CHAPTER I

MY MEMOIRS

BY

ALEXANDRE DUMAS

TRANSLATED BY

E. M. WALLER

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

ANDREW LANG

VOL. III

1826 TO 1830

WITH A FRONTISPIECE

METHUEN & CO.

36 ESSEX STREET W.C.

LONDON

1907

CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

I become a fully fledged employé--Bad plays--Thibaut--My

studies with him--Where they have been of use to

me--_Amaury_ and the consumptives--My reading--Walter

Scott--Cooper--Byron--The pleasure of eating _sauerkraut_ at

the Parthenon.

CHAPTER II

Byron's childhood--His grief at being lame--Mary Duff--The

Malvern fortune-teller--How Byron and Robert Peel became

acquainted--Miss Parker--Miss Chaworth--Verses on her

portrait--Mrs. Musters--Lady Morgan--_English Bards and

Scotch Reviewers_--Byron's letters to his mother--He takes

his seat in the House of Lords.

CHAPTER III

Byron at Lisbon--How he quarrelled with his own

countrymen--His poem _Childe Harold_--His fits of mad folly

and subsequent depression--His marriage--His conjugal

squabbles--He again quits England--His farewell to wife

and child--His life and amours at Venice--He sets out for

Greece--His arrival at Missolonghi--His illness and death.

CHAPTER IV

Usurped celebrity--M. Lemercier and his works--Racan's white

hare--_Le Fiesque_ by M. Ancelot--The Romantic artists

--Scheffer--Delacroix--Sigalon--Schnetz--Coigniet--Boulanger

--Géricault--_La Méduse_ in the artist's studio--Lord

Byron's funeral obsequies in England--Sheridan's body

claimed for debt.

CHAPTER V

My mother comes to live with me--A Duc de Chartres born

to me--Chateaubriand and M. de Villèle--Epistolary

brevity--Re-establishment of the Censorship--A King of

France should never be ill--Bulletins of the health of

Louis XVIII.--His last moments and death--Ode by Victor

Hugo--M. Torbet and Napoleon's tomb--La Fayette's voyage to

America--The ovations showered upon him.

CHAPTER VI

Tallancourt and Betz--The café _Hollandais_--My Quiroga

cloak--First challenge--A lesson in shooting--The eve of

my duel--Analysis of my sensations--My opponent fails

to keep his appointment--The seconds hunt him out--The

duel--Tallancourt and the mad dog.

CHAPTER VII

The Duc d'Orléans is given the title of _Royal

Highness_--The coronation of Charles X.--Account of

the ceremony by Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans--Death of

Ferdinand of Naples--De La ville de Miremont--_Le Cid

d'Andalousie_--M. Pierre Lebrun--A reading at the camp at

Compiègne--M. Taylor is appointed a royal commissioner to

the Théâtre-Français--The curé Bergeron--M. Viennet--Two of

his letters--Pichat and his _Léonidas._

CHAPTER VIII

Death of General Foy--His funeral--The _Royal

Highness_--Assassination of Paul-Louis Courier--Death of the

Emperor Alexander--Comparison of England and Russia--The

reason why these two powers have increased during the last

century--How Napoleon meant to conquer India.

CHAPTER IX

The Emperor Alexander--Letter from Czar Nicolas to

Karamsine--History after the style of Suetonius and

Saint-Simon--Catherine and Potemkin--Madame Braniska--The

cost of the imperial cab-drive--A ball at M. de

Caulaincourt's--The man with the pipe--The emperor's boatman

and coachman.

CHAPTER X

Alexander leaves St. Petersburg--His presentiments of

his death--The two stars seen at Taganrog--The emperor's

illness--His last moments--How they learnt of his death in

St. Petersburg--The Grand-Duke Constantine--His character

and tastes--Why he renounced his right to the imperial

throne--Jeannette Groudzenska.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

Rousseau and Romieu--Conversation with the porter--The eight

hours' candle--The _Deux Magots_--At what hour one should

wind up one's watch--M. le sous-préfet enjoys a joke--Henry

Monnier--A paragraph of information--On suppers--On cigars.

CHAPTER II

The lantern--_Le Chasse et l'Amour_--Rousseau's part

in it--The couplet about the hare--The _couplet de

facture_--How there may be hares _and_ hares--Reception

at l'Ambigu--My first receipts as an author--Who Porcher

was--Why no one might say anything against Mélesville.

CHAPTER III

The success of my first play--My three stories--M. Marle

and his orthography--Madame Setier--A bad speculation--The

_Pâtre,_ by Montvoisin--The _Oreiller_--Madame

Desbordes-Valmore--How she became a poetess--Madame Amable

Tastu--The _Dernier jour de l'année--Zéphire._

CHAPTER IV

Talma's illness--How he would have acted _Tasso_--His

nephews--He receives a visit from M. de Quélen--Why his

children renounced his faith--His death--_La Noce et

l'Enterrement_--Oudard lectures me on my fondness for

theatre-going--The capital reply that put the Palais-Royal

in a gay humour--I still keep the confidence of Lassagne

and de la Ponce--I obtain a success anonymously at the

Porte-Saint-Martin.

CHAPTER V

Soulié at the mechanical saw-mill--His platonic love of

gold--I desire to write a drama with him--I translate

_Fiesque_--Death of Auguste Lafarge--My pay is increased

and my position lowered--Félix Deviolaine, condemned by

the medical faculty, is saved by illness--_Louis XI. à

Péronne_--Talma's theatrical wardrobe--The _loi de justice

et d'amour_--The disbanding of the National Guard.

CHAPTER VI

English actors in Paris--Literary importations--_Trente

Ans_, or _la Vie d'un Joueur_--The _Hamlet_ of Kemble

and Miss Smithson--A bas-relief of Mademoiselle de

Fauveau--Visit to Frédéric Soulié--He declines to write

_Christine_ with me--A night attack--I come across Adèle

d'Alvin once more--I spend the night _au violon._

CHAPTER VII

Future landmarks--Compliments to the Duc de

Bordeaux--_Votes_--Cauchois-Lemaire's Orléaniste

brochure--The lake of Enghien--Colonel Bro's parrot--Doctor

Ferrus--Morrisel--A tip-top funeral cortège--Hunting in full

cry--An autopsy--Explanation of the death of the parrot.

CHAPTER VIII

Barthélemy and Méry--M. Éliça Gallay--Méry the

draught-player and anatomist--_L'Épître à Sidi Mahmoud_--The

Ponthieu library--Soulé--The _Villéliade_--Barthélemy the

printer--Méry the improvisator--The _Vœux de la nouvelle

année_--The pastiche of _Lucrèce._

CHAPTER IX

I pass from the Secretarial Department to the Record

Office--M. Bichet--Wherein I resemble Piron--My spare

time--M. Pieyre and M. Parseval de Grandmaison--A scene

missing in _Distrait_--_La Peyrouse_--A success all to

myself.

CHAPTER X

The painter Lethière--Brutus unveiled by M. Ponsard--Madame

Hannemann--Gohier--Andrieux--Renaud--Desgenettes--Larrey,

Augereau and the Egyptian mummy--Soldiers of the new

school--My dramatic education--I enter the offices of

the Forestry Department--The cupboard full of empty

bottles--Three days away from the office--Am summoned before

M. Deviolaine.

CHAPTER XI

Conclusion of _Christine_--A patron, after a fashion--Nodier

recommends me to Taylor--The Royal Commissary and the author

of _Hécube_--Semi-official reading before Taylor--Official

reading before the Committee--I am received with

acclamation--The intoxication of success--How history is

written--M. Deviolaine's incredulity--Picard's opinions

concerning my play--Nodier's opinion--Second reading at the

Théâtre-Français and definite acceptance.

CHAPTER XII

Cordelier-Delanoue--A sitting of the Athénée--M.

Villenave--His family--The one hundred and thirty-two

Nantais--Cathelineau--The hunt _aux bleus_--Forest--A

chapter of history--Sauveur--The Royalist

Committee--Souchu--The miraculous tomb--Carrier.

CHAPTER XIII

M. Villenave's house--The master's despotic rule--The

savant's coquetry--Description of the sanctuary of the

man of science--I am admitted, thanks to an autograph of

_Buonaparte_--The crevice in the wall--The eight thousand

folios--The pastel by Latour--Voyages of discovery for an

Elzevir or a _Faust_--The fall of the portrait and the death

of the original.

CHAPTER XIV

First representation of Soulié's _Roméo et Juliette_--Anaïs

and Lockroy--Why French actresses cannot act Juliet--The

studies of the Conservatoire--A second _Christine_ at

the Théâtre-Français--M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame

Valmonzey--Conspiracy against me--I give up my turn to

have my play produced--How I found the subject of _Henri

III._--My opinion of that play.

CHAPTER XV

The reading of _Henri III._ at M. Villenave's and M.

Roqueplan's--Another reading at Firmin's--Béranger

is present--A few words about his influence and

popularity--Effect produced by my drama--Reception by

the Comédie-Française--Struggle for the distribution of

parts--M. de Broval's ultimatum--Convicted of the crime of

poetry I appeal to the Duc d'Orléans--His Royal Highness

withholds my salary--M. Laffitte lends me three thousand

francs--Condemnation of Béranger.

CHAPTER XVI

The Duc d'Orléans has my salary stopped--A scribbler

(_folliculaire_)--_Henri III._ and the Censorship--My mother

is seized with paralysis--Cazal--Edmond Halphen--A call on

the Duc d'Orléans--First night of _Henri III._--Effect is

produced on M. Deviolaine--M. de Broval's congratulations.

