How did I come by it, that first dress coat? What primitive tailor,
what confiding tradesman was it, trustful as Don Juan's famous
Monsieur Dimanche, who upon the faith of my fantastic promises,
decided one fine morning on bringing it to me, brand new, and
artistically pinned up in a square of shiny green calico? It would be
difficult for me to tell. Of the honest tailor, I can indeed recall
nothing--so many tailors have since then crossed my path--save perhaps
a vision, as in a luminous mist, of a thoughtful brow and a large
mustache. The coat indeed is there, before my eyes. Its image after
twenty years still remains indelibly graven on my memory, as on
imperishable brass. What a collar, my young friends! What lapels! And,
above all, what skirts, shaped as the slimmest tail of the swallow! My
brother, a man of experience, had said: "One must have a dress coat if
one wishes to make one's way in the world." And the dear fellow
counted much upon this piece of frippery for the advancement of my
fame and fortune....
[Footnote 11: From "Thirty Years of Paris." Translated by Laura
Ensor.]
One day some one proposed to get me an invitation to Augustine
Brohan's soirées. Who? some one. Some one, egad! You know him already:
that eternal some one, who is like every one else, that amiable
institution of Providence, who, of no personal value in himself and a
mere acquaintance in the house he frequents, yet goes everywhere,
introduces you everywhere, is the friend of a day, of an hour, of
whose name even you are ignorant, that essentially Parisian type.
You may imagine with what enthusiasm I accepted the proposal. To be
invited to Augustine's house! Augustine, the famous actress,
Augustine, the laughing representative of Molière's comic muse,
softened somewhat by the more modern poetic smile of Musset's
genius--for while she acted the waiting maids at the Théâtre Français,
Musset had written his comedy "Louison" at her house; Augustine
Brohan, in short, in whom all Paris delighted, vaunting her wit,
quoting her repartees; and who might already be said to have adorned
herself with that swallow's plume, unsullied yet by ink, but already
well sharpened, with which she was hereafter to sign those charming
"Lettres de Suzanne!"
"Lucky dog!" said my brother, helping me on with the coat; "your
fortune is made."
Nine o'clock was striking as I sallied forth.
At that time Augustine Brohan was living in the Rue Lord Byron, at the
top of the Champs Élysées, in one of those pretty coquettish little
houses which seem to ignorant provincials the realization of the
poetical dreams which they weave for themselves from the pages of the
novelist. A railing, a tiny garden, four steps covered by an awning,
an entrance hall filled with flowers, and then, opening immediately
from it, the drawing-room, a brilliantly lighted room in green, which
I can see now vividly before me.
How I managed to get up those steps, how I made my entry, and how I
presented myself, I can not now remember. A footman announced my name,
but this name, which he mumbled, produced no effect on the brilliant
assembly. I can only recollect hearing a woman's voice say: "So much
the better, here is another dancer." It appears they were short of
dancers; but what an entry for a poet!
Startled and humiliated, I tried to lose myself among the crowd. How
can I describe my dismay, when, a moment later, another mistake arose?
My long hair, my dark and somber looks excited general curiosity. I
heard them whispering near me: "Who is it? Do look," and they laughed.
At last some one said:
"It is the Wallachian Prince!"
"The Wallachian Prince? Oh yes, very likely."
I suppose that a Wallachian prince had been expected that evening. My
rank being thus settled for me, I was left in peace. But for all that,
you can not imagine how heavily my usurped crown weighed upon me all
that evening. First a dancing man! then a Wallachian prince! Could not
these good people see my lyre?
Fortunately for me, a startling piece of news flying from mouth to
mouth, spread rapidly through the ballroom, casting into oblivion both
the dancer and the Wallachian prince. Marriage was at that time much
the fashion among the feminine portion of the Comédie company, and it
was generally at Augustine Brohan's Wednesday receptions, where all
the choicest talents of journalism, together with bankers and high
government officials gathered round the lovely members or associates
of the Français, that the foundations were laid of most of these
romantic unions....
At last comparative calm was restored and the quadrilles began. I
danced. I was obliged to do so. I danced moreover somewhat badly for a
Wallachian prince. The quadrille once ended, I became stationary;
foolishly held back by my short sight--too shy to sport an eyeglass,
too much of a poet to wear spectacles, and dreading lest, at the
slightest movement, I should bruise my knee against the corner of some
piece of furniture, or plunge my nose into the trimming of a bodice.
Soon hunger and thirst interfered in the matter; but for a kingdom I
should never have dared to approach the buffet with all the rest of
the world. I anxiously watched for the moment when it should be
deserted; and while waiting, I joined the groups of political talkers,
assuming a serious air, and feigning to scorn the charms of the
smaller salon, whence came to me, with the pleasant sound of laughter
and the tinkling of teaspoons against the porcelain, a delicate aroma
of scented tea, of Spanish wines and cakes. At last they came back to
dance, and I gathered up my courage. I entered, I was alone.
What a dazzling sight was that buffet. A crystal pyramid under the
blaze of the candles, brilliant with glasses and decanters, white and
glittering as snow in the sunshine. I took up a glass as fragile as a
flower, careful not to hold it too tightly lest I should break the
stem. What should I pour into it? Come now, courage, I say to myself,
since no one can see me. I stretched out my hand, and took at
haphazard a decanter. It must be kirsch, I thought, from its diamond
clearness. Well, I'll try a glass of kirsch; I like its perfume, its
bitter and wild perfume that reminds me of the forest. And so, like an
epicure, I slowly poured out, drop by drop, the beautiful clear
liquid. I raised the glass to my lips. Oh, horror, it was only water.
