A BUDDING POET
It is the first of May, and the lilacs in the Luxembourg Gardens are in
blossom. It has just struck four o'clock. The bright sun and the pure
sky have rendered more odious than ever the captivity of the office to
Amedee, and he departs before the end of the sitting for a stroll in the
Medicis garden around the pond, where, for the amusement of the children
in that quarter, a little breeze from the northeast is pushing on a
miniature flotilla. Suddenly he hears himself called by a voice which
bursts out like a brass band at a country fair.
"Good-day, Violette."
It is Jocquelet, the future comedian, with his turned-up nose, which cuts
the air like the prow of a first-class ironclad, superb, triumphant,
dressed like a Brazilian, shaved to the quick, the dearest hope of
Regnier's class at the Conservatoire-Jocquelet, who has made an enormous
success in an act from the "Precieuses," at the last quarter's
examination--he says so himself, without any useless modesty--Jocquelet,
who will certainly have the first comedy prize at the next examination,
and will make his debut with out delay at the Comedie Francaise! All
this he announces in one breath, like a speech learned by heart, with his
terrible voice, like a quack selling shaving-paste from a gilded
carriage. In two minutes that favorite word of theatrical people had
been repeated thirty times, punctuating the phrases: "I! I! I! I!"
Amedee is only half pleased at the meeting. Jocquelet was always a
little too noisy to please him. After all, he was an old comrade, and
out of politeness the poet congratulated him upon his success.
Jocquelet questioned him. What was Amedee doing? What had become of
him? Where was his literary work? All this was asked with such
cordiality and warmth of manner that one would have thought that
Jocquelet was interested in Amedee, and had a strong friendship for him.
Nothing of the, sort. Jocquelet was interested in only one person in
this world, and that person was named Jocquelet. One is either an actor
or he is not. This personage was always one wherever he was--in an
omnibus, while putting on his suspenders, even with the one he loved.
When he said to a newcomer, "How do you do?" he put so much feeling into
this very original question, that the one questioned asked himself
whether he really had not just recovered from a long and dangerous
illness. Now, at this time Jocquelet found himself in the presence of an
unknown and poor young poet. What role ought such an eminent person as
himself to play in such circumstances? To show affection for the young
man, calm his timidity, and patronize him without too much haughtiness;
that was the position to take, and Jocquelet acted it.
Amedee was an artless dupe, and, touched by the interest shown him, he
frankly replied:
"Well, my dear friend, I have worked hard this winter. I am not
dissatisfied. I think that I have made some progress; but if you knew
how hard and difficult it is!"
He was about to confide to Jocquelet the doubts and sufferings of a
sincere artist, but Jocquelet, as we have said, thought only of himself,
and brusquely interrupted the young poet:
"You do not happen to have a poem with you--something short, a hundred or
a hundred and fifty lines--a poem intended for effect, that one could
recite?"
Amedee had copied out that very day, at the office, a war story, a heroic
episode of Sebastopol that he had heard Colonel Lantz relate not long
since at Madame Roger's, and had put into verse with a good French
sentiment and quite the military spirit, verse which savored of powder,
and went off like reports of musketry. He took the sheets out of his
pocket, and, leading the comedian into a solitary by-path of sycamores
which skirted the Luxembourg orangery, he read his poem to him in a low
voice. Jocquelet, who did not lack a certain literary instinct, was very
enthusiastic, for he foresaw a success for himself, and said to the poet:
"You read those verses just like a poet, that is, very badly. But no
matter, this battle is very effective, and I see what I could do with it-
with my voice. But what do you mean?" added he, planting himself in
front of his friend. "Do you write verses like these and nobody knows
anything about them? It is absurd. Do you wish, then, to imitate
Chatterton? That is an old game, entirely used up! You must push
yourself, show yourself. I will take charge of that myself! Your
evening is free, is it not? Very well, come with me; before six o'clock
I shall have told your name to twenty trumpeters, who will make all Paris
resound with the news that there is a poet in the Faubourg Saint-Jacques.
I will wager, you savage, that you never have put your foot into the Cafe
de Seville. Why, my dear fellow, it is our first manufactory of fame!
Here is the Odeon omnibus, get on! We shall be at the Boulevard
Montmartre in twenty minutes, and I shall baptize you there, as a great
man, with a glass of absinthe."
