We shall not say much about the life of Alexandre Dumas the younger.
The history of a great writer is the history of his works. He was born
in Paris, on July 27th, 1824. His name on the register of births
appears as "Alexandre, son of Marie Catherine Lebay, seamstress." He
was not acknowledged by his father until he had reached his sixth
year, March 7th, 1830. I emphasize this particular because it had
great influence on the bent of his genius. During all his life Dumas
was haunted by a desire of rehabilitating illegitimate children, of
creating a reaction against their treatment by the Civil Code and the
prejudice which makes of them something little better than outcasts in
society.
"When seven years old," he himself says, "I entered as a boarder the
school of Monsieur Vauthier, on Rue Montagne Saint-Genevieve. Thence I
passed, about two years later, to the Saint-Victor School; the
principal was Monsieur Goubaux, a friend of my father, with whom he
collaborated under the _nom de plume_ of Dinaux. This school, which
numbered two hundred and fifty boarding pupils, and with the rather
strange habits which I tried to depict in 'The Clemenceau Case,'
occupied all the ground covered to-day by the Casino de Paris and the
'Pole-Nord' establishment. When about fifteen I left the Saint-Victor
School for Monsieur Henon's school, which was situated in the Rue de
Courcelles and has now disappeared. It is in the College Bourbon (now
the Lycee Condorcet) that I received all my instruction, as the pupils
of the two schools where I lived attended the college classes. I never
belonged to any of the higher State schools,--I have not even the
degree of bachelor."
At the end of his years of study he returned to his father. He did not
stay there more than six months. The rather tumultuous life which he
saw in the house disturbed his proud mind, already filled with serious
yearnings.
"You have debts," his father said to him. "Do as I do: work, and you
will pay them."
Such was indeed the young man's intention. His first work was a
one-act play in verse, 'The Queen's Jewel,' which no one, assuredly,
would mention to-day but for his signature. The date was 1845, and the
author was then twenty-one. Other works by him were published at
various times in the Journal des Demoiselles.
"I was," he has said, "the careless, lazy, and spoilt child of all my
father's friends. I believed in the eternity of youth, of strength, of
joy. I spent the whole day laughing, the whole night sleeping, unless
I had some reason for writing verses."
About 1846 he set resolutely to work. He turned to novel-writing,
which seemed to him to offer greater facilities for reaching the
public and greater chances of immediate income than dramatic
composition. Only two of his novels have survived: 'La Dame aux
Camelias' ('Camille': 1848), because from this book came the immortal
drama by the same title; and 'The Clemenceau Case,' because the author
wrote it when he was in complete possession of his talent, and because
moreover it is a first-rate work.
It was in 1852 that the Vaudeville Theatre gave the first performance
of 'Camille,' the fortune of which was to be so extraordinary. For two
or three years the play had been tossed from theatre to theatre.
Nobody wanted it. To the ideas of the time it seemed simply shocking,
and the play was still forbidden in London after its performances in
France were numbered by the hundreds.
There is this special trait in 'Camille'--it was a work all instinct
with the spirit of youth. Dumas twenty years later sadly said: "I
might perhaps make another 'Demi-Monde'; I could not make another
'Camille.'" There existed, indeed, other works which have all the
fire and charm of the twentieth year. 'Polyeucte' is Corneille's
masterpiece; his 'Cid' breathes the spirit of youth: Corneille at
forty could not have written the 'Cid.' Racine's first play is
'Andromaque': Beaumarchais's is the 'Barber of Seville'; Rossini, when
young, enlivened it with his light and sparkling airs. Fifteen years
later he himself wrote his 'William Tell,' a higher work, but a work
which was not young.
[Illustration: ALEXANDRE DUMAS, JUNIOR.]
