion. A man ought not to be
like a boa-constrictor, he ought not to make digestion a business apart.
He ought to dine and to digest at the same time, and nothing aids this
dual function like good conversation. Perhaps the servant of Madame de
Maintenon, when the latter was still Madame Scarron, was a greater
philosopher than we suspect when he whispered to his mistress, 'Madame,
the roast has run short; give them another story.'
"I knew a philanthropist," wound up Dr. Veron, "who objected as much to
be hurried over his emotions as I object to be hurried over my meals.
For that reason he never went to the theatre. When he wanted an
emotional fillip, he wandered about the streets until he met some poor
wretch evidently hungry and out of elbows. He took him to the nearest
wine-shop, gave him something to eat and to drink, sat himself opposite
to his guest, and told him to recount his misfortunes. 'But take your
time over it. I am not in a hurry,' he recommended. The poor outcast
began his tale; my friend listened attentively until he was thoroughly
moved. If the man's story was very sad, he gave him a franc or two; if
it was positively heart-rending and made him cry, he gave him a
five-franc piece; after which, he came to see me, saying, 'I have
thoroughly enjoyed myself, and made the intervals between each
sensational episode last as long as I liked, and, what is more, it has
just cost me seven francs, the price of a stall at the theatre.'"
To return to Dr. Veron's scepticism with regard to Dumas' culinary
accomplishments, and how he was converted. Dumas, it appears, had got
the recipe for stewing carp from a German lady, and, being at that
moment on very friendly terms with Dr. Veron, which was not always the
case, had invited him and several others to come and taste the results
of his experiments. The dish was simply splendid, and for days and days
Veron, who was really a frugal eater, could talk of nothing else to his
cook.
"Where did you taste it?" said Sophie, getting somewhat jealous of this
praise of others; "at the Cafe de Paris?"
"No, at Monsieur Dumas'," was the answer.
"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas' cook, and get the recipe."
"That's of no use," objected her master. "Monsieur Dumas prepared the
dish himself."
"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas himself and ask him to give me
the recipe."
Sophie was as good as her word, and walked herself off to the Chaussee
d'Antin. The great novelist felt flattered, and gave her every possible
information, but somehow the dish was not like that her master had so
much enjoyed at his friend's. Then Sophie grew morose, and began to
throw out hints about the great man's borrowing other people's feathers
in his culinary pursuits, just as he did in his literary ones. For
Sophie was not altogether illiterate, and the papers at that time were
frequently charging Dumas with keeping his collaborateurs too much in
the background and himself too much in front. Dumas had never much
difficulty in meeting such accusations, but Sophie had unconsciously hit
upon the tactics of the clever solicitor who recommended the barrister
to abuse the plaintiff, the defendant's case being bad, and she put it
into practice. "C'est avec sa carpe comme avec ses romans, les autres
les font et il y met son nom," she said one day. "Je l'ai bien vu, c'est
un grand diable de vaniteux."
Now, there was no doubt about it, to those who did not know him very
well, Dumas was "un grand diable de vaniteux;" and the worthy doctor sat
pondering his cook's remarks until he himself felt inclined to think
that Dumas had a clever chef in the background, upon whose victories he
plumed himself. Meanwhile Dumas had been out of town for more than a
month, but a day or so after his return he made his appearance at the
Cafe de Paris, and, as a matter of course, inquired after the result of
Sophie's efforts. The doctor was reticent at first, not caring to
acknowledge Sophie's failure. He had, however, made the matter public,
alleging, at the same time, Sophie's suspicions as to Dumas' hidden
collaborateur, and one of the company was ill advised enough to let the
cat out of the bag. During the many years of my acquaintance with Dumas,
I have never seen him in such a rage as then. But he toned down in a
very few minutes. "Il n'y a qu'une reponse a une accusation pareille,"
he said in a grandiloquent tone, which, however, had the most comical
effect, seeing how trifling the matter was in reality--"il n'y qu'une
reponse; vous viendrez diner avec moi demain, vous choissirez un delegue
qui viendra a partir de trois heures me voir preparer mon diner." I was
the youngest, the choice fell upon me. That is how my lifelong
friendship with Dumas began. At three o'clock next day I was at the
Chaussee d'Antin, and was taken by the servant into the kitchen, where
the great novelist stood surrounded by his utensils, some of silver, and
all of them glistening like silver. With the exception of a soupe aux
choux, at which, by his own confession, he had been at work since the
morning, all the ingredients for the dinner were in their natural
state--of course, washed and peeled, but nothing more. He was assisted
by his own cook and a kitchen-maid, but he himself, with his sleeves
rolled up to the elbows, a large apron round his waist, and bare chest,
conducted the operations. I do not think I have ever seen anything more
entertaining, though in the course of these notes I shall have to
mention frequent vagaries on the part of great men. I came to the
conclusion that when writers insisted upon the culinary challenges of
Careme, Duglere, and Casimir they were not indulging in mere metaphor.