Dazzled and carried away, Amedee humored him and climbed upon the outside
of the omnibus with his comrade. The vehicle hurried them quickly along
toward the quay, crossed the Seine, the Carrousel, and passed before the
Theatre-Francais, at which Jocquelet, thinking of his approaching debut,
shook his fist, exclaiming, "Now I am ready for you!" Here the young men
were planted upon the asphalt boulevard, in front of the Cafe de Seville.
Do not go to-day to see this old incubator, in which so many political
and literary celebrities have been hatched; for you will only find a
cafe, just like any other, with its groups of ugly little Jews who
discuss the coming races, and here and there a poor creature, painted
like a Jezebel, dying of chagrin over her pot of beer.
At the decline of the Second Empire--it was May 1, 1866, that Amedee
Violette entered there for the first time--the Cafe de, Seville passed
for, and with reason too, one of the most remarkable places in Paris.
For this glorious establishment had furnished by itself, or nearly so,
the eminent staff of our third Republic! Be honest, Monsieur le Prefet,
you who presided at the opening of the agricultural meeting in our
province, and who played the peacock in your dress-coat, embroidered in
silver, before an imposing line of horned creatures; be honest and admit,
that, at the time when you opposed the official candidates in your
democratic journal, you had your pipe in the rack of the Cafe de Seville,
with your name in white enamel upon the blackened bowl! Remember,
Monsieur le Depute, you who voted against all the exemption cases of the
military law, remember who, in this very place, at your daily game of
dominoes for sixty points, more than a hundred times ranted against the
permanent army--you, accustomed to the uproar of assemblies and the noise
of the tavern--contributed to the parliamentary victories by crying, "Six
all! count that!" And you too, Monsieur le Ministre, to whom an office-
boy, dating from the tyrants, still says, "Your excellency," without
offending you; you also have been a constant frequenter of the Cafe de
Seville, and such a faithful customer that the cashier calls you by your
Christian name. And do you recall, Monsieur the future president of the
Council, that you did not acquit yourself very well when the sedentary
dame, who never has been seen to rise from her stool, and who, as a joker
pretended, was afflicted with two wooden legs, called you by a little
sign to the desk, and said to you, not without a shade of severity in her
tone: "Monsieur Eugene, we must be thinking of this little bill."
Notwithstanding his title of poet, Amedee had not the gift of prophecy.
While seeing all these negligently dressed men seated outside at the Cafe
de Seville's tables, taking appetizers, the young man never suspected
that he had before him the greater part of the legislators destined to
assure, some years later, France's happiness. Otherwise he would have
respectfully taken note of each drinker and the color of his drink, since
at a later period this would have been very useful to him as a mnemonical
method for the understanding of our parliamentary combinations, which are
a little complicated, we must admit. For example, would it not have been
handy and agreeable to note down that the recent law on sugars had been
voted by the solid majority of absinthe and bitters, or to know that the
Cabinet's fall, day before yesterday, might be attributed simply to the
disloyal and perfidious abandonment of the bitter mints or blackcurrant
wine?
Jocquelet, who professed the most advanced opinions in politics,
distributed several riotous and patronizing handshakes among these future
statesmen as he entered the establishment, followed by Amedee.
Here, there were still more of politics, and also poets and literary men.
They lived a sort of hurly-burly life, on good terms, but one could not
get them confounded, for the politicians were all beard, the
litterateurs, all hair.
Jocquelet directed his steps without hesitation toward the magnificent
red head of the whimsical poet, Paul Sillery, a handsome young fellow
with a wide-awake face, who was nonchalantly stretched upon the red
velvet cushion of the window-seat, before a table, around which were
three other heads of thick hair worthy of our early kings.
"My dear Paul," said Jocquelet, in his most thrilling voice, handing
Sillery Amedee's manuscript, "here are some verses that I think are
superb, and I am going to recite them as soon as I can, at some
entertainment or benefit. Read them and give us your opinion of them.
I present their author to you, Monsieur Amedee Violette. Amedee, I
present you to Monsieur Paul Sillery."
All the heads of hair, framing young and amiable faces, turned curiously
toward the newcomer, whom Paul Sillery courteously invited to be seated,
with the established formula, "What will you take?" Then he began to
read the lines that the comedian had given him.