What a grimace I made. Suddenly a duet of laughter resounded from a
black coat and a pink dress that I had not perceived flirting in the
corner, and who were amused at my mistake.
I endeavored to replace my glass, but I was nervous, my hand shook,
and my sleeve caught I know not what. One glass, two glasses, three
glasses fell. I turned round, my wretched coat tails swept a wild
circle, and the white pyramid crashed to the ground, with all the
sparkling, splintering, flashing uproar of an iceberg breaking to
pieces.
At the noise of the catastrophe the mistress of the house rushed up.
Luckily, she is as short-sighted as the Wallachian prince, and he is
able to escape from the buffet without being recognized. All the same,
my evening is spoiled. The massacre of small glasses and decanters
weighs on my mind like a crime. My one idea is to get away. But the
Dubois mama, dazzled by my principality, catches hold of me and will
not allow me to leave till I have danced with her daughter, or indeed
with both her daughters. I excuse myself as best as I can; when a tall
old man with a shrewd smile, stopt my egress. It is Doctor Ricord,
with whom I had exchanged a few words previously and who, like the
others, takes me for the Wallachian. "But, Prince, as you are
inhabiting the Hotel du Senat, and as we are near neighbors, pray wait
for me, I can offer you a seat in my carriage." How willingly would I
accept, but I have no overcoat. What would Ricord think of a
Wallachian prince without furs, and shivering in his dress coat? Let
me escape quickly, and hurry home on foot, through the snow and fog,
sooner than allow my poverty to be seen. Always half-blind and more
confused than ever, I reach the door and slip out, not, however,
without getting somehow entangled in the tapestries. "Won't monsieur
take his coat?" a footman calls after me.
There I was, at two o'clock in the morning, far from my home, alone in
the streets, hungry and frozen, with the devil's own self, a badly
lined purse in my pocket. But hunger inspired me with a brilliant
idea: "Suppose I go to the markets." I had often heard of the markets,
and a certain Gaidras, whose establishment remained open all night,
and where for the sum of three sous they provided a plateful of
succulent cabbage soup. By Jove, yes, to the markets I would go. I
would sit down at those tables like the veriest prowling vagabond. All
my pride had vanished. The wind is icy cold; hunger makes me
desperate. "My kingdom for a horse," said another prince, and I say to
myself as I trot along: "My principality, my Wallachian principality,
for a basin of good soup in a warm corner."
Gaidras' establishment looks a mere filthy hovel, all slimy and badly
lighted, thrust back beneath the colonnades of the old market-place.
Often and often since then, when noctambulism was the fashion, have
we, future great men, spent whole nights there, elbows on table,
amidst tobacco smoke and literary talk. But at the first I must own,
notwithstanding my hunger, I almost drew back at the sight of those
blackened dingy walls, that dense smoke, those late sitters, snoring
with their backs against the wall or lapping their soup like dogs; the
amazing caps of the Don Juans of the gutter, the enormous drab felt
hats of the market porters, and the healthy rough blouse of the market
gardener side by side with the greasy tatters of the prowler of the
night. Nevertheless I entered, and I may at once add that my black
coat found its fellows. Black coats that own no great coat are not
rare in Paris after midnight in the winter, and they are hungry enough
to eat three sous' worth of cabbage soup. The cabbage soup was,
however, exquisite; full of perfume as a garden, and smoking like a
crater. I had two helpings, altho a custom peculiar to the
establishment--inspired by wholesome distrust--of fastening the forks
and spoons with a chain to the table, hindered me a little. I paid,
and fortified by my substantial mess, resumed my way to the Quartier
Latin.
What a picture my return home! The return of the poet, trotting up the
Rue de Tournon, with his coat collar turned up, while dancing before
his sleepy eyes are the elegant shadows of a fashionable evening party
mingling with the famished specters of the market-place. He stands
knocking his boots against the curbstone of the Hotel du Senat, to
shake off the snow, while opposite the bright lamps of a brougham
light up the front of an old mansion, and Doctor Ricord's coachman
cries out: "Gate, if you please." Life in Paris is made up of these
contrasts.
"A wasted evening," said my brother the next morning. "You have been
taken for a Wallachian prince, and have not succeeded in launching
your book. But all is not yet lost; you must make up for it when you
make your 'digestion call,' as we say in Paris."
The digestion of a glass of water, what irony. It was quite two months
before I made up my mind to pay that call. However, one day I summoned
up courage. Besides her official receptions on Wednesdays, Augustine
Brohan received more unceremoniously on Sunday afternoon. I resolutely
started off....
Even now I can recall the smallest details of that interview. But see
how all depends upon our point of view. I had told Sarcey the comical
story of my first appearance in society, and one day Sarcey repeated
it to Augustine Brohan. Well, the ungrateful Augustine--whom, it is
true, I have not seen for thirty years--swore most sincerely that she
knew nothing of me but my books. She had forgotten everything!
Everything--all that had played such an important part in my life--the
broken glasses, the Wallachian prince, the rehearsal of "Lait
d'Anesse," and the boots of the heavy dragoons.