At half-past six the guests began to arrive; at a quarter to seven Dumas
retired to his dressing-room; at seven punctually the servant announced
that "monsieur etait servi." The dinner consisted of the aforenamed
soupe aux choux, the carp that had led to the invitation, a ragout de
mouton a la Hongroise, roti de faisans, and a salade Japonaise. The
sweets and ices had been sent by the patissier. I never dined like that
before or after, not even a week later, when Dr. Veron and Sophie made
the _amende honorable_ in the Rue Taitbout.
I have spent many delightful evenings with all these men; I do not
remember having spent a more delightful one than on the latter occasion.
Every one was in the best of humours; the dinner was very fine; albeit
that, course for course, it did not come up to Dumas'; and, moreover,
during the week that had elapsed between the two entertainments, one of
Dr. Veron's successors at the opera, Leon Pillet, had been served with
the most ludicrous citation that was ever entered on the rolls of any
tribunal. For nearly nineteen years before that period there had been
several attempts to mount Weber's "Freyschutz," all of which had come to
nought. There had been an adaptation by Castil-Blaze, under the title of
"Robin des Bois," and several others; but until '41, Weber's work, even
in a mutilated state, was not known to the French opera-goer. At that
time, however, M. Emilien Paccini made a very good translation; Hector
Berlioz was commissioned to write the recitatives, for it must be
remembered that Weber's opera contains dialogue, and that dialogue is
not admissible in grand opera. Berlioz acquitted himself with a taste
and reverence for the composer's original scheme that did great credit
to both; he sought his themes in Weber's work itself, notably in the
"Invitation a la Valse;" but notwithstanding all this, the "Freyschutz"
was miserably amputated in the performance lest it should "play" longer
than midnight, though a ballet was added rather than deprive the public
of its so-called due. Neither Paccini nor Berlioz had set foot in the
opera-house since their objections to such a course had been overruled,
and they made it known to the world at large that no blame attached to
them; nevertheless, this quasi "Freyschutz" met with a certain amount of
success. M. Pillet was rubbing his hands with glee at his own
cleverness, until a Nemesis came in the shape of a visitor from the
Fatherland, who took the conceit out of the director with one fell blow,
and, what was worse still, with a perfectly legal one.
The visitor was no less a personage than Count Tyszkiewicz, one of the
best musical critics of the time and the editor of the foremost musical
publication in the world; namely, _Die Musikalische Zeitung_, of
Leipzig. The count, having been attracted by the announcement of the
opera on the bills, was naturally anxious to hear how French artists
would acquit themselves of a work particularly German, and, having
secured a stall, anticipated an enjoyable evening. But alack and alas!
in a very little while his indignation at the liberties taken with the
text and the score by the singers, musicians, and conductor got the
upper hand, and he rushed off to the commissary of police on duty at the
theatre to claim the execution of Weber's opera in its integrity, as
promised on the bills, or the restitution of his money. Failing to get
satisfaction either way, he required the commissary to draw up a
verbatim report of his objections and his claim, determined to bring an
action. Next morning, he sent a lithographed account of the transaction
to all the papers, requesting its insertion, with which request not a
single one complied. Finding himself baffled at every turn, he engaged
lawyer and counsel and began proceedings.