CHAPTER XVII

The day following my victory--_Henri III._ is interdicted--I

obtain an audience with M. de Martignac--He removes the

interdiction-_Les hommes-obstacles_--The Duc d'Orléans sends

for me into his box--His talk with Charles X. on the subject

of my drama--Another scribbler--Visit to Carrel--Gosset's

shooting-box and pistols No. 5--An impossible duel.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

The Arsenal--Nodier's house--The master's

profile--The congress of bibliophiles--The three

candles--Debureau--Mademoiselle Mars and Merlin--Nodier's

family--His friends--In which houses I am at my best--The

salon of the Arsenal--Nodier as a teller of tales--The ball

and the warming-pan.

CHAPTER II

Oudard transmits to me the desires of the Duc

d'Orléans--I am appointed assistant librarian--How this

saved His Highness four hundred francs--Rivalry with

Casimir Delavigne--Petition of the Classical School

against Romantic productions--Letter of support from

Mademoiselle Duchesnois--A fantastic dance--The person

who called Racine a _blackguard_--Fine indignation of the

_Constitutionnel_--First representation of _Marino Faliero_

CHAPTER III

Mesmerism--Experiment during a trance--I submit to being

mesmerised--My observation upon it--I myself start to

mesmerise--Experiment made in a diligence--Another

experiment in the house of the _procureur de la République_

of Joigny--Little Marie D****--Her political predictions--I

cure her of fear.

CHAPTER IV

Fresh trials of newspaper editors--The

_Mouton-enragé_--Fontan--Harel's witticism concerning

him--The _Fils de l'Homme_ before the Police Court--The

author pleads his cause in verse--M. Guillebert's

prose--Prison charges at Sainte-Pélagie--Embarrassment of

the Duc d'Orléans about a historical portrait--The two

usurpations.

CHAPTER V

The things that are the greatest enemies to the

success of a play--The honesty of Mademoiselle Mars

as an actress--Her dressing-room--The habitués at her

supper-parties--Vatout--Denniée--Becquet--Mornay--Mademoiselle

Mars in her own home--Her last days on the stage--Material

result of the success of _Henri III._--My first

speculation--The recasting of _Christine_--Where I looked

for my inspiration--Two other ideas.

CHAPTER VI

Victor Hugo--His birth--His mother--Les Chassebœuf and

les Cornet--Captain Hugo--The signification of his

name--Victor's godfather--The Hugo family in Corsica--M.

Hugo is called to Naples by Joseph Bonaparte--He is

appointed colonel and governor of the province of

Avellino--Recollections of the poet's early childhood--Fra

Diavolo--Joseph, King of Spain--Colonel Hugo is made a

general, count, marquis and major-domo--The Archbishop

of Tarragona--Madame Hugo and her children in Paris--The

convent of Feuillantines.

CHAPTER VII

Departure for Spain--Journey from Paris to Bayonne--The

treasure--Order of march of the convoy--M. du Saillant--M.

de Cotadilla--Irun--Ernani--Salinas--The battalion

of _écloppés_ (cripples)--Madame Hugo's supplies of

provisions--The forty Dutch grenadiers--Mondragon--The

precipice--Burgos--Celadas--Alerte--The queen's review.

CHAPTER VIII

Segovia--M. de Tilly--The Alcazar--The doubloons--The

castle of M. de la Calprenède and that of a Spanish

grandee--The _bourdaloue_--Otero--The Dutchmen again--The

Guadarrama--Arrival at Madrid--The palace of Masserano--The

comet--The College--Don Manoël and Don Bazilio--Tacitus

and Plautus--Lillo--The winter of 1812 to 1813--The

Empecinado--The glass of _eau sucrée_--The army of

merinoes--Return to Paris.

CHAPTER IX

The college and the garden of the Feuillantines--Grenadier

or general--Victor Hugo's first appearance in public--He

obtains honourable mention at the Academy examination--He

carries off three prizes in the Jeux Floraux--_Han

d'Islande_--The poet and the bodyguard--Hugo's marriage--The

_Odes et Ballades_--Proposition made by cousin Cornet.

CHAPTER X

Léopoldine--The opinions of the son of the Vendéenne--The

Delon conspiracy--Hugo offers Delon shelter--Louis XVIII.

bestows a pension of twelve hundred francs on the author

of the _Odes et Ballades_--The poet at the office of the

director-general des postes--How he learns the existence

of the _cabinet noir_--He is made a chevalier of the

Legion d'honneur--Beauchesne-_Bug-Jargal_--The Ambassador

of Austria's soirée--_Ode à la Colonne_--_Cromwell_--How

_Marion Delorme_ was written.

CHAPTER XI

Reading of _Marion Delorme_ at the house of

Devéria--Steeplechase of directors--_Marion Delorme_ is

stopped by the Censorship--Hugo obtains an audience with

Charles X.--His drama is definitely interdicted--They send

him the brevet of a pension, which he declines--He sets to

work on _Hernani_ and completes it in twenty-four days.

CHAPTER XII

The invasion of barbarians--Rehearsals of

_Hernani_--Mademoiselle Mars and the lines about the

_lion_--The scene over the _portraits_--Hugo takes away

from Mademoiselle Mars the part of Doña Sol--Michelot's

flattering complaisance to the public--The quatrain about

the cupboard--Joanny.

CHAPTER XIII

Alfred de Vigny--The man and his works--Harel, the manager

at the Odéon--Downfall of Soulié's _Christine_--Parenthesis

about Lassailly--Letter of Harel, with preface by myself

and postscript by Soulié--I read my _Christine_ at

the Odéon--Harel asks me to put it into prose--First

representation of the _More de Venise_--The actors and the

papers.

CHAPTER XIV

Citizen-general Barras--Doctor Cabarrus introduces me to

him--Barras's only two regrets--His dinners--The Princess de

Chimay's footman--Fauche-Borel--The Duc de Bordeaux makes a

mess--History lesson given to an ambassador--Walter Scott

and Barras--The last happiness of the old _directeur_--His

death.

THE MEMOIRS OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

I become a fully fledged employé--Bad plays--Thibaut--My studies

with him--Where they have been of use to me--_Amaury_ and the

consumptives--My reading--Walter Scott--Cooper--Byron--The pleasure of

eating _Sauerkraut_ at the Parthenon

On 1 January 1824 I was promoted from being one of the supernumerary

clerks at twelve hundred francs per annum to the position of being

a regular employé at fifteen hundred. I considered this a most

flourishing condition of affairs, and thought that it was now time to

send for my mother. I had not seen her for nine months, and the long

separation began to grieve me. During these nine months I had made a

sad discovery, which it was quite as well I should make, namely, that

I had not learnt anything at all that I needed to learn, in order to

further my progress in the career I wished to take up. But this did

not discourage me, for I felt satisfied that I was now, once for all,

firmly established in Paris and that I should not starve, thanks to my

125 francs per month; so I redoubled my zeal, and, ceasing to think of

the limit of time I had fixed wherein to attain my end, I resolved to

use it in applying myself to study.

Unfortunately, after subtracting my office hours, very little time

remained to me. I had to be at the Palais-Royal by half-past ten in the

morning, and we did not leave until five in the evening. Moreover,

there was a peculiar function connected with the secretary's office,

which did not hold with respect to any other office. Either Ernest or

I had to return, from eight till ten o'clock in the evening, while the

Duc d'Orléans lived at Neuilly, in order to attend to what was called

the _portefeuille_; and the Duc d'Orléans, being fond of a country

life, spent three-quarters of the year at Neuilly. The task was not a

difficult one, but it was imperative; it consisted in sending off by

courier to the Duc d'Orléans the evening papers and his day's letters,

and in receiving in return the orders for the next day. This meant a

loss of two hours in the evening, and, of course, made it impossible

to go to any play except at the Théâtre-Français, which adjoined our

offices. It is but fair to say that M. Oudard, who had three tickets

a day at his disposal for any seat in the theatre, sometimes indulged

us with one of them--an act of generosity hardly ever displayed except

when poor plays were on. Still, the expression "poor plays" must only

be understood to mean the days when neither Talma nor Mademoiselle Mars

was acting. But, since I wanted to go to the theatre for purposes of

study, those days of poor plays were often profitable exhibitions for

me. Then, too, I entered into an arrangement with Ernest by which each

of us had his week, and, in this way, we secured fifteen free nights

per month.

I had made the acquaintance of a young doctor, named Thibaut; he had

no practice at that time, although he was not without ability. One

cure he brought about made his reputation, and another his fortune.

He cured Félix Deviolaine--the young cousin of whom I have several

times spoken and of whom I shall have occasion to speak again--of a

chest complaint that had reached the last stages, by means of inducing

articular rheumatism, which drew off the inflammation; and by sheer

skill he managed to cure the Marquise de Lagrange, whom he accompanied

to Italy, of a chronic affection which was considered incurable. When

the marquise was restored to perfect health, she was so grateful that

she married him, and they both live to-day on their estates near

Gros-Bois. As Thibaut has the control of a fortune of forty to fifty

thousand livres income, he no longer practises the craft of medicine

except to benefit his flowers and fruits.

But, at this period, Thibaut, like Adolphe and myself, was penniless;

we were both his patients, and, pecuniarily speaking, very bad ones.

How came we to be Thibaut's patients? I will explain. In 1823 and

1824 it was all the fashion to suffer from chest complaint; everybody

was consumptive, poets especially; it was good form to spit blood

after each emotion that was at all inclined to be sensational, and

to die before reaching the age of thirty. Of course, Adolphe and

I, both young, tall and thin, considered we were fully entitled to

this privilege, and many people who knew us agreed we had some right

thereto. I have now lost all claim to this distinction, but, to be fair

towards Adolphe, he still has his; for now, at forty-six, he is just as

tall and as thin as he was then, when he was twenty-one.