If the theatrical managers had recoiled from 'Camille' in spite of the
great names that recommended it, it is because it was cut after a
pattern to which neither they nor the public were accustomed; it is
because it contained the germ of a whole dramatic revolution. Now, the
author was not a theatrical revolutionist. He had not said to himself,
"I am going to throw down the old fabric of the drama, and erect a new
one on its ruins." To tell the truth, he had no idea of what he was
doing. He had witnessed a love drama. He had thrown it still throbbing
upon the stage, without any regard for the dramatic conventions which
were then imposed upon playwrights, and which were almost accepted as
laws. He had simply depicted what he had seen. All the managers,
attached as they were to the old customs, and respectful of the
traditions, had trembled with horror when they saw moving around
Camille the ignoble Prudence, the idiotic Due de Varville, the silly
Saint-Gaudens. But the public--though the fact was suspected neither
by them nor by the public itself--yearned for more truth upon the
boards. When 'Camille' was presented to them, the play-goers uttered a
cry of astonishment and joy: that was the thing! that was just what
they wanted! From that day, which will remain as a date in the history
of the French stage, the part of Camille has been performed by all the
celebrated actresses. The part has two sides: one may see in it a
degraded woman who has fallen profoundly in love, rather late in life;
one may also see in it a woman, already poetical in her own nature,
suddenly carried away by a great passion into the sacred regions of
the Ideal.
Almost any young man in Dumas's place would have lost his head after
so astounding a success, and might not have resisted the temptation of
at once working out the vein. For on coming out of the theatre after
the first performance, the author had all the managers at his feet,
and the smallest trifle was sure to be accepted if it only had his
signature. But he had learned, by the side of "a prodigal father," the
art of husbanding his talent. He declined to front the footlights
again, save with a work upon which he had been able to bestow all the
care and labor it deserved: he waited a year before he gave, at the
Gymnase theatre, 'Diane de Lys.'
'Diane de Lys' undoubtedly pleased the public, but its success was not
exactly brilliant. It is full of great qualities, it is strongly
conceived, constructed with rare power and logic, but it added nothing
to his reputation. The play as a whole seemed long and melancholy. It
is a curious subject for critical study, as one of the stages in which
the genius of the author stopped awhile, on its way to higher works.
It will leave no great trace in his career.
Two years later he gave at the Gymnase theatre--I do not dare to say
his masterpiece, but certainly the best constructed and most enjoyable
play he ever wrote, 'Le Demi-Monde' (The Other Half-World). In this
play he discovered and defined the very peculiar world of those women
who live on the margin of regular "society," and try to preserve its
tone and demeanor. What scientific and strong construction are here!
What an admirable disposition of the scenes, both flexible and
logical! And through the action, which moves on with wonderful
straightforwardness and breadth, how many portraits, drawn with a
steady hand, each one bearing such distinctive features that you would
know them if you met them on the street! Olivier de Jalin, the refined
Parisian, the dialectician of the play, who is no other than Dumas
himself; Raymond de Nanjac, handsome and honest, but not keen or
Parisian; and that giddy Valentine de Sanctis, whose head turns with
the wind, whose tongue cannot rest one moment; and especially Suzanne
d'Ange, so witty, so complex, so devious in her motions, so
_roublarde_, as a Parisian of to-day would say.
Between 'The Demi-Monde,' and 'La Question d'Argent' (The Money
Question), which followed, Dumas spent two years at work. 'La Question
d'Argent' is a favorite play with the connoisseurs; but its reception
by the public was of the coldest. It is a noteworthy fact that plays
turning upon money have never been successful. Le Sage's 'Turcaret' is
a dramatic masterpiece: it never had the luck to please the crowd.
Dumas's Jean Giraud is, however, a very curiously studied character.
The author has represented in him the commonest type of the shady
money-man, the unconscious rascal. And very skillfully he made an
individual out of that general type, by giving to Jean Giraud a
certain rough good-nature; the appearance of a good fellow, with a
certain degree of fineness; a mixture of humility and self-conceit, of
awkwardness and impudence, and even some ideas as to the power of
money that do not lack dignity, and some real liberality of sentiment
and act,--for wealth alone, though acquired by ignominious means,
suggests and dictates to the great robbers some advantageous movements
which the small rascal cannot indulge in: and around this Turcaret of
the Second Empire how many pictures of honest people, every one of
whom, in his or her way, is good and fine!