It was at that stage of the affair that the dinner at Dr. Veron's took
place. As a matter of course, the coming lawsuit gave rise to a great
deal of chaff on the part of the guests, although the victim of this
badinage and defendant in the suit was not there. It was his successor
who took up the cudgels and predicted the plaintiff's discomfiture. "The
counsel," said Roqueplan, "ought to be instructed to invite the
president and assessors to come and hear the work before they deliver
judgment: if they like it personally, they will not decide against
Pillet; if they don't, they'll fall asleep and be ashamed to own it
afterwards. But should they give a verdict for the plaintiff, Pillet
ought to appeal on a question of incompetence; a person with the name
of Tyszkiewicz has no right to plead in the interest of harmony."[7]
[Footnote 7: The latter plea was, in fact, advanced by Pillet's
counsel in the first instance, on Roqueplan's advice, and
perhaps influenced the court; for though it gave a verdict for
the plaintiff, it was only for _seven francs_ (the price of the
stall), and costs. The verdict was based upon the
"consideration" that the defendant had not carried out
altogether the promise set forth on the programme.]
Among such a company as that gathered round Dr. Veron's table, a single
sentence frequently led to a host of recollections. Scarcely had
Roqueplan's suggestion to invite the president and assessors of the
court to the performance of the "Freyschutz" been broached than our host
chimed in: "I can tell you a story where the expedient you recommend was
really resorted to, though it did not emanate from half as clever a man
as you, Roqueplan. In fact, it was only a pompier that hit upon it to
get out of a terrible scrape. He was going to be brought before a
court-martial for neglect of duty. It happened under the management of
my immediate successor, Duponchel, at the fourth or fifth performance of
Halevy's 'Guido et Genevra.' Some of the scenery caught fire, and, but
for Duponchel's presence of mind, there would have been a panic and a
horrible catastrophe. Nevertheless, the cause of the accident had to be
ascertained, and it was found that the brigadier fireman posted at the
spot where the mischief began had been asleep. He frankly admitted his
fault, at the same time pleading extenuating circumstances. 'What do you
mean?' asked the captain, charged with the report. 'Such a thing has
never happened to me before, mon capitaine, but it is impossible for any
one to keep his eyes open during that act. You need not take my word,
but perhaps you will try the effect yourself.' The captain did try; the
captain sat for two or three minutes after the rise of the curtain, then
he was seen to leave his place hurriedly. The brigadier and his men were
severely reprimanded, but they were not tried. Out of respect for Halevy
the matter was kept a secret.
"I may add," said our host, "that the pompier is by no means a bad judge
of things theatrical, seeing that he is rarely away from the stage for
more than three or four nights at a time. I remember perfectly well
that, during the rehearsals of 'Robert le Diable,' Meyerbeer often had a
chat with them. Curiously enough he now and then made little alterations
after these conversations. I am not insinuating that the great composer
acted upon their suggestions, but I should not at all wonder if he had
done so."
Alexandre Dumas, in whose honour, it will be remembered, the dinner was
given, had an excellent memory, and some years afterwards profited by
the experiment. I tell the story as it was given to us subsequently by
his son. Only a few friends and Alexandre the younger were present at
the first of the final rehearsals of "The Three Musketeers," at the
Ambigu Comique. They were not dress rehearsals proper, because there
were no costumes, and the scenery merely consisted of a cloth and some
wings. Behind one of the latter they had noticed, during the first six
tableaux, the shining helmet of a fireman who was listening very
attentively. The author had noticed him too. About the middle of the
seventh tableau the helmet suddenly vanished, and the father remarked
upon it to his son. When the act was finished, Dumas went in search of
the pompier, who did not know him. "What made you go away?" he asked
him. "Because it did not amuse me half as much as the others," was the
answer. "That was enough for my father," said the younger Dumas. "There
and then he went to Beraud's room, took off his coat, waistcoat, and
braces, unfastened the collar of his shirt--it was the only way he could
work--and sent for the prompt copy of the seventh tableau, which he tore
up and flung into the fire, to the consternation of Beraud. 'What are
you doing?' he exclaimed. 'You see what I am doing; I am destroying the
seventh tableau. It does not amuse the pompier. I know what it wants.'
And an hour and a half later, at the termination of the rehearsal, the
actors were given a fresh seventh tableau to study."