Thibaut knew everything of which I was ignorant, so he undertook my

education, and it was no light task. We spent nearly all our evenings

together in a tiny room in the rue du Pélican, which looked out on the

passage Véro-Dodat. I was a hundred yards off the Palais-Royal, so it

was the easiest thing imaginable to go from my quarters to make up my

packet for the courier. In the morning, I often accompanied Thibaut

to the Hôpital de la Charité, where I picked up a little knowledge of

physiology and anatomy, although I have never been able to overcome

my aversion towards operations and dead bodies. From these visits

accrued a certain amount of medical and surgical knowledge, which has

often come in very usefully in my novel-writing. As, for example,

in _Amaury_, where I traced the various phases of a lung disease in

my heroine, Madeleine, with such accuracy that once I was paid the

compliment of a visit from M. Noailles, who came to ask me to stop the

run of this novel in the _Presse._ His daughter and his son-in-law,

who were both in the same stage of consumption, had recognised their

precise symptoms in Madeleine's illness, and both waited impatiently

each morning for the paper, to know whether M. d'Avrigny's daughter

was going to die or not. As M. d'Avrigny's daughter had been condemned

to death both by fate and by her author, the _feuilleton_ was

interrupted and, to comfort the two poor invalids, I improvised, in

manuscript, a conclusion which raised their hopes, but which, alas!

did not restore them to health. The _feuilleton_ was not resumed

until after their death. The readers of the _Presse_ had noticed the

interruption, but were ignorant of its cause. Now they know.

I have said that I went with Thibaut to the Hôpital de la Charité most

mornings, from six to seven o'clock. In the evening, we studied physics

and chemistry in his room; and it was in his room that I made my first

study of the poisons used by Madame de Villefort in _Monte-Cristo_--a

study which I followed and perfected later, with Ruolz.

A good-looking young neighbour named Mademoiselle Walker, who was a

milliner, used to join us in our researches. Like la Fontaine's hen,

she failed to set Thibaut and me at variance, although she tried all

sorts of devices, but happily none was successful, and we all three

managed to keep on friendly terms.

I owe much to Thibaut for teaching me method in working, as well as

for actual knowledge. I will relate later how Thibaut, whose name is

several times quoted in _l'Histoire de dix ans_, by Louis Blanc, was

obliged, by reason of his relationship with the family of Maréchal

Gérard, to play a certain part in the Revolution of July.

At Lassagne's persuasion I branched out in other directions, and

began a course of reading. Walter Scott came first. The first novel

I read by the "Scottish Bard," as he was then called, was _Ivanhoe_.

Accustomed to the mild plots of Madame Cottin, or to the eccentric

pranks of the author of the _Barons de Felsheim_ and of the _Enfant du

Carnaval_, it took me some time to get used to the rude, uncouth ways

of Gurth the swineherd, and to the facetious jokes of Wamba, Cedric's

jester. But when the author introduced me to the old Saxon's romantic

dining-hall; when I had seen the fire on the hearth, fed by a whole

oak tree, with its light sparkling on the monk and on the dress of

the unknown pilgrim; when I saw all the members of the family of the

thane take their places at the long oak board, from the head of the

castle, the king of his territory, to the meanest servitor; when I saw

the Jew Isaac in his yellow cap, and his daughter Rebecca in her gold

corselet; when the tourney at Ashby had given me a foretaste of the

powerful sword-shakes and lance-thrusts that I should again come across

in Froissart, oh! then, little by little, the clouds that had veiled my

sight began to lift, I saw open out before me more extended horizons

than any that had appeared to me when Adolphe de Leuven worked these

changes in my provincial imagination that I have already mentioned.

Next followed Cooper, with his big forests, his vast prairies, his

boundless oceans, his _Pioneers_, his _Prairie_, his _Redskins_--three

masterpieces of description, wherein absence of substance is well

concealed beneath wealth of style, so that one goes the whole way

through a novel of his, like the apostle, upon ground ever ready to

yawn open and swallow one up, and yet, nevertheless, one is upheld, not

by faith but by style, from the first page to the last.

Then came Byron--Byron, lyric and dramatic poet, who died at

Missolonghi just when I was beginning to study him in Paris. There had

been a tremendous rage over Lord Byron for some time; the glory of

the poet had derived fresh glamour from the Greek camp bivouacs; his

name would henceforth be associated with those of the famous Greeks of

old; not only would Byron be spoken of as akin to Sir Walter Scott and

Chateaubriand, but in the same breath as the names of Mavrocordato,

Odysseus and Canaris.

One day, before the world even knew that the famous poet was ill, we

read in the papers as follows:--

"MISSOLONGHI, 20 _April_

"Our town presents a most touching spectacle; we have all

gone into mourning, for our illustrious benefactor died at

six o'clock yesterday evening, the 19th instant."

Byron had died at the age of thirty-seven, like Raphael; he had

died during the Easter celebrations, and thirty-seven volleys were

fired--one for each year of his life--in every town, spreading the news

of his death from Thrace to the Piræus, and from Epeirus to the Asiatic

coasts.

Courts of justice, public offices and shops were closed for three days;

for three days dancing, public amusements and the sound of musical

instruments were forbidden; and the public mourning lasted for three

weeks.

Poor Byron! he only desired to fight and to help to win a victory, or,

if conquered, to die arms in hand. As a general, it would have given

him great joy to lead the Souliotes at the siege of Lepanto; Lepanto,

the land of Don Juan and of Charles the Fifth, seemed to him a fitting

name with which to link his own; it was a noble land to bleed for and

to die in.

But he was not to realise that happiness; he died at Missolonghi, and

it was he who made an unknown land famous, instead of himself receiving

lustre from a sacred land; people say, "Byron died at Missolonghi," not

"Missolonghi, the place where Byron died."

The great man had no notion that, in dying for the Greeks, he was

only dying so that Europe, as the Duc d'Orléans once expressed it to

me, might have the pleasure of eating sauerkraut at the foot of the

Parthenon!

Poor immortal bard, who died in the hope that the news of his death

would resound through all hearts! what would he have said if he could

have heard, as I rushed in, the newspaper containing the fatal notice

in my hand, crying despairingly, "Byron is dead," one of the assistants

in our office ask, "Who was Byron?" Such a question caused me both pain

and pleasure mixed; I had, then, found someone even more ignorant than

myself, and he one of the chief clerks in the office. Had it been only

an ordinary copying clerk I should not have felt so consoled.

This unlooked for death of one of the greatest poets of the time made a

deep impression upon me; I felt instinctively that Byron was more than

a poet, that he was one of those leaders whose inspired utterances,

in the silence of the night and in the obscurity in which art lives,

are heard throughout all nations, whose shining rays lighten the whole

world. Such men are usually not only prophets but also martyrs. They

create from out their own sufferings the divine thoughts which act as

incentives to others; it is at the spectacle of their own tortures that

they utter cries which clutch the heart. Had Prometheus or Napoleon

been poets, think what verses each would have engraved on his rock of

doom!

We will try, then, to give an account of the sufferings of this man,

who was driven from his own country as though he were a Barabbas, to

die for the Greeks as Christ did for the Jews.

Death must be passed through before there can be transfiguration.

CHAPTER II

Byron's childhood--His grief at being lame--Mary Duff--The Malvern

fortune-teller--How Byron and Robert Peel became acquainted--Miss

Parker--Miss Chaworth--Verses on her portrait--Mrs. Musters--Lady

Morgan--_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_--Byron's letters to his

mother--He takes his seat in the House of Lords

Byron was born on 22 January 1788, of so ancient and noble a family

that it could take rank with many royal families. At his birth, the

child who was predestined to become so famous had his foot dislocated

and no one noticed the fact. This accident made him lame, and we shall

see what an influence this infirmity had upon his life.

Four celebrated men belonging to the close of the eighteenth and the

beginning of the nineteenth centuries were lame: Maréchal Soult, M.

de Talleyrand, Walter Scott and Lord Byron. A woman writer has said

that "Byron would have given half his fame if he could but have been

as proud of his feet as he was of his hands." We are assured that

Juno's bird, the peacock, forgot his rich plumage and uttered a cry

of distress every time he looked down at his feet. And Byron, king

of poets, who had a good deal of the peacock about him, was not more

philosophical than that king of birds.

"What a beautiful child!" some lady once remarked, when Byron was three

years old and she saw him, whip in hand, playing at his nurse's knee;

"but what a pity he is crippled!"

The child turned round, lifted up his whip and lashed the woman with

all his might. "Dinna say that!" he said.

His mother, strange to say, never understood how proud the child was.

Byron was misunderstood by the two beings who, when they understand a

man, can shed most happiness upon his life--his mother and his wife.

Byron's mother, as we have said, never realised the child's pride, and

used to call him "my lame boy."

If you would learn what this flaw in maternal love cost the lad, read

what Arnold says in the first scene of _The Deformed Transformed_:--

"_A Forest_

_Enter_ ARNOLD _and his mother_ BERTHA

_Bert._

Out, hunchback!

_Arn._

I was born so, mother!

_Bert._

Out,

Thou incubus! Thou nightmare! Of seven sons,

The sole abortion!

_Arn._

Would that I had been so,

And never seen the light!

_Bert._

I would so too!

But as thou _hast_--hence, hence--and do thy best!

That back of thine may bear its burthen; 'tis

More high, if not so broad as that of others.

_Arn._

It _bears_ its burthen:--but, my heart! Will it

Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother?

I love, or, at the least, I loved you: nothing

Save you, in nature, can love aught like me.

You nursed me--do not kill me!"

At the age of five Byron was sent to school in Aberdeen, where they

paid but five shillings a quarter for him. I had thought no child had

ever been educated more cheaply than I had; but I was mistaken, and I

present my congratulations to Byron as a brother at least in poverty.

Although the future poet spent a whole year in this school, one of his

biographers tells us he hardly managed to learn his letters. I had this

further advantage over Byron that my mother taught me to read: God gave

me at least half of what Byron was denied--a good mother.