One year later Dumas carried to the Gymnase, his favorite theatre, 'Le
Fils Naturel' (The Natural Son); and the next year 'Un Pere Prodigue'
(A Prodigal Father; known also in English through a free adaptation as
'My Awful Dad').
In 'Le Fils Naturel' Dumas for the first time wrote a theme-play, a
kind of work in which he was to become a master. Hitherto we have seen
him drawing pictures of manners. To be sure, philosophical
considerations on the period depicted are not wanting, but the play
has not the form and does not assume the movement of a thesis. It does
not take up one special trait of our social order, one of our worldly
prejudices, in order to show its strong and weak sides. 'Le Fils
Naturel' is the work of a moralist as well as of a playwright; or
rather, it is the work of a playwright who was a born moralist.
'Un Pere Prodigue' originally excited great curiosity. It escaped no
one that in his Count Fernand de la Rivonniere, Dumas had shown us
some traits of his illustrious father, who _had_ been a prodigal
father; and that he had depicted himself in Viscount Andre. Every one
made comparisons; some, of course, accused the author of filial
disrespect. The accusation was ridiculous, and he did not even answer
it. He had so well disguised the persons, he had transported them into
such different surroundings, that no one could recognize in them
their true prototypes. Then--and this is no small praise--if Count de
la Rivonniere is guilty of one fault, that of throwing to the wind his
fortune, he is a most amiable nobleman, full of broad ideas and
generous sentiments,--has a warm heart. The fourth act, in which the
father sacrifices himself in order to save his son's life, is pathetic
in the extreme. But nothing equals the first act, which is a model of
animated and picturesque composition. No one ever painted in more
vivid colors the pillage of a household, and a family without so much
as a shadow of discipline. It is an accumulation of small details, not
one of which is of an indifferent nature, and which, taken together,
drive into our minds the idea that this nobleman, so well-mannered, so
charming in conversation, so sober for himself, is running to ruin as
gayly as he can.
For four years after the production of 'Un Pere Prodigue' Dumas wrote
nothing. But in 1864 he reappeared at the Gymnase with a strange play,
'L'Ami des Femmes' (A Friend of the Sex), which completely failed.
After 'L'Ami des Femmes' there was another interruption, not of
Dumas's labors but of his dramatic production. Perhaps he was sick of
an art which had caused him a cruel disappointment. He turned again to
novel-writing, and published (1866) 'L'Affaire Clemenceau' (The
Clemenceau Case), the success of which was not as great as he had
hoped. In France, when a man is superior in one specialty people will
not let him leave it. He is not allowed to be at once an unequaled
novelist and a first-rate dramatist.
At that time Dumas hesitated which road to follow. An incident which
created a great deal of comment threw him back towards the stage, and
towards a new form of comedy.
M. Emile de Girardin, one of the best known publicists of the Second
Empire, had bethought himself, when over fifty years of age, and
knowing nothing of this kind of work, to write a play. He had been a
great friend of Dumas pere, and had kept up the most affectionate
intercourse with his son. He had asked him to fit his play for the
stage. It possessed one really dramatic idea. Dumas, in order to
oblige his father's friend, made out of it 'Le Supplice d'une Femme'
(A Woman's Torture). Emile de Girardin, who was self-conceited and
somewhat despotic, refused to recognize his offspring in the bear that
Dumas had licked. He declined to sign the play: "Neither shall I,"
Dumas retorted.
'A Woman's Torture' was acted at the Comedie Francaise with
extraordinary success. This success was for Dumas a warning and a
lesson. 'A Woman's Torture' was a three-act play, short, concise,
panting, which hurried to the _coup de theatre_ of the second act,
upon which the drama revolved, and rushed to its conclusion. The time
of five-act comedies, with ample expositions, copious developments,
philosophical disquisitions, curious and fanciful episodes, was gone.