I have come back by a roundabout way to the author of "Monte-Christo,"
because, tout chemin avec moi mene a Dumas; I repeat, he constitutes one
of the happiest of my recollections. After the lapse of many years, I
willingly admit that I would have cheerfully foregone the acquaintance
of all the other celebrities, perhaps David d'Angers excepted, for that
of Dumas pere.
After the lapse of many years, the elder Dumas still represents to me
all the good qualities of the French nation and few of their bad ones.
It was absolutely impossible to be dull in his society, but it must not
be thought that these contagious animal spirits only showed themselves
periodically or when in company. It was what the French have so aptly
termed "la joie de vivre," albeit that they rarely associate the phrase
with any one not in the spring of life. With Dumas it was chronic until
a very few months before his death. I remember calling upon him shortly
after the dinner of which I spoke just now. He had taken up his quarters
at Saint-Germain, and come to Paris only for a few days. "Is monsieur at
home?" I said to the servant.
"He is in his study, monsieur," was the answer. "Monsieur can go in."
At that moment I heard a loud burst of laughter from the inner
apartment, so I said, "I would sooner wait until monsieur's visitors are
gone."
"Monsieur has no visitors; he is working," remarked the servant with a
smile. "Monsieur Dumas often laughs like this at his work."
It was true enough, the novelist was alone, or rather in company with
one of his characters, at whose sallies he was simply roaring.
Work, in fact, was a pleasure to him, like everything else he undertook.
One day he had been out shooting, between Villers-Cotterets and
Compiegne, since six in the morning, and had killed twenty-nine birds.
"I am going to make up the score and a half, and then I'll have a sleep,
for I feel tired," he said. When he had killed his thirtieth partridge
he slowly walked back to the farm, where his son and friends found him
about four hours later, toasting himself before the fire, his feet on
the andirons, and twirling his thumbs.
"What are you sitting there for like that?" asked his son.
"Can't you see? I am resting."
"Did you get your sleep?"
"No, I didn't; it's impossible to sleep here. There is an infernal
noise; what with the sheep, the cows, the pigs, and the rest, there is
no chance of getting a wink."
"So you have been sitting here for the last four hours, twirling your
thumbs?"
"No, I have been writing a piece in one act." The piece in question was
"Romulus," which he gave to Regnier to have it read at the
Comedie-Francaise, under a pseudonym, and as the work of a young unknown
author. It was accepted without a dissentient vote.
It is a well-known fact, vouched for by the accounts of the Compagnie
du Chemin de Fer de l'Ouest, that during the three years Dumas lived at
Saint-Germain, the receipts increased by twenty thousand francs per
annum. Of course, it has been objected that railways being then in their
infancy the increment would have been just the same without Dumas'
presence in the royal residence, but, curiously enough, from the day he
left, the passenger traffic fell to its previous state. Dumas had simply
galvanized the sleepy old town into life, he had bought the theatre
where the artists of the Comedie-Francaise, previous to supping with
him, came to play "Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle" or the "Demoiselles de
Saint-Cyr," for the benefit of the poor. On such occasions, there was
not a room to be had at the hotels. After supper, there were twice a
week fireworks on the Terrace, which could be seen from Paris and from
Versailles, to the great astonishment of Louis-Philippe, who really
attributed the change to the beneficence of his reign, although he
failed to account for the continued dulness of the latter royal borough,
where he himself resided, and whose picture-galleries he had restored
and thrown open to the public, besides having the great fountains to
play every first Sunday of the month.
One day the king sent for M. de Montalivet, and told him that, though
gratified at the revived prosperity of Saint-Germain, he would like to
see a little more gaiety at Versailles.
"You really mean it, sire?" asked the minister.
"Not only do I mean it, but I confess to you that it would give me great
pleasure."
"Well, sire, Alexandre Dumas has lately been sentenced to a fortnight's
imprisonment for neglecting his duty in the National Guards: make an
order for him to spend that fortnight in Versailles, and I guarantee
your Majesty that Versailles will be lively enough."