From the school at Aberdeen, Byron passed to the university of the same

town. Alas! he was one of the worst scholars, and was always at the

bottom of his class. Many of his schoolfellows can tell stories of the

jokes which his masters made at his expense.

In 1798 the old Lord Byron died. He had been a roué of quality, who had

had any number of love affairs and duels. He killed his friend Chaworth

in one of his duels--an event which was to have its influence upon his

son's life too.

Two years before, young Byron had paid a visit to the Scotch Highlands,

from whence he derived that love of high peaks, shared by eagles and

poets, which made him later sing the praises of the Alps, the Apennines

and Parnassus.

It was during this tour our Dante met his Beatrice; her name was Mary

Duff, and she was only eight years old.

The old Lord Byron died at Newstead Abbey, and Byron was his heir.

He left Aberdeen with his mother. They sold their furniture for

seventy-five pounds sterling--another point of similarity between us

(I hope I may be pardoned my comparisons, I shall not have much pride

in pressing them further)--and they reached Newstead. There they put

the young man under the care of a quack doctor called Lavemde to try

and cure his foot, for this infirmity occupied the greatest portion of

his thoughts. As it was seen that the young lord's lameness was neither

better nor worse for this charlatan's treatment, he was sent to London,

where he was entrusted for his physical requirements to Dr. Baillie,

and for his moral equipment to Dr. Glennie. There, both doctors had

a certain measure of success, for Dr. Glennie had the satisfaction,

after having put him on the way, of beholding his pupil surpass all his

contemporaries, in letters and poetry.

Dr. Baillie managed to cure his foot sufficiently to enable him to wear

an ordinary boot, so that his lameness did not seem more than a slight

limp. Great was the proud youth's joy, and he communicated it to his

nurse, whom he greatly loved.

In 1801, when he was thirteen, Byron followed his mother to Cheltenham,

where the view of the Malvern Hills, recalling his first visit to the

Highlands, made a deep impression upon him, especially as he saw them

in the early morning and evening. When he and his mother were out

riding together they learnt from the country people of a celebrated

sorceress of those parts, and Lady Byron took a fancy to consult her.

She said nothing of the lad, and introduced herself to the witch as an

unmarried woman. But the sorceress shook her head.

"You are not a maid," she said; "you have been a wife and are now a

widow; you have a son who will be in danger of being poisoned before he

has attained his majority; he will marry twice, and the second time it

will be with a foreigner."

We shall see directly that, if he was not exactly poisoned, he was in

fear of being so, and it is well known that, if he did not marry a

second time, at all events he found a beautiful Venetian lady of rank

who made up to him for his first marriage, save in the recollection of

its unhappiness.

From Dr. Glennie's tutelage, Byron proceeded to Harrow. Dr. Drury was

then headmaster, and he was the first to detect some few faint glimpses

of what the poet would one day become.

"Here I made my first verses," said Byron, "they were received but

coldly; but, in revenge, I fought glorious battles at Harrow: I only

lost one fight out of every seven!"

It was at Harrow that he made the acquaintance of Sir Robert Peel,

and the way in which they became fast friends gives some idea of the

character of Byron.

One of their comrades, taller and stronger than they, with whom

consequently they had no dealings, was discovered by Byron thrashing

poor Peel.

Byron came up and said--

"How many more blows do you mean to give Robert?"

"What business is it of yours?" retorted the combatant. "Why do you ask

such a question?"

"Because, if you please, executioner, I will take half the blows you

intend for him and will return them to you later, you understand, when

I am bigger."

After Harrow, the young man went to finish his education at the

University of Cambridge; but he was ever impatient of regular study,

just as he was of ordinary modes of enjoyment: the only thing he learnt

was how to swim; his only recreation was the training of a bear.

In 1806, when he was eighteen, he joined his mother at Newstead. The

relations between mother and son were not at all of a tender nature;

on the contrary, the two were nearly always quarrelling. One of these

quarrels even went so far one day that each in turn called at a

chemist's, within five minutes of one another, to inquire if he had

sold the other poison, and, on being told not, begged him not to do

so. Besides little Mary Duff, with whom he fell in love when he was

nine, Byron conceived a passion when he was twelve for his cousin, Miss

Parker, for whom he composed his first verses. They were lost, and

the poet never remembered what they were. Miss Parker died, and gave

place to Miss Chaworth, the daughter of the man whom old Lord Byron

had killed. But this time it was the real passion of budding manhood,

tender and deep, and it left its mark for the rest of his life. Miss

Chaworth was beautiful, charming in manner and wealthy.

"Alas!" said Byron, "our union would have wiped out the recollection

of the blood shed between our fathers; it would have reunited two rich

estates and two beings who would have agreed well enough together, and

then--and then--Ah, well, God knows what might have happened!"

But Byron was lame; he was obliged to avoid all kinds of exercise that

could expose his deformity, and consequently dancing. Now Miss Chaworth

was particularly fond of dancing, and Byron would stand, leaning

against a corner by the door or against the chimneypiece, his arms

crossed, frowning, with his lips curled with anger, whilst the music

carried far away from him the girl he loved, some dancer more lucky

than he leading her through the figures of a quadrille or guiding her

in the whirl of a valse. Once, someone said to Mary Chaworth--

"Do you know that Byron seems deeply in love with you?"

"Well, what does it matter to me?" replied Mary.

"What! do you mean what you say?"

"Of course I do. Do you really think I could care for that lame boy?"

Byron heard both questions and answers, and he said it was as though

a dagger had struck him to the heart. These words were uttered at

midnight; but he rushed out of the house like a madman and ran without

stopping to Newstead, where, on arrival, he fell nearly fainting from

exhaustion.

And yet, the disdainful Miss Chaworth having one day sent her portrait

to him, Byron, in exchange, sent her the following verses:--

TO MARY

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE

"This faint resemblance of thy charms,

Though strong as mortal art could give,

My constant heart of fear disarms,

Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

Here I can trace the locks of gold

Which round thy snowy forehead wave,

The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould,

The lips which made me beauty's slave.

Here I can trace--ah, no! that eye,

Whose azure floats in liquid fire,

Must all the painter's art defy,

And bid him from the task retire.

Here I behold its beauteous hue;

But where's the beam so sweetly straying,

Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing?

Sweet copy! far more dear to me,

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,

Than all the living forms could be,

Save her who placed thee next my heart.

She placed it, sad, with needless fear,

Lest time might shake my wavering soul,

Unconscious that her image there

Held every sense in fast control.

Through hours, through years, through time, 'twill cheer;

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;

In life's last conflict 'twill appear,

And meet my fond expiring gaze."

A year later, Miss Chaworth married.

"Pull out your handkerchief, my son," Lady Byron said to the lad, one

day on returning home.

"What for, mother?"

"Because I have bad news for you."

"What is it?"

"Miss Chaworth is married."

Byron drew his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose, and

with that expression of sarcasm which he knew so well how to assume at

certain times, he said--

"Is that all?"

"Isn't it enough?" asked Lady Byron, who knew well enough the real pain

he was concealing beneath that apparent indifference.

"Enough to make me shed tears? No indeed!" and Byron put his

handkerchief back into his pocket.

When Lady Byron had announced to her son in this callous, mocking way

his adored Mary's marriage, and Byron had put on a smiling appearance

of indifference to the news, returning his handkerchief to his pocket

unwet by a tear, the poor youth went to his own room heart-broken, and,

taking up in his hand the portrait of his unfaithful sweetheart, the

poet tried to comfort the lover, inviting himself to mourn, lashing his

passion into words.

Hence resulted those mournful sighings of a broken heart addressed to

_Mrs. Musters:_--

TO A LADY

"Oh! had my fate been join'd with thine,

As once this pledge appear'd a token,

These follies had not then been mine,

For then my peace had not been broken.

To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving:

They know my sins, but do not know

'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.

For once my soul, like thine, was pure,

And all its rising fires could smother;

But now thy vows no more endure,

Bestow'd by thee upon another.

Perhaps his peace I could destroy,

And spoil the blisses that await him

Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.

Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any;

But what it sought in thee alone,

Attempts, alas! to find in many.

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid!

'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;

Nor hope, nor memory yield their aid,

But pride may teach me to forget thee.

Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures;

These varied loves, these matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures--

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:--

This cheek, now pale from early riot,

With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,

But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;

And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,--

For then it beat but to adore thee.

But now I seek for other joys:

To think would drive my soul to madness;

In thoughtless throngs and empty noise

I conquer half my bosom's sadness.

Yet, even in these a thought will steal

In spite of every vain endeavour,--

And friends might pity what I feel,--

To know that thou art lost for ever."

Alas! Miss Chaworth was not, as Mrs. Musters, to be happier in her

marriage than the man she had forsaken. She married John Musters, Esq.,

in the August of 1805, and lived miserably until 1832, when she died

in as melancholy a way as she had lived. A band of insurgents from

Nottingham came and set fire to Colwick Hall, where she lived. She and

her daughter took refuge in a potting-shed, and, being already in poor

health, she took cold and fell ill, and died practically of the same

complaint that Byron had died of eight years before.

As Byron says in the second verse of his poem to Mrs. Musters, it was

in consequence of the rupture of his friendship with Miss Chaworth that

he flung himself exclusively into the pursuit of pleasure. He flirted,

rode, gambled, kept dogs, took up swimming, fencing and pistol-shooting.

But he found time to write a book called _Hours of Idleness_ in the

midst of all these revels and athletic exercises. He had just published

this book when Lady Morgan, with whom I was to become acquainted thirty

years afterwards, met him for the first time.