Amedee, seated on the edge of his chair, was distracted with timidity,
for Paul Sillery already enjoyed a certain reputation as a rising poet,
and had established a small literary sheet called La Guepe, which
published upon its first page caricatures of celebrated men with large
heads and little bodies, and Amedee had read in it some of Paul's poems,
full of impertinence and charm. An author whose work had been published!
The editor of a journal! The idea was stunning to poor innocent
Violette, who was not aware then that La Guepe could not claim forty
subscribers. He considered Sillery something wonderful, and waited with
a beating heart for the verdict of so formidable a judge. At the end of
a few moments Sillery said, without raising his eyes from the manuscript:
"Here are some fine verses!"
A flood of delight filled the heart of the poet from the Faubourg
St.-Jacques.
As soon as he had finished his reading, Paul arose from his seat, and,
extending both hands over the carafes and glasses to Amedee, said,
enthusiastically:
"Let me shake hands with you! Your description of the battle-scene is
astonishing! It is admirable! It is as clear and precise as Merimee,
and it has all the color and imagination that he lacks to make him a
poet. It is something absolutely new. My dear Monsieur Violette, I
congratulate you with all my heart! I can not ask you for this beautiful
poem for La Guepe that Jocquelet is so fortunate as to have to recite,
and of which I hope he will make a success. But I beg of you, as a great
favor, to let me have some verses for my paper; they will be, I am sure,
as good as these, if not better. To be sure, I forgot to tell you that
we shall not be able to pay you for the copy, as La Guepe does not
prosper; I will even admit that it only stands on one leg. In order to
make it appear for a few months longer, I have recently been obliged I I8
to go to a money-lender, who has left me, instead of the classical
stuffed crocodile, a trained horse which he had just taken from an
insolvent circus. I mounted the noble animal to go to the Bois, but at
the Place de la Concorde he began to waltz around it, and I was obliged
to get rid of this dancing quadruped at a considerable loss. So your
contribution to La Guepe would have to be gratuitous, like those of all
the rest. You will give me the credit of having saluted you first of
all, my dear Violette, by the rare and glorious title of true poet. You
will let me reserve the pleasure of intoxicating you with the odor that a
printer's first proofs give, will you not? Is it agreed?"
Yes, it was agreed! That is to say, Amedee, touched to the depths of his
heart by so much good grace and fraternal cordiality, was so troubled in
trying to find words to express his gratitude, that he made a terrible
botch of it.
"Do not thank me," said Paul Sillery, with his pleasant but rather
sceptical smile, "and do not think me better than I am. If all your
verses are as strong as these that I have just read, you will soon
publish a volume that will make a sensation, and--who knows? --perhaps
will inspire me first of all with an ugly attack of jealousy. Poets are
no better than other people; they are like the majority of Adam's sons,
vain and envious, only they still keep the ability to admire, and the
gift of enthusiasm, and that proves their superiority and is to their
credit. I am delighted to have found a mare's nest to-day, an original
and sincere poet, and with your permission we will celebrate this happy
meeting. The price of the waltzing horse having hardly sufficed to pay
off the debt to the publisher of La Guepe, I am not in funds this
evening; but I have credit at Pere Lebuffle's, and I invite you all to
dinner at his pot-house; after which we will go to my rooms, where I
expect a few friends, and there you will read us your verses, Violette;
we will all read some of them, and have a fine orgy of rich rhymes."
This proposition was received with favor by the three young men with the
long hair, a la Clodion and Chilperic. As for Violette, he would have
followed Paul Sillery at that moment, had it been into the infernal
regions.
Jocquelet could not go with them, he had promised his evening to a lady,
he said, and he gave this excuse with such a conceited smile that all
were convinced he was going to crown himself with the most flattering of
laurels at the mansion of some princess of the royal blood. In reality,
he was going to see one of his Conservatoire friends, a large, lanky
dowdy, as swarthy as a mole and full of pretensions, who was destined
for the tragic line of character, and inflicted upon her lover Athalie's
dream, Camille's imprecations, and Phedre's monologue.