Louis-Philippe did not act upon the suggestion. The only member of the
d'Orleans' family who was truly sympathetic to Dumas was the king's
eldest son, whose untimely death shortly afterwards affected the great
novelist very much, albeit that he frankly acknowledged to regretting
the man and not the future ruler; for while loudly professing his
republican creed, he never pretended to overlook his indebtedness to
Louis-Philippe, when Duc d'Orleans, for having befriended him; nay, I am
inclined to think that Dumas' gratitude was far greater than the case
warranted. When, in 1847, the fancy took him to go into parliament, he
naturally turned to the borough he had benefited so much by his stay
there--Saint-Germain, and Saint-Germain denied him. They thought him too
immoral. Dumas waited patiently for another opportunity, which did not
come until the following year, when Louis-Philippe had abdicated.
Addressing a meeting of electors at Joigny, he was challenged by a M. de
Bonneliere to reconcile his title of republican with his title of
Marquis de la Pailleterie, and the fact of his having been a secretary
to the Duc d'Orleans, although he had never occupied so important a
position in the Duc d'Orleans' household. His reply was simply scathing,
and I give it in full as the papers of the day reproduced it. "No
doubt," he said, in an off-hand, bantering way, "I was formerly called
the Marquis de la Pailleterie, which was my father's name, and of which
I was very proud, being unable then to claim a glorious one of my own
make. But at present, when I am somebody, I call myself Alexandre Dumas
and nothing more; and everybody knows me, you among the rest--you, you
absolute nobody, who have merely come to be able to boast to-morrow,
after insulting me to-night, that you have known the great Dumas. If
such was your ambition, you might have satisfied it without failing in
the common courtesies of a gentleman."
When the applause which the reply provoked had subsided, Dumas went on:
"There is also no doubt about my having been a secretary to the Duc
d'Orleans, and that I have received all kinds of favours from his
family. If you, citizen, are ignorant of the meaning of the term, 'the
memory of the heart,' allow me at least to proclaim here in my loudest
voice, that I am not, and that I entertain towards this royal family all
the devotion an honourable man can feel."
It is, however, not my intention to sketch Alexandre Dumas as a
politician, for which career I considered him singularly unfit; but the
speech from which I extracted the foregoing contains a few lines which,
more than thirty-five years after they were spoken, cannot fail to
strike the reader with his marvellous foresight. "Geographically," he
said, commenting upon the political state of Europe, "Prussia has the
form of a serpent, and, like it, she seems to be asleep, and to gather
her strength in order to swallow everything around her--Denmark,
Holland, Belgium, and, when she shall have swallowed all that, you will
find that Austria will be swallowed in its turn, and perhaps, alas,
France also."
The last words, as may be imagined, provoked a storm of hisses;
nevertheless, he kept his audience spellbound until midnight.
A parliamentary candidate, however eloquent, who flings his constituents
into the river when they happen to annoy him, must have been a novelty
even in those days, and that is what Dumas did to two brawlers after
said meeting, just to show them that his "aristocratic grip" was worth
their "plebeian one."
A few years later, at a dinner at Dumas', in the Rue d'Amsterdam, I met
a Monsieur du Chaffault who had been an eye-witness of this, as well as
of other scenes during that memorable day. Until the morning of that
day, M. du Chaffault had never set eyes on the great novelist; in the
evening, he was his friend for life. It only proves once more the
irresistible fascination Dumas exercised over every one with whom he
came in contact, because the beginning of that friendship cost M. du
Chaffault six hundred francs, the expenses of that part of the electoral
campaign. The story, as told by M. du Chaffault the following afternoon
in the Cafe Riche to Dr. Veron, myself, and Joseph Mery, is too good to
be missed. I give it as near as I can remember.
"I was about twenty-four then, with nothing particular to do, and a
moderate private income. They were painting and whitewashing my place, a
few miles away from Sens, and I had taken up my quarters in the
principal hotel in the town. The first elections under the second
republic were being held. There was a good deal of excitement
everywhere, and I liked it, though not taking the slightest interest in
politics. This was in May, 1848; and about six, one morning while I was
still in bed, the door of my room was suddenly opened without knocking,
and what seemed to me a big black monster stood before me. There was a
pistol lying by the side of me, and I was reaching towards it, when he
spoke. 'Don't alarm yourself,' he said; 'I am Alexandre Dumas. They told
me you were a good fellow, and I have come to ask you a service.'