Henceforth the dramatist had to deal with a hurried and _blase_
public, which, taking dinner at eight, could give to the theatre but a
short time, and an attention disturbed by the labor of digestion. 'A
Woman's Torture,' which lasted only an hour and a half, and proceeded
only by rapid strokes, was exactly what that public wanted. After that
time Dumas wrote only three-act and one-act plays; using four acts
only for 'Les Idees de Madame Aubray' (Madame Aubray's Ideas); and
these four acts are very short. In 1867 this play announced Dumas's
return to the stage; and Dumas is here more paradoxical than he had
ever been. His theme looked like a wager not simply against bourgeois
prejudices, but even against good sense, and, I dare to say, against
justice. This wager was won by Dumas, thanks to an incredible display
of skill. He took up the thesis a second time in 'Denise,' and won his
wager again, but with less difficulty. In 'Denise' the lover struggles
only against social prejudices, and allows himself to be carried away
by one of those emotional fits which disturb and confound human
reason. In 'Madame Aubray's Ideas' the triumph is one of pure logic.
'Une Visite de Noces' (A Wedding Call) and 'La Princesse Georges'
followed rather closely on 'Madame Aubray's Ideas.' 'A Wedding
Call'!--what a thunderbolt then! It was of but one act, _but_ one act
the effect of which was prodigious, the echo of which is still heard.
Time and familiarity have now softened for us the too sharp outlines
of this bitter play. It has been acknowledged a masterpiece. It is
certainly one of the boldest works of this extraordinary magician,
who, thanks to his unerring skill and to the dazzling wit of his
dialogue, brought the public to listen to whatever he chose to put
upon the stage. It seemed that, like a lion tamer in the arena, Dumas
took pleasure in belaboring and exasperating this many-headed monster,
in order to prove to his own satisfaction that he could subdue its
revolts.
'La Princesse Georges' is a work of violent and furious passion. We
find in it Madame de Terremonde, the good woman who adores her
husband, but who adores him with fury, who wants him all to herself,
and who, when sure that she is betrayed, passes from the most
exasperated rage to tears and despair. There is in the first act a
scene of exposition which has become celebrated. No one ever so
rapidly mastered the public; no one ever from the first stroke so
painfully twisted the heart of the spectators.
Let us pass rapidly over 'La Femme de Claude' (Claude's Wife: 1873).
Of all his plays it is the one Dumas said he liked best, the one he
most passionately defended with all sorts of commentaries, letters,
prefaces, etc.; the one which he insisted on having revived, a long
time after it had failed. To my mind that play was a mistake; and the
public, in spite of Dumas's arguments, in spite of the protests of the
critics, who are often very glad to distinguish themselves by not
yielding to the common voice,--the public insisted on agreeing with
me.
Only a few months later, Dumas brilliantly retrieved himself with
'Monsieur Alphonse.' His Madame Guichard is the most cheerfully vulgar
type of the _parvenue_ which any one ever dared to put upon the stage.
She can hardly read and write; she is no longer young, and she is "to
boot" very proud of her money; she has no tact and no taste; but at
heart she is a good sort of woman. Her morality is as primitive as her
education. But deceit disgusts her; she hates but one thing, she
says,--lying. She is not troubled by conventionalities; and her speech
has all the color and energy of popular speech. But see! Dumas in
depicting this woman preserved exquisite measure. Madame Guichard says
many pert and droll things; she never utters a coarse word. Her
language is picturesque; it is free from slang. Hers is a vulgar
nature, but she does not offend delicate ears by the grossness of her
utterance. Dumas never drew a more living picture; she is the joy of
this rather sad play.
All that remain to be reviewed are 'L'Etrangere,' 'La Princesse de
Bagdad,' and 'Francillon'; all of which were given at the Comedie
Francaise. 'L'Etrangere' is indeed a melodrama, with an admixture of
comedy. Had he gone further in that direction, Dumas might have made a
new sort of play, which would perhaps have reigned a long time on the
stage. But after this trial, successful though it was, he stopped. 'La
Princesse de Bagdad' entirely failed. 'Francillon' was Dumas's last
success at the Comedie Francaise.
After 1887 Dumas gave nothing to the stage. He had completed a great
five-act play, 'The Road to Thebes,' which the manager of the Comedie
Francaise hoped every year to put on the boards. Dumas kept promising
it; but either from distrust of himself or of the public, or from
fatigue, or fear of meeting with failure, he asked for new delays,
until the day when he declared that not only the play would not be
acted during his life, but that he would not even allow it to be acted
after his death.