This is her description of the meeting:--

"Suddenly my dazzled looks were arrested by an exceedingly beautiful

young man. His expression was taciturn, and yet there seemed as much

shyness as scorn in it. He was alone, and stood in a corner near

a door, with his arms folded across his breast, and one felt that

although he was in the middle of an animated and brilliant crowd, yet

he did not belong to it.

"'How do you do, Lord Byron?' a pretty young creature, dressed in the

height of the fashion, asked him.

"Lord Byron! At that word all the brave Byrons that had belonged to

English and French chivalry rose before my mind; but I did not know

that the handsome youth who was their descendant was destined to give

an even greater right to the name for the admiration of posterity

than the most valiant knight of France, or than the most loyal

cavalier of England who had ever borne the same name. Fame spread

very slowly in our province of Tirerag; and although Lord Byron had

already _taken the first step_ in that career which was to end in the

triumphant acknowledgment of his wonderful genius, and the injustice

and ingratitude of his fellow-countrymen, I knew nothing of this future

fame then, when I heard the name of Byron, save what prompted me to say

to myself, the 'Go, hang thyself, Byron,' of Henry IV."

Poor Lady Morgan! she was not happy in her historical quotations! but

what matters it? she did not look too closely into them. It was Biron

without the _y_ whose head Henry cut off; and it was of Crillon that he

wrote, "Go, hang thyself!"

But the literary fame Byron lacked was soon to be given him by the

critics. The _Edinburgh Review_, in an article written by Mr. Brougham,

who afterwards became Lord Brougham, attacked the young poet violently.

Lord Byron's life was destined to be one continuous fight. Born lame,

he persevered until he became the finest swimmer, the best shot and the

most dauntless horse-rider of his time. The world denied his genius, so

he made up his mind he would become the first poet of his age.

His response to the article in the _Edinburgh Review_ was that terrible

satire hurled at his critics under the title of _English Bards and

Scotch Reviewers_, at the head of which appeared these two epigrams

from Shakespeare and Pope:--

"I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!

Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers!"--_Shakespeare._

"Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,

There are as mad, abandon'd critics too."--_Pope._

When Byron had hurled this lance, he could not draw back. He had

pledged himself heart and soul to poetry, he had taken upon him the

mantle of Nessus which was to consume him but also to immortalise him.

And yet he hesitated for a brief period. By birth he had a right

to sit in the House of Lords, and he decided he would take his seat

there. If his aristocratic peers received him cordially, who knew

what might happen? He might give up everything, even the idea of his

journey to Persia with his friend Hobhouse, to follow his schoolfellow

Robert Peel in a political career. It should all depend on a smile or

a hand-shake; and for such an acknowledgment he would fling away the

pen that had written the _Hours of Idleness_ and _English Bards and

Scotch Reviewers_; for a smile and a hand-shake he would bid farewell

to games, betting, races, drunkenness, and break himself off from those

youthful follies in which he had tried to drown the memory of Miss

Chaworth; he would leave them all, even the woman who had followed him

to Brighton dressed as a man, whose scandalous presence had roused the

indignation of the prudish English aristocracy!

It was at this crisis he wrote to his mother the following letter,

which shows what a degree of coldness existed between mother and son:--

"TO THE HONOURABLE LADY BYRON

"NEWSTEAD ABBEY, NOTTS

_October_ 7, 1808

"DEAR MADAM,--I have no beds for the Hansons or anybody

else at present. The Hansons sleep at Mansfield. I do not

know that I resemble Jean Jacques Rousseau. I have no

ambition to be like so illustrious a madman--but this I

know, that I shall live in my own manner, and as much alone

as possible. When my rooms are ready I shall be glad to

see you: at present it would be improper and uncomfortable

to both parties. You can hardly object to my rendering my

mansion habitable, notwithstanding my departure for Persia

in March (or May at farthest), since _you_ will be _tenant_

till my return; and in case of any accident (for I have

already arranged my will to be drawn up the moment I am

twenty-one), I have taken care you shall have the house and

manor for _life_, besides a sufficient income. So you see my

improvements are not entirely selfish.--Adieu. Believe me,

yours very truly, BYRON"

In another letter to his mother, dated 6 March 1809, he adds:--

"What you say is all very true: come what may, _Newstead_

and I _stand_ or fall together. I have now lived on the

spot, I have fixed my heart upon it, and no pressure,

present or future, shall induce me to barter the last

vestige of our inheritance. I have that pride within me

which will enable me to support difficulties. I can endure

privations; but could I obtain in exchange for Newstead

Abbey the first fortune in the country, I would reject the

proposition. Set your mind at ease on that score; Mr. Hanson

talks like a man of business on the subject,--I feel like a

man of honour, and I will not sell Newstead. _I shall get

my seat on the return_ of the affidavits from Carhais, in

Cornwall, _and will do something in the House soon: I must

dash, or it is all over._ My Satire must be kept secret

for a _month_; after that you may say what you like on the

subject. Lord Carlisle has used me infamously, and refused

to state any particulars of my family to the Chancellor. I

have _lashed_ him in my rhymes, and perhaps his lordship may

regret not being more conciliatory. They tell me it will

have a sale; I hope so, for the bookseller has behaved well,

as far as publishing well goes.--Believe me, etc., BYRON

"_P.S._--You shall have a mortgage on one of the farms."

But Byron was doomed in advance. He had the greatest difficulty in

obtaining the papers necessary to establish his title to the peerage,

and, three days after writing the above letter--that is to say, on 9

March 1809, six weeks after having attained his majority--he presented

himself in the House of Lords.

As we have said, upon this test his whole career was to depend. As he

told his mother, his Satire was to be kept a secret for a month longer,

and if he were well received by his illustrious colleagues, it was to

remain unpublished and the poet unknown.

It was the will of Providence that these aristocrats should be unjust

towards this young man, this boy, nay, more than unjust, cruel.

He entered the House alone, and looked calm, although his face was

deadly pale; not one kindly glance encouraged him, not a single hand

was held out towards his; he searched in vain for a single friendly

look throughout that illustrious assembly, but all heads were turned

away.

He then made up his mind. He, Lord Byron, would make a fresh claim to

nobility for his posterity, since his present title to it was slighted

by his contemporaries. He published his Satire, and set out, with Mr.

Hobhouse, in the June of that same year 1809.

CHAPTER III

Byron at Lisbon--How he quarrelled with his own countrymen--His poem

_Childe Harold_--His fits of mad folly and subsequent depression--His

marriage--His conjugal squabbles--He again quits England--His farewell

to wife and child--His life and amours at Venice--He sets out for

Greece--His arrival at Missolonghi--His illness and death

The first news received from the poet-traveller was from Lisbon, and

it bore the mark of that gloomy spirit of mockery which, when fully

developed, becomes genius.

The letter was addressed to Mr. Hodgson, and began in the following

strain:--

"I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and talk bad

Latin to the monks, who understand it, as it is like their

own,--and I goes into society (with my pocket-pistols), and

I swims in the Tagus all across at once, and I rides on an

ass or a mule, and swears Portugese, and have got a diarrhœa

and bites from the mosquitoes. But what of that? Comfort

must not be expected by folks that go a pleasuring."

And yet, while he was mocking in this fashion, he could write such

mournful lines as these in _Childe Harold_:--

CANTO I

IX

"And none did love him: though to hall and bower

He gather'd revellers from far and near,

He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour;

The heartless parasites of present cheer.

Yea! none did love him--not his lemans dear--

But pomp and power alone are woman's care,

And where these are light Eros finds a feere;

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,

And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.

X

Childe Harold had a mother--not forgot,

Though parting from that mother he did shun;

A sister whom he loved, but saw her not

Before his weary pilgrimage begun:

If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.

Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel:

Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon

A few dear objects, will in sadness feel

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

XI

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,

The laughing dames in whom he did delight,

Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,

Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,

And long had fed his youthful appetite;

His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,

And all that mote to luxury invite,

Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine,

And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line."

And it was in this spirit that he left England to begin his early

travels; and if, perchance, any member of the aristocracy inquired who

this young Lord Byron was who had inscribed his name on the list of

peers, those who were best informed would reply--

"He is a young rake, grand-nephew of the old Byron who killed Chaworth

in a duel; he possesses an old tumbledown Abbey; and a fortune that has

been cut up and squandered. When he was at college, where he never did

any good, he kept a bear; since he left college he has associated with

prostitutes and swindlers, drinking till tipsy out of a human skull,

and, when drunk, writing poetry."

Byron left his country at war with his fellow-men, and one stanza of

the first canto of the poem just referred to was enough to set him at

loggerheads with women too--a much more serious matter:--

CANTO I

LVIII

"The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd

Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:

Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,

Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:

Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much

Hath Phœbus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek,

Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!

Who round the North for paler dames would seek?

How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan and weak!"

Such an anathema as this, hurled by the poet at that England which

Shakespeare compared to a swan's nest in the midst of a great lake,

met with widespread notoriety; for _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, the

first canto of which Byron wrote during his travels, had a tremendous

reception.

Byron visited Portugal, the South of Spain, Sardinia and Sicily; then

he went through Albania and Illyria, travelled through the Morea,

stopping at Thebes, Athens, Delphi and Constantinople. If we are to

believe his own words, he looked forward with dread to his return:--

"Indeed, my prospects are not very pleasant. Embarrassed in

my private affairs, indifferent to public, solitary without

the wish to be social, with a body a little enfeebled by a

succession of fevers, but a spirit, I trust, yet unbroken,

I am returning _home_ without a hope, and almost without

a desire. The first thing I shall have to encounter will

be a lawyer, the next a creditor, then colliers, farmers,

surveyors, and all the agreeable attachments to estates out

of repair, and contested coal-pits. In short, I am sick and

sorry, and when I have a little repaired my irreparable

affairs, away I shall march, either to campaign in Spain, or

back again to the East, where I can at least have cloudless

skies and a cessation from impertinence."