"I had never seen Dumas in the flesh, only a portrait of him, but I
recognized him immediately. 'You have often afforded me a great deal of
amusement, but I confess you frightened me,' I said. 'What, in Heaven's
name, do you want at this unholy hour?'
"'I have slept here,' was the answer. 'I landed here at midnight, and am
starting for Joigny by-and-by, to attend a political meeting. I am
putting up as a member for your department.'
"I jumped out of bed at once, Dumas handed me my trousers, and, when I
got as far as my boots, he says, 'Oh, while I think of it, I have come
to ask you for a pair of boots; in stepping into the carriage, one of
mine has come to utter grief, and there is no shop open.'
"As you may see for yourselves, I am by no means a giant, and Dumas is
one. I pointed this out to him, but he did not even answer me. He had
caught sight of three or four pair of boots under the dressing-table,
and, in the twinkling of an eye, chose the best pair and pulled them on,
leaving me his old ones, absolutely worn out, but which I have preserved
in my library at home. I always show them to my visitors as the thousand
and first volume of Alexandre Dumas.[8]
[Footnote 8: Alexandre Dumas had a marvellously small
foot.--EDITOR.]
"By the time he got the boots on we were friends, as if we had known one
another for years; as for Dumas, he was 'theeing' and 'thouing' me as if
we had been at school together.
"'You are going to Joigny?' I said; 'I know a good many people there.'
"'All the better, for I am going to take you along with me.'
"Having to go no further than Joigny, and being taken thither in the
conveyance of my newly-made friend, I did not think it necessary to
provide myself with an extra supply of funds, the more that I had
between five and six hundred francs in my pocket. In a short time we
were on our road, and the first stage of three hours seemed to me as
many minutes. Whenever we passed a country seat, out came a lot of
anecdotes and legends connected with its owners, interlarded with quaint
fancies and epigrams. At that first change of horses Dumas' secretary
paid. At the second, Villevailles, Dumas says, 'Have you got twenty
francs change?' Without a moment's hesitation, I took out my purse, paid
the money, and put down in my pocket-book, 'Alexandre Dumas, twenty
francs.' I might have saved myself the trouble, as I found out in a very
short time, for the moment he got out at Joigny, he rushed off in a
hurry without troubling about anything. The postilion turned to me for
his money, and I paid, and put down once more, 'Alexandre Dumas, thirty
francs.'
"The first meeting was fixed for four, at the theatre. They applied to
me for the hire of the building, for the gas. I went on paying, but I no
longer put down the items, saying to myself, 'When my six hundred francs
are gone, my little excursion will be at an end, and I'll go back to
Sens.' The little excursion did not extend to more than one day, seeing
that I had to settle the dinner bill at the Duc de Bourgogne, Dumas
having invited every one he met on his way. I am only sorry for one
thing, that I did not have ten thousand francs in my pocket that morning
in order to prolong my excursion for a week or so. But next morning my
purse was empty, and 'our defeat was certain.' I had already identified
myself with Dumas' aspirations, so I returned to Sens by myself, but
overjoyed at having seen and spoken to this man of genius, who is richer
than all the millionnaires in the world put together, seeing that he
never troubles himself about paying, and has therefore no need to worry
about money. Three months afterwards, the printer at Joigny drew upon me
for a hundred francs for electioneering bills, which, of course, I could
not have ordered, but which draft I settled as joyfully as I had settled
the rest. I have preserved the draft with the boots; they are mementoes
of my first two days' friendship with my dear friend."
At the first blush, all this sounds very much as if we were dealing with
a mere Harold Skimpole, but no man was more unlike Dickens' creation
than Alexandre Dumas. M. du Chaffault described him rightly when he said
that he did not worry about money, not even his own. "My biographer,"
Dumas often said, "will not fail to point out that I was 'a panier
perce,'[9] neglecting, as a matter of course, to mention that, as a
rule, it was not I who made the holes."
[Footnote 9: Literally, a basket with holes in it;
figuratively, the term applied to irreclaimable
spendthrifts.--EDITOR.]