After paying for the refreshments, Sillery gave his arm to Amedee, and,
followed by the three Merovingians, they left the cafe. Forcing a way
through the crowd which obstructed the sidewalk of the Faubourg
Montmartre he conducted his guests to Pere Lebuffle's table d'hote,
which was situated on the third floor of a dingy old house in the Rue
Lamartine, where a sickening odor of burnt meat greeted them as soon as
they reached the top of the stairs. They found there, seated before a
tablecloth remarkable for the number of its wine-stains, two or three
wild-looking heads of hair, and four or five shaggy beards, to whom Pere
Lebuffle was serving soup, aided by a tired-looking servant. The name
under which Sillery had designated the proprietor of the table d'hote
might have been a nickname, for this stout person in his shirt-sleeves
recommended himself to one's attentions by his bovine face and his
gloomy, wandering eyes. To Amedee's amazement, Pere Lebuffle called the
greater part of his clients "thou," and as soon as the newcomers were
seated at table, Amedee asked Sillery, in a low voice, the cause of this
familiarity.
"It is caused by the hard times, my dear Violette," responded the editor
of 'La Guepe' as he unfolded his napkin. "There is no longer a
'Maecenas' or 'Lawrence the Magnificent.' The last patron of literature
and art is Pere Lebufle. This wretched cook, who has perhaps never read
a book or seen a picture, has a fancy for painters and poets, and allows
them to cultivate that plant, Debt, which, contrary to other vegetables,
grows all the more, the less it is watered with instalments. We must
pardon the good man," said he, lowering his voice, "his little sin--
a sort of vanity. He wishes to be treated like a comrade and friend by
the artists. Those who have several accounts brought forward upon his
ledger, arrive at the point of calling him 'thou,' and I, alas! am of
that number. Thanks to that, I am going to make you drink something a
little less purgative than the so-called wine which is turning blue in
that carafe, and of which I advise you to be suspicious. I say,
Lebuffle, my friend here, Monsieur Amedee Violette, will be, sooner or
later, a celebrated poet. Treat him accordingly, my good fellow, and go
and get us a bottle of Moulins-Vent."
The conversation meanwhile became general between the bearded and long-
haired men. Is it necessary to say that they were all animated, both
politicians and 'litterateurs', with the most revolutionary sentiments?
At the very beginning, with the sardines, which evidently had been
pickled in lamp-oil, a terribly hairy man, the darkest of them all, with
a beard that grew up into its owner's eyes and then sprung out again in
tufts from his nose and ears, presented some elegiac regrets to the
memory of Jean-Paul Marat, and declared that at the next revolution it
would be necessary to realize the programme of that delightful friend of
the people, and make one hundred thousand heads fall.
"By thunder, Flambard, you have a heavy hand!" exclaimed one of the
least important of beards, one of those that degenerate into side-
whiskers as they become conservative. "One hundred thousand heads!"
"It is the minimum," replied the sanguinary beard.
Now, it had just been revealed to Amedee that under this ferocious beard
was concealed a photographer, well known for his failures, and the young
man could not help thinking that if the one hundred thousand heads in
question had posed before the said Flambard's camera, he would not show
such impatience to see them fall under the guillotine.
The conversation of the men with the luxuriant hair was none the less
anarchical when the roast appeared, which sprung from the legendary
animal called 'vache enragee'. The possessor of the longest and thickest
of all the shock heads, which spread over the shoulders of a young story
writer--between us, be it said, he made a mistake in not combing it
oftener--imparted to his brothers the subject for his new novel, which
should have made the hair of the others bristle with terror; for the
principal episode in this agreeable fiction was the desecration of a dead
body in a cemetery by moonlight. There was a sort of hesitation in the
audience, a slight movement of recoil, and Sillery, with a dash of
raillery in his glance, asked the novelist:
"Why the devil do you write such a story?"
The novelist replied, in a thundering tone:
"To astonish the bourgeoisie!"
And nobody made the slightest objection.
To "astonish the bourgeoisie" was the dearest hope and most ardent wish
of these young men, and this desire betrayed itself in their slightest
word; and doubtless Amedee thought it legitimate and even worthy of
praise. However, he did not believe--must we admit his lack of
confidence?--that so many glorious efforts were ever crowned with
success. He went so far as to ask himself whether the character and
cleverness of these bourgeoisie would not lead them to ignore not only
the works, but even the existence, of the authors who sought to
"astonish" them; and he thought, not without sadness, that when La Guepe
should have published this young novelist's ghostly composition, the
unconquerable bourgeoisie would know nothing about it, and would continue
to devote itself to its favorite customs, such as tapping the barometer
to know whether there was a change, or to heave a deep sigh after
guzzling its soup, saying, "I feel better!" without being the least
astonished in the world.