The writer of the above was barely twenty-four years of age, he bore

one of the oldest names in the British Isles, he was a peer of England

and was to become the leading poet of his time!

The first canto of _Childe Harold_ was to reveal him in the latter

capacity, and he sold his poem for two hundred pounds sterling.

His mother died suddenly in Scotland two months after his return, in

1811.

"One day," said Lord Byron, "I heard she was ill; the next, I learnt

that she was dead!"

Nor was this all. Almost at the same time his two best friends,

Wingfield and Matthews, both died.

Byron wrote to Mr. Davies:--

"Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies a corpse

in this house; one of my best friends is drowned in a ditch.

What can I say, or think, or do? Come to me. I am almost

desolate--left almost alone in the world."

We find traces of these sorrows at the close of the second canto of

_Childe Harold_:--

"All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death! thou hast;

The parent, friend, and now the more than friend;

Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,

And grief with grief continuing still to blend,

Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend.

What is the worst of woes that wait on age?

What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?

To view each loved one blotted from life's page,

And be alone on earth, as I am now.

Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,

O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroyed:

Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,

Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd,

And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd."

Byron rejoiced greatly in the success that had greeted the first canto

of his _Childe Harold_; the second was composed after his return to

England, as the stanza upon his mother's death proves.

Even the _Edinburgh Review_ made amends for its mistake in denying that

the author of _Hours of Idleness_ had a vocation for poetry.

"Lord Byron," the Scottish critics now remarked, "has improved much

since we last had his work under review. This new volume is full

of originality and talent; the author herein makes amends for the

literary sins of his youth, and does more, for he promises to give us

better work still."

Lord Byron received £600 for the first two cantos of _Childe Harold_,

and so great was its success that, for the third part, he was paid

£1575, and for the fourth £2100. It was said then, and with some truth,

that he sold his poems at the rate of a guinea a line.

With success came popularity. All the world wanted to see this poet who

had appeared suddenly among them like a brilliant meteor, lighting up

the darkness of the night, and to buy his works. They beheld his face

and saw that he was beautiful; they uttered his name and remembered

that, by his father, he came of an illustrious race, and, by his

mother, being descended from Jane Stuart, daughter of James II. of

Scotland, he had royal blood in his veins. He had said in his poem that

he had seen everything worth seeing and was bored with it all, that

he had committed all kinds of sins and even crimes; he had said--a

most extraordinary confession for a poet of only twenty-five years

of age--that he could not fall in love with even the most beautiful

of women London had to show. _Those pale and languid flowers of the

Norths_, as he called them, vowed, in their turn, to make him break his

oath.

It was not a difficult matter for those who knew Lord Byron; many

succeeded without much effort; Lady Caroline Lamb succeeded best of

all. She was the daughter of the Earl of Bamborough, and had married,

in 1805, William Lamb, second son of Lord Melbourne.

Byron fell madly in love with her, and offered to run away with her;

but she declined. What was the cause of the bitter rupture between them

that ended in Lady Lamb writing the novel called _Glenarvon_ against

her former lover, and in his treating her with great disdain throughout

the remainder of his life? We should probably have found an answer to

these questions in the Memoirs of Lord Byron that Thomas Moore burnt.

Who knows? perhaps he burnt them on account of that episode. After

this quarrel, Byron earned a reputation for being a dandy; he became

the fashionable frequenter of watering-places and of aristocratic

assemblies. But this kind of life ended as it was sure to do, in

weariness and in disgust; and on 27 February 1814 the poet wrote:--

"Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord H.'s, where I

was asked,--but not inclined to go anywhere. Hobhouse says I

am growing a _loup garou_,--a solitary hobgoblin. True:--'I

am myself alone.'"

A strange idea next took hold of the misanthrope, of the poet whose

inspirations had run dry, of the man of many dissipations: he would

marry and settle down. He had exhausted every pleasure youth could

give; he aspired to something fresh, no matter even if it meant misery.

This unknown and painful experience Lady Byron had in store for him.

But the strangest thing was that he wished to marry for the sake of

getting married, and not for the sake of the woman. He, who had once

betted fifty pounds with Mr. Hay that he would never marry, was in such

a hurry to marry that he did not mind who the lady was.

He discussed his intention with Lady Melbourne, and Lady Melbourne

proposed a young lady whom Byron did not know; Byron suggested Miss

Milbanke.

"You are wrong," said Lady Melbourne, "and for two reasons: first,

because you have need of money and Miss Milbanke could only bring you

ten thousand pounds; and in the second place, because you want a wife

who will admire you, and Miss Milbanke admires no one but herself."

"Well, then," said Lord Byron, "what is the name of your young lady?"

Lady Melbourne mentioned her name, and Byron at once wrote to her

parents, who sent him a refusal.

"Good!" said Byron. "You now see that Miss Milbanke is to be my wife."

And he sat down at once and wrote to Miss Milbanke to make known his

wishes to her.

But Lady Melbourne did not mean matters to end thus; she snatched the

letter out of Byron's hands when he had finished it and took it to the

window to read, while Byron remained quietly in his seat. When she had

read it, she said, "Well, I must admit this is a very pretty letter; it

is a pity it should not go."

"Then give it me," said Byron, "and I will seal it and send it off."

Lady Melbourne gave the letter back to Byron, and he sealed it and saw

that it reached its address.

He was married on 2 January 1815, from Sir Ralph Milbanke's house. He

sent the fifty pounds to Mr. Hay the same day, without waiting till he

was asked for the money.

Exactly a month later, he wrote:--

_"Feb._ 2, 1815

"The treacle-moon is over, and I am awake, and find myself

married. Swift says, 'No _wise_ man ever married'; but, for

a fool, I think it is the most ambrosial of all possible

future states."

The honeymoon was spent at Sir Ralph Milbanke's house; after that, the

young couple went to their house in Piccadilly. But here the worries

of housekeeping overtook them. Miss Milbanke's £10,000 dowry had only

served to irritate Lord Byron's creditors. Creditors only rest quietly

whilst nothing at all is given them, for then they are in despair; but

partial payment rouses them to fury. Urged on by the £10,000 they had

secured, the duns did not give the young couple a moment's peace; in

proportion as these annoyances increased, the relations between the

husband and wife grew colder and more distant. Then, when her husband

was at his unhappiest, and only saved from imprisonment through being

a peer of the realm, Lady Byron left London under cover of a visit

to her father. Their farewell parting was, conventionally speaking,

quite affectionate, and they agreed to meet in a month's time. During

her journey, Lady Byron wrote quite a tender letter to her husband;

then, one morning, Lord Byron learnt from his father-in-law, Sir Ralph

Milbanke, that he must not expect ever to see his wife and his daughter

again.

What was the reason for this sudden separation, which, in spite of

all Byron's protests, ended in a divorce? The poet put it down to the

influence of an old governess of Lady Byron, Mrs. Clermont, against

whom he launched that terrible satire entitled "A Sketch," and this

epigram and apostrophe from the the Moor to Iago:

"Honest, honest Iago!

If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."

which begins with these lines:--

"Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,

Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;

Next--for some gracions service unexpress'd,

And from its wages only to be guess'd--

Raised from the toilette to the table,--where

Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.

With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,

She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd."

Immediately a tremendous clamour arose in the papers and in society

against the poet who, by force of genius, had already overcome those of

his opposers who might be termed the first coalition against him.

It is ever the case with men in high places who are before the eye of

the public: tempests arise unexpectedly, the existence of which is

not suspected by the victim till they burst over his head. They may

be compared with waterspouts, and they pour down on the poet, be he

a Schiller or a Dante, an Ovid or a Byron, utterly overwhelming him,

rending his heart and body, tearing down his fame, overturning his

reputation, uprooting his honour. These storms come from the enmities,

hatred and jealousies roused by his genius; they are the hyenas that

dog his steps through the darkness, who dare not attack him while

he can stand firm and upright, but which spring on him directly he

totters, and devour him as soon as he falls.

Byron realised he would have to give way before his enemies; so he

left England, meaning to rally his forces amidst the undisturbing

surroundings of foreign lands, for some means of revenging himself

upon them. He left England on 25 April 1816. He had published during

his six years in London, the first two cantos of _Childe Harold_, _The

Giaour_, _The Bride of Abydos_, _The Siege of Corinth_, _Lara_ and _The

Corsair._

He departed, and his saddest regrets were for the wife who had exiled

him, and for the daughter whom he had hardly seen, and whom he was

never to look upon again.

"Fare thee well! and if for ever.

Still for ever, fare thee well:

Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head so oft hath lain,

While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again:

. . . . . . .

Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widow'd bed.

. . . . . . .

And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow,

Wilt thou teach her to say 'Father!'

Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is press'd,

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

Think of him thy love had bless'd!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st see,

Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me."

This was to the mother: then, in _Childe Harold_, he addresses his

child:--

"Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!

Ada, sole daughter of my house and heart?

When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,

And then we parted,--not as now we part,

But with a hope.--

. . . . . . .

My daughter! with thy name this song begun;

My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end;

I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none

Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend

To whom the shadows of far years extend:

Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,

My voice shall with thy future visions blend,

And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold,

A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.

To aid thy mind's development, to watch

Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see

Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch

Knowledge of objects,--wonders yet to thee!

To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,

And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,--

This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;

Yet this was in my nature: as it is,

I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,

I know that thou wilt love me; though my name

Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught

With desolation, and a broken claim:

Though the grave closed between us,--'twere the same,

I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain

_My_ blood from out thy being were an aim,

And an attainment,--all would be in vain,--

Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.

The child of love, though born in bitterness,

And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire

These were the elements, and thine no less.

As yet such are around thee, but thy fire

Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher.

Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea

And from the mountains where I now respire,

Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,

As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me."