The biographers have not been quite so unjust as that. Unfortunately,
few of them knew Dumas intimately, and they were so intent upon
sketching the playwright and the novelist that they neglected the man.
They could have had the stories of Alexandra Dumas' improvidence with
regard to himself and his generosity to others for the asking from his
familiars. On the other hand, the latter have only told these stories in
a fragmentary way; a complete collection of them would be impossible,
for no one, not even Dumas himself, knew half the people whom he
befriended. In that very apartment of the Rue d'Amsterdam which I
mentioned just now, the board was free to any and every one who chose to
come in. Not once, but a score of times, have I heard Dumas ask, after
this or that man had left the table, "Who is he? what's his name?"
Whosoever came with, or at the tail, not of a friend, but of a simple
acquaintance, especially if the acquaintance happened to wear skirts,
was immediately invited to breakfast or dinner as the case might be.
Count de Cherville once told me that Dumas, having taken a house at
Varenne-Saint-Hilaire, his second month's bill for meat alone amounted
to eleven hundred francs. Let it be remembered that his household
consisted of himself, two secretaries, and three servants, and that
money went a great deal further than it does at present, especially in
provincial France, in some parts of which living is still very cheap. In
consequence of one of those financial crises, which were absolutely
periodical with Alexandre Dumas, M. de Cherville had prevailed upon him
to leave Paris for a while, and to take up his quarters with him. All
went comparatively well as long as he was M. de Cherville's guest; but,
having taken a liking to the neighbourhood, he rented a house of his
own, and furnished it from garret to cellar in the most expensive way,
as if he were going to spend the remainder of his life in it. Exclusive
of the furniture, he spent between fifteen thousand and eighteen
thousand francs on hangings, painting, and repairs. The parasites and
harpies which M. de Cherville had kept at bay came down upon him like a
swarm of locusts. "And how long, think you, did Dumas stay in his new
domicile? Three months, not a day more nor less. As a matter of course,
the furniture did not fetch a quarter of its cost; the repairs, the
decorating, etc., were so much sheer waste: for the incoming tenant
refused to refund a cent for it, and Dumas, having made up his mind to
go to Italy, would not wait for a more liberal or conscientious one,
lest he should have the rent of the empty house on his shoulders also.
Luckily, I took care that he should pocket the proceeds of the sale of
the furniture."
This last sentence wants explaining. As a rule, when a man sells his
sticks, he pockets the money. But the instance just mentioned was the
only one in which Dumas had the disposal of his household goods. The
presiding divinity invariably carried them away with her when she had to
make room for a successor, and these successions generally occurred
once, sometimes twice, a year. "La reine est morte, vive la reine." The
new sovereign, for the first few days of her reign, had to be content
with bare walls and very few material comforts; then the nest was
upholstered afresh, and "il n'y avait rien de change en la demeure, sauf
le nom de la maitresse."
Consequently, though for forty years Alexandre Dumas could not have
earned less than eight thousand pounds per annum; though he neither
smoked, drank, nor gambled; though, in spite of his mania for cooking,
he himself was the most frugal eater--the beef from the soup of the
previous day, grilled, was his favourite dish,--it rained writs and
summonses around him, while he himself was frequently without a penny.
M. du Chaffault one day told me of a scene _a propos_ of this which is
worth reproducing. He was chatting to Dumas in his study, when a visitor
was shown in. He turned out to be an Italian man of letters and refugee,
on the verge of starvation. M. du Chaffault could not well make out what
was said, because they were talking Italian, but all at once Dumas got
up and took from the wall behind him a magnificent pistol, one of a
pair. The visitor walked off with it, to M. du Chaffault's surprise.
When he was gone, Dumas turned to his friend and explained: "He was
utterly penniless, and so am I; so I gave him the pistol."
"Great Heavens, you surely did not recommend him to go and make an end
of himself!" interrupted du Chaffault.
Dumas burst out laughing. "Of course not. I merely told him to go and
sell or pawn it, and leave me the fellow one, in case some other poor
wretch should want assistance while I am so terribly hard up."