In spite of these mental reservations, which Amedee reproached himself
with, being himself an impure and contemptible Philistine, the poet was
delighted with his new friends and the unknown world opening before him.
In this Bohemian corner, where one got intoxicated with wild excesses and
paradoxes, recklessness and gayety reigned. The sovereign charm of youth
was there, and Amedee, who had until now lived in a dark hiding-place,
blossomed out in this warm atmosphere.
After a horrible dessert of cheese and prunes, Pere Lebuffle's guests
dispersed. Sillery escorted Amedee and the three Merovingians to the
little, sparsely furnished first floor in the Rue Pigalle, where he
lived; and half a dozen other lyric poets, who might have furnished some
magnificent trophies for an Apache warrior's scalping-knife, soon came to
reenforce the club which met there every Wednesday evening.
Seats were wanting at the beginning, but Sillery drew from a closet an
old black trunk which would hold two, and contented himself, as master of
the house, with sitting from time to time, with legs dangling, upon the
marble mantel. The company thus found themselves very comfortable; still
more so when an old woman with a dirty cap had placed upon the table, in
the middle of the room, six bottles of beer, some odd glasses, and a
large flowered plate upon which was a package of cut tobacco with
cigarette paper. They began to recite their verses in a cloud of smoke.
Each recited his own, called upon by Sillery; each would rise without
being urged, place his chair in front of him, and leaning one hand upon
its back, would recite his poem or elegy. Certainly some of them were
wanting in genius, some were even ludicrous. Among the number was a
little fellow with a cadaverous face, about as large as two farthings'
worth of butter, who declared, in a long speech with flat rhymes, that an
Asiatic harem was not capable of quenching his ardent love of pleasure.
A fat-faced fellow with a good, healthy, country complexion, announced,
in a long story, his formal intention of dying of a decline, on account
of the treason of a courtesan with a face as cold as marble; while, if
the facts were known, this peaceable boy lived with an artless child of
the people, brightening her lot by reducing her to a state of slavery;
she blacked his boots for him every morning before he left the house.
In spite of these ridiculous things, there were present some genuine
poets who knew their business and had real talent. These filled Amedee
with respect and fear, and when Sillery called his name, he arose with a
dry mouth and heavy heart.
"It is your turn now, you newcomer! Recite us your 'Before Sebastopol.'"
And so, thoroughbred that he was, Amedee overcame his emotion and
recited, in a thrilling voice, his military rhymes, that rang out like
the report of a veteran's gun.
The last stanza, was greeted with loud applause, and all the auditors
arose and surrounded Amedee to offer him their congratulations.
"Why, it is superb!"
"Entirely new!"
"It will make an enormous success!"
"It is just what is needed to arouse the public!"
"Recite us something else!--something else!"
Reassured and encouraged, master of himself, he recited a popular scene
in which he had freely poured out his love for the poor people. He next
recited some of his Parisian suburban scenes, and then a series of
sonnets, entitled "Love's Hopes," inspired by his dear Maria; and he
astonished all these poets by the versatility and variety of his
inspirations.
At each new poem bravos were thundered out, and the young man's heart
expanded with joy under this warm sunshine of success. His audience vied
with each other to approach Amedee first, and to shake his hand. Alas!
some of those who were there would, later, annoy him by their low envy
and treason; but now, in the generous frankness of their youth, they
welcomed him as a master.
What an intoxicating evening! Amedee reached his home about two o'clock
in the morning, his hands burning with the last grasps, his brain and
heart intoxicated with the strong wine of praise. He walked with long
and joyful strides through the fairy scene of a beautiful moonlight, in
the fresh morning wind which made his clothes flutter and caressed his
face. He thought he even felt the breath of fame.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Dreams, instead of living
Fortunate enough to keep those one loves
Learned that one leaves college almost ignorant
Paint from nature
The sincere age when one thinks aloud
Upon my word, there are no ugly ones (women)
Very young, and was in love with love