"Ah!" remarked Madame de Staël (the poor exile who, standing by

the Lake of Geneva, sighed for the gutter that ran in the rue du

Bac),--"ah! I would not mind being unhappy if I were Lady Byron, to

have inspired such lines as those in my husband's brain!"

May be; but Lord Byron and Madame de Staël would have made an

extraordinary couple, and no mistake.

Byron was not in such a hurry to travel far afield this time; perhaps

he only wanted to stretch the double cord that bound him to England,

and not to snap it altogether.

He landed in Belgium, visited the field of Waterloo, still wet with the

blood of three nations; sailed down the Rhine and settled for a time

on the borders of the Lake of Geneva. Here it was that he met Madame

de Staël, who was almost as much of an exile under the Restoration as

under the Empire. "My greatest pleasure amidst the magnificent pictures

round Lake Geneva was to gaze upon the author of _Corinne_."

At Diodati, Byron renewed his swimming feat of Abydos by crossing the

Lake of Geneva where it is four leagues wide. And it was at Diodati

that he wrote the third canto of _Childe Harold_, _The Prisoner of

Chillon_ and _Manfred._ Goethe in a German journal laid claim to the

original idea of _Manfred_, as though _Manfred_ did not descend as

directly from Satan as _Faust_ had from Polichinelle! O thou poor rich

man! with all thy European fame and thy world-wide reputation, wouldst

thou snatch back the leaf that thy brother-poet so sinfully plucked

from thy laurel crown!

Can we not almost hear what D'Alembert said of the author of _Zaïre_

and of the _Dictionnaire philosophique_:--

"This man is past comprehending! he has fame that would satisfy a

million of men, and yet he wants another ha'porth."

Byron took his revenge by dedicating some of his poems to Goethe.

Byron left for Italy in the month of October, stopping first at Milan

to visit the Ambrosian Library. His next halt was at Verona, where

he saw the tomb of Juliet; and, finally, he took up his residence in

Venice, where his name became a household word.

Venice had never possessed any horses except the four bronze ones which

had figured for twelve years on top of Carrousel's triumphal arch. But

Byron never walked, and he was therefore the first person whose living

horses clattered in the Square of Saint Mark, on the quai des Esclavons

and on the banks of the Brenta.

It was in Venice that the real romance of his life began. Here he had

three love affairs, each in a different rank of Venetian society: with

Marguerite, Marianne and ... Alas! the most faithless of the three was

the great lady who shall be nameless--she whom Byron loved more than

all, perhaps, more than Miss Chaworth, more than Caroline Lamb.

It is curious to think that this lady, even at this day, thirty-three

years after the time of which I am writing, is still a fascinating

woman. I made her acquaintance in Rome when she was in the full bloom

of her beauty, when she was almost as wonderful to listen to as to look

at, to hear as to see.

She lived solely upon the memories of the great poet whom she had

loved. It seemed as though the years of their love constituted the

one bright spot in her life, and in looking back the obscurity that

formed the rest of her life was ignored by her. But if I began to speak

of her, I should have to reveal her name; I should have to speak of

the walks we had together by moonlight in the Forum and the Coliseum;

I should have to repeat what she told me among the shadows of those

great ruins, when she never spoke but of the illustrious dead, who had

trodden with her the same stones that we were treading and had sat by

her side in the same places where we rested.

Oh! madam, madam! Why were you unfaithful to the poet's memory, when

your memories of him had gone on increasing in strength, aided by his

death, until you had magnified your love into a god? Why was not the

honour of having been Byron's mistress quite sufficient, instead of

taking any title that a husband, no matter how distinguished he might

be, could give you?

If I might only venture to repeat here what Déjazet once said to

Georges, with reference to Napoleon!

It is true that Byron, with all his fancies and eccentricities and

passions, cannot have been a very pleasant lover. But she should have

been faithless to him when he was alive, and not after he was dead.

The world has forgiven the Empress Joséphine her infidelities in the

Tuileries, but it will never forgive Marie-Louise, the widow, her

faithlessness at Parma.

We will not say any more, madam; we will think, instead, of the poems

Byron wrote at Venice. Here he composed _Marino Faliero_, _The Two

Foscari_, _Sardanapalus_, _Cain_, _The Prophecy of Dante_ and the third

and fourth cantos of _Don Juan._

When Naples rebelled in 1820 and 1821, Byron wrote to the Neapolitan

Government and offered his purse and his sword. So, when reaction set

in, and Ferdinand returned a second time from Sicily, and the lists

of proscribed persons were published throughout Italy, it was feared

Byron's name might be of the number of exiles. Then it happened that

the poor people of Ravenna drew up a petition to the cardinal praying

he might be allowed to stay among them.

This man who boldly and openly offered the Neapolitans a thousand louis

was a never failing source of helpfulness to the poor of Venice and

its surrounding countryside; no poor man ever held out a hand towards

him and drew it back empty, even if Byron himself were in the greatest

straits, and more than once he had to borrow in order to give. He knew

this but too well when he said, "Those who have persecuted me so long

and so cruelly will triumph, and justice will only be done to me when

this hand is as cold as their hearts."

Thus, wherever he went, he left an impression as of fire,--he dazzled,

warmed or scorched.

In 1821, Byron left Venice, in whose streets no one had ever seen him

on foot; the Brenta, upon whose banks no one had ever seen him take a

walk; the Square of St. Mark, whose beauties he had never contemplated

except from a window, for fear of revealing to the beauties of Venice

the slight deformity of his leg, which not even the width of his

trousers could disguise.

From Venice he went to Pisa. There the news of two fresh troubles

awaited him: the death of his natural daughter by an English woman,

and the death of his friend Shelley, who was drowned during a sailing

trip from Livorno to Lerici. He sent his daughter's body to England for

burial.

To save the body of his friend Shelley from the attentions Italian

priests would no doubt have given it, he determined to have it burnt

after the custom of the ancients.

Trelawney, the bold pirate, was present, and relates the strange

funeral rites, as he relates his lion hunt or his fight with the Malay

prince. He was a companion worthy of the noble poet, and was himself

a poet; his book is full of marvellous descriptions, all the more

wonderful because they are always true, although sounding incredible.

"We were on the seashore," said Trelawney; "in front of us lay the sea

and its islands, behind us the Apennines, and by our side was the great

blazing funeral-pyre. The flames, fanned by the wind from the sea,

took a thousand fantastic shapes. The weather was very fine; the lazy

waves from the Mediterranean gently kissed the shore, the sands were

golden yellow and contrasted sharply with the deep blue of the sky; the

mountains lifted their snowy crests up into the clouds, and the flames

from the pyre steadily burnt higher and higher into the air."

From Pisa Byron went to Genoa. It was in this city--once the Queen of

the Mediterranean--that he conceived the idea of going to Greece, to

do for that "Niobe of the Nations," as he called her, the same offices

Naples had not thought fit to accept when offered to her.

So far, Byron had devoted himself mainly to individuals; now he

intended to devote himself to a people.

In the month of April 1823 he entered into communication with the Greek

Committee, and towards the end of July he left Italy. His reputation

had increased extraordinarily, not only in Italy, France and Germany,

but in England too.

One fact will give some idea of the height to which his reputation had

attained.

An insurrection had broken out in Scotland in the county where his

mother's property was situated. The rebels had to cross Lady Byron's

estates to reach their destination, but on the confines of the property

they paused and decided to cross in single file, so as only to tread

down a narrow path in the crops. They did not take the same precaution

on other estates, which they completely devastated.

Byron often related this incident with pride.

"See," he said, "how the hatred of my enemies is being avenged."

Before he left Italy he wrote on the margin of a book that had been

lent him--

"If all that is said of me be true, I am unworthy to see England again;

if all they say of me is false, England does not deserve to see me

again."

But he had a presentiment that he had left his native land for ever;

and Lady Blessington told me herself that, when she met Byron at Genoa,

the day before he was to set sail, he said to her--

"We have met again to-day, but to-morrow we shall be separated, who

knows for how long? Something here (and he laid his hand on his heart)

tells me that we are meeting for the last time; I am going to Greece,

and shall never return from it."

Towards the end of December Byron landed in Morea, and, a few days

later, he made his way into the town, in spite of the Turkish flotilla

that was besieging Missolonghi. He was greeted with enthusiastic shouts

by the people, who led him in triumph to the house they had got ready

for him.

When established there, Byron's whole soul was concentrated in the one

desire to see the triumph of the cause he had espoused, or to die in

defending a fresh Thermopylæ. Neither of these hopes was to be granted

him. He was seized by a violent attack of fever on 15 February 1824,

which ran its course rapidly, caused him much suffering and weakened

him greatly. But as soon as he was sufficiently recovered he resumed

the daily rides on horseback which were his greatest recreation. On

9 April he got very wet when out riding, and although he changed

everything on his return home, he felt ill, for he had been more than

two hours in his wet clothes. During the night there was a slight

return of the fever, although he slept well; but about eleven o'clock

on the morning of the 10th he complained of a violent pain in the head

and of suffering in his arms and legs; nevertheless, he managed to

mount his horse in the afternoon. His old servant, Fletcher, from whose

account we shall now borrow the final details, waited for his return.

"How have you got on, my lord?" he asked.

"The saddle was not dry," replied Byron, "and I am afraid the dampness

has made me ill again."

And indeed it was plain to see next morning that Byron's indisposition

had become more serious: he had been feverish all night, and seemed

very depressed. Fletcher made him a cup of arrowroot; he tasted a few

spoonfuls, then he handed the drink back to the old servant.

"It is excellent," he said, "but I cannot drink any more of it."

On the third day Fletcher grew seriously uneasy about him. During all

his other rheumatic attacks his master had never been sleepless, but

this time he could not sleep at all.