And yet, in this very Rue d'Amsterdam, whether Dumas was terribly
impecunious or not, the dejeuner, which generally began at about
half-past eleven, was rarely finished before half-past four, because
during the whole of that time fresh contingents arrived to be fed, and
communication was kept up between the apartment and the butcher for
corresponding fresh supplies of beefsteaks and cutlets.
Is it a wonder, then, that it rained summonses, and writs, and other law
documents? But no one took much notice of these, not even one of the
four secretaries, who was specially appointed to look after these
things. If I remember aright, his name was Hirschler. The names of the
other three secretaries were Rusconi, Viellot, and Fontaine.
Unfortunately, Hirschler was as dilatory as his master, and, until the
process-server claimed a personal interview, as indifferent. These
"limbs of the law" were marvellously polite. I was present one day at an
interview between one of these and Hirschler, for Dumas' dwelling was
absolutely and literally the glass house of the ancient
philosopher--with this difference, that no one threw any stones _from_
it. There was no secret, no skeleton in the cupboard; the impecuniosity
and the recurrent periods of plenty were both as open as the day.
The "man of law" and Hirschler began by shaking hands, for they were old
acquaintances; it would have been difficult to find a process-server in
Paris who was not an old acquaintance of Dumas. After which the visitor
informed Hirschler that he had come to distrain.
"To distrain? I did not know we had got as far as that," said Hirschler.
"Wait a moment. I must go and see." It meant that Hirschler repaired to
the kitchen, where stood a large oaken sideboard, in a capacious drawer
of which all the law documents, no matter by whom received, were
indiscriminately thrown, to be fished out when the "mauvais quart
d'heure" came, and not until then.
"You are right," said Hirschler, but not in the least worried or
excited, "I really did not know we had got as far as that. I must ask
you to wait another minute. I suppose a third or a fourth of the total
amount will do for the present?"
"Well, I do not know," said the process-server with most exquisite
politeness. "Try what you can do. I fancy that with a third I may manage
to stop proceedings for a while."
The third or fourth part of the debt was rarely in the house; messengers
had to be despatched for it to Cadot, the publisher, or to the cashier
of the _Moniteur_, _Constitutionnel_, or _Siecle_. Meanwhile the
process-server was feasted in a sumptuous way, and when the messenger
returned with the sum in question, Hirschler and the process-server
shook hands once more, with the most cordial _au revoir_ possible.
As a matter of course, the same process-server reappeared upon the scene
in a few months. The comedy had often as many as a dozen
representations, so that it may safely be said that a great number of
Dumas' debts were paid six or seven times over. Even sixpence a line of
sixty letters did not suffice to keep pace with such terrible
improvidence, though the remuneration was much more frequently fourpence
or fivepence. It rarely rose to sevenpence halfpenny, but in all cases a
third went to Dumas' collaborateurs, another third to his creditors, and
the rest to himself.
I have allowed my pen to run away with me. One more story, and then I
leave Alexandre Dumas for the present. It is simply to show that he
would have squandered the fortune of all the Rothschilds combined: I
repeat, not on himself; he would have given it away, or allowed it to be
taken. He had no notion of the value of money. About a year after I had
made his acquaintance, he was ill at Saint-Germain, and I went to see
him. His dog had bitten him severely in the right hand; he was in bed,
and obliged to dictate. His son had just left him, and he told me,
adding, "C'est un coeur d'or, cet Alexandre." Seeing that I did not ask
what had elicited the praise, he began telling me.
"This morning I received six hundred and fifty francs. Just now
Alexandre was going up to Paris, and he says, 'I'll take fifty francs.'
"I did not pay attention, or must have misunderstood; at any rate I
replied, 'Don't take as much as that; leave me a hundred francs.'
"'What do you mean, father?' he asked. 'I am telling you that I am going
to take fifty francs.'
"'I beg your pardon,' I said. 'I understood you were going to take six
hundred.'"
He would have considered it the most natural thing in the world for his
son to take six hundred and leave him fifty; just as he considered it
the most natural thing to bare his arm and to have a dozen leeches put
on it, because his son, when a boy of eight, having met with an
accident, would not consent to blood-letting of that kind. In vain did
the father tell him that the leeches did not hurt. "Well, put some on
yourself, and then I will." And the giant turned up his sleeves, and did
as he was told.