This death he saw coming, with sad but calm eyes. It was a sorrow for
us to see this man, whom we had known so quick and alert, grow weaker
every day, showing the progress of disease in his shriveled features
and body. The complexion had lost all color, the cheeks had become
flaccid, the eye had no life left.
On October 1st, 1895, he wrote to his friend Jules Claretie:--"Do not
depend upon me any more; I am vanquished. There are moments when I
mourn my loss, as Madame D'Houdetot said when dying." He was at Puys,
by the seaside, when he wrote that despairing letter. He returned to
Marly, there to die, surrounded by his family, on November 28th, 1895,
in a house which he loved and which had been bequeathed to him years
before by an intimate friend.
His loss threw into mourning the world of letters, and the whole of
Paris. People discovered then--for death loosens every tongue and
every pen--how kind and generous in reality was Dumas, who had often
been accused of avarice by those who contrasted him with his father;
how many services he had discreetly rendered, how open his hand always
was. His constant cheerfulness and good-nature had finally caused him
to be forgiven for his wit, which was sarcastic and cutting, and for
his success, which had thrown so many rivals into the shade. This
witty man, who was always obliging and even tender-hearted, had no
envy, and gave his applause without a shadow of reserve to the
successes of others. Every young author found in him advice and
support; he did not expect gratitude, and therefore was soured by no
disappointment. He was a good man, partly from nature, partly from
determination; for he deemed that, after all, the best way to live
happy in this world is to make happy as many people as possible.
If in this long essay I have not spoken of Dumas as a moralist, it is
because, in my opinion, in spite of all that has been said, Dumas was
a dramatist a great deal more than a philosopher. In his comedies he
discussed a great many moral and social questions, without giving a
solution for any; or rather, the solutions that he gave were due not
to any set of fixed principles, but to the conclusion which he was
preparing for this play or that. He said, indifferently, "Kill her" or
"Forgive her," according to the requirements of the subject which he
had selected; and he would afterwards write a sensational preface with
a view to demonstrate that the solution this time given by him was the
only legitimate one. These prefaces are very amusing reading; for he
wrote them with all the fire of his nature, and he had the gift of
movement. But they were a strange medley of incongruous and
contradictory statements. Every idea that he expresses can be grasped
and understood; but it is impossible to see how it agrees with those
that precede and follow. It is a chaos of clear ideas.
Dumas was not a philosopher, but an agitator. He stirred up a great
many questions; he drew upon them our distracted attention; he
compelled us to think of them. Therein he did his duty as a dramatist.
He gave much thought to the fate of woman in our civilization. We may
say, however, that though loving her much, he still more feared her,
and I shall even add, despised her. All his characters who have the
mission of defending morality and good sense are very attentive to
her, but keep her at arm's-length. They are affectionate counselors,
not lovers. They hold her to be a frail being, who must be controlled
and guided. Some one has said that there was in Dumas something of the
Catholic priest. It is true. He was to women a lay director of
conscience.
He was a great connoisseur of pictures and a great art lover. Music, I
think, is the only art that did not affect him much. He was a dazzling
talker; his plays teem with bright sayings; his conversation sparkled
with them. I did not know him in his prime, when he delighted his
friends and companions by his unceasing flow of spirits. I became
intimate with him only later. If you knew how to start him, he simply
coruscated. I never knew any one, save Edmond About, who was as witty,
and who, like About, always paid you back in good sounding coin.
Dumas was a member of the French Academy. He had not wished for that
honor, because it had been denied to his father. He desired, in his
reception speech, to call up the great spirit of this illustrious
father and make it share his academician's chair. He had this joy; the
two Dumas were received on the same day. Their two names will never
perish.
[Illustration: Signature (Francisque Sarcey)]
[The editors have been compelled, for lack of space, to leave out that
part of M. Sarcey's valuable essay which is a professional analysis of
several of Dumas's plays, and which would be of interest, chiefly, to
special students of the French drama and stage.]