So he went to the two doctors in the town, Drs. Bruno and Millingen,

and asked them several questions as to the nature of the illness from

which they thought Lord Byron was suffering. Both assured the old valet

that he need not be alarmed, that his master was in no danger, but that

in two or three days he would be up again, and then, they said, the

attack would not return again. This was on the 13th. On the 14th, as

the fever had not left his master and the invalid still had no sleep,

Fletcher begged Byron, in spite of the assurance of the two doctors,

to let him send for Dr. Thomas, from Zante.

"Consult the two doctors," the sick man replied, "and act as they

direct."

Fletcher obeyed, and the two doctors said that there was not any

necessity for a third opinion. Fletcher brought back this answer to his

master, who shook his head and said--

"I am much afraid they do not know anything at all about my illness."

"In that case, my lord," Fletcher insisted, "do call in another doctor."

"They tell me," Byron continued, without replying directly to Fletcher,

"that it is a chill such as I have had before."

"But I am sure, my lord, you have never had such a serious one before,"

replied the valet.

"I agree with you," was Byron's reply; and he fell into a reverie from

which no amount of persuasion could arouse him.

On the 15th, Fletcher, whose faithful devotion divined the real

condition of his master, again asked permission to be allowed to fetch

Dr. Thomas; but the doctors of Missolonghi still persisted there was

no cause for alarm. Until now, they had treated their patient with

purgatives, which, as Byron had only taken a cup or two of broth during

eight days, were much too strong remedies and could not have any

desirable effect. They but increased the weakness, which was already

extreme because of want of sleep.

On the evening of the 15th, however, the doctors began to be uneasy,

and talked of bleeding their patient; but he strenuously opposed this,

asking Dr. Millingen if he thought the need for bleeding was urgent.

The doctor replied that he believed he could put it off, without

danger, until next day. So, on the evening of the 16th, they bled Byron

in the right arm, taking sixteen ounces of greatly inflamed blood out

of him. Dr. Bruno shook his head as he examined the blood.

"I always told him he ought to be bled," he murmured, "but he would

never let it be done."

Then the doctors fell into a lengthy dispute over the time lost.

Again Fletcher proposed to send to Zante for Dr. Thomas, but the

doctors replied--

"It would be useless; before he could get here, your master will be

either out of danger or dead."

In the meantime the disease grew worse, and Dr. Bruno advised a second

bleeding. Fletcher broke it to his master that the two doctors deemed

another bleeding indispensable, and this time Lord Byron did not make

any resistance; he held out his arm and said--

"Here is my arm: they may do what they wish." Then he added, "Did I not

tell you, Fletcher, that they do not understand anything at all about

my illness!"

Byron grew weaker and weaker. On the 17th, they bled him in the

morning, and twice again in the afternoon of the same day. He fainted

away after each bleeding, and from that day he himself gave up all hope.

"I cannot sleep," he said to Fletcher, "and you know that I have not

had any sleep for a week; now, it is a fact that a man cannot live

without sleep for any length of time; after a time he goes mad, and

nothing can save him. I would rather blow my brains out ten times than

go mad. I am not afraid of death, I shall watch its approach with more

composure than people would believe."

On the 18th, Byron was perfectly satisfied of his approaching end.

"I fear," he said to Fletcher, "that Tita and you will both fall ill

with nursing me like this, day and night."

Still, both refused to take any rest. Fletcher had been wise enough to

take away his master's pistols and dagger out of his reach, ever since

the 16th, when he saw that the fever was likely to produce delirium.

On the 18th, he repeated several times that the Missolonghi doctors did

not understand his case at all.

"Well, then," Fletcher replied for the tenth time, "let me go and fetch

Dr. Thomas from Zante."

"No, do not go.... Send for him, Fletcher, but be quick about it."

Fletcher did not lose a second in despatching a messenger, and then he

informed the two doctors that he had just sent for Dr. Thomas.

"You were quite right," said they, "for we have ourselves begun to feel

very anxious."

On re-entering his master's room, Byron said to Fletcher--

"Well, have you sent?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Good! I wish to know what is the matter with me."

A few moments later, he was seized with a fresh attack of delirium, and

when he recovered consciousness, he remarked--

"I begin to believe I am seriously ill. If I am to die sooner than I

expected, I desire to give you some instructions. Will you be sure to

carry them out for me?"

"Oh, my lord, you can be sure of my faithfulness," the valet replied;

"but you will live for long enough yet, I hope, and be able to attend

to your own affairs."

"No," said Byron, shaking his head; "no, the end has come.... I must

tell you everything, Fletcher, and without a moment's loss of time."

"Shall I fetch pen and ink and paper, my lord?" asked the valet.

"Oh no; we should waste too much time, and we have none to lose. Pay

attention."

"I am listening, my lord."

"Your future is assured."

"Oh! my lord," cried the poor valet, bursting into tears, "I entreat

you to think of more important matters."

"My child!" murmured the dying man, "my dear daughter, my poor Ada, if

I could but have seen her! Take her my blessing, Fletcher; also to my

sister Augusta and to her children.... You must take it, too, to Lady

Byron.... Tell her ... tell her everything ... you stand well in her

estimation...."

The dying man's voice failed him, and, although he made efforts

to continue speaking, the valet could only make out disjointed

expressions, from which, with the greatest difficulty, he gathered the

following:--

"Fletcher ... if you do not carry out ... the orders I have given you

... I will haunt you ... if God will let me...."

"But, my lord," cried the valet in despair, "I have not been able to

hear a word of what you have been saying to me."

"Oh! my God, my God!" whispered Byron, "then it is now too late....

Have you really not heard me?"

"No, my lord; but try again to make me understand your wishes."

"Impossible!... impossible!" murmured the dying man; "it is too late

... all is over ... and yet ... come close, come close, Fletcher ... I

will try again."

And he renewed his attempts, but all was in vain; he could only utter

a few broken words, such as, "My wife!... my child ... my sister. You

know all ... you will tell them everything ... you know my wishes."

Nothing more was intelligible.

This was at midday on the 18th. The doctors held a fresh consultation,

and decided to give the patient quinine in wine.

He had only taken, as I have said, a little broth and two spoonfuls of

arrowroot for eight days. He took the quinine, and showed by signs that

he wanted to sleep; he did not speak again unless questioned.

"Would you like me to fetch Mr. Parry?" Fletcher asked him.

"Yes, go and fetch him," he replied.

A moment later, the valet returned with him. Mr. Parry leant over his

bed, and Byron became excited as he recognised him.

"Lie quite quiet," said Mr. Parry; and the invalid shed a few tears and

then seemed to fall asleep.

This was the beginning of a state of coma that lasted nearly

twenty-four hours.

Then, towards eight in the evening, he roused, and Fletcher heard him

say, "And now I must go to sleep...."

They were the last words he uttered. His head fell back motionless on

his pillow. He never moved for twenty-four hours; there were occasional

spasms of suffocation and a raucous sound in his breathing: that was

all. Fletcher called Tita to help him raise the head of the invalid,

who seemed quite numbed, and the two servants raised his head every

time the signs of suffocation returned.

This lasted until the 19th, when, at six in the evening, Byron opened

and closed his eyes without any sign of pain and without moving any

other part of his body.

"Oh! my God," cried Fletcher, "I think my lord has breathed his last!"

The doctors came near and felt his pulse.

"You are right," said they; "he is dead!...."

On 22 April, Byron's remains were taken to the church where Marco

Bozariz and General Normann lie buried. The body was enclosed in a

rough wooden coffin; it was covered by a black mantle, and on the

mantle they placed a helmet, a sword and a wreath of laurels.

Byron had expressed a wish that his body should be buried in his native

land; but the Greeks asked to be allowed to keep his heart, and those

who had cruelly made that heart bleed when he was alive, gave it up

when he was dead.

His daughter Ada, whom I have since seen in Florence, was declared

the adopted daughter of Greece. I do not know whether King Otho I.

remembered this fact when he came to the throne.

CHAPTER IV

Usurped celebrity--M. Lemercier and his works--Racan's white hare-_Le

Fiesque_ by M. Ancelot--The Romantic artists--Scheffer--Delacroix

--Sigalon--Schnetz--Coigniet--Boulanger--Géricault--_La Méduse_ in the

artist's studio--Lord Byron's funeral obsequies in England--Sheridan's

body claimed for debt

While Lord Byron's body was being carried from Missolonghi to England,

the literary movement in France was steadily progressing. M. Liadière

and M. Lemercier each did their best in grappling with Shakespeare

and Rowe, each produced _Jane Shore_; M. Liadière at the Odéon on

2 April, and M. Lemercier at the Théâtre-Français on the 1st. M.

Liadière's production just managed to pay its way, while M. Lemercier's

was a failure, in spite of Talma, who played two parts in it--those

of Gloucester and a beggar. Talma was wonderful in this play, poor

though it was. In it he attempted what was in those days looked upon

as a very extraordinary thing. He, a man of fine presence, graceful in

bearing, full of poetry, lofty in mind and eloquent, played the part of

the hunchbacked cripple Richard. The way he managed to make his right

shoulder look higher than his left and his arm appear paralysed was a

miracle of skill, and the denunciatory scene was a miracle of talent.

But nothing could save such a wretched piece. It is now high time some

undeserved reputations, supported by fine coteries and associations of

intrigue and shuffling, should be shown in their true light.

For instance, there is the author of _Agamemnon_ and of _Pinto_,--he

did not deserve a quarter of the reputation he received. _Agamemnon_

is a dull, lifeless play, devoid of poetic feeling, sense, rhythm and

style; what is it compared with the _Orestes_ of Æschylus? _Pinto_ is a

drama of the school of Beaumarchais, the worst type of dramatic school

I know; the play would have died a natural death at the end of eight or

ten representations if the Imperial Censor had not been so stupid as

to attempt to stifle it. The persecution accorded to _Pinto_ gave it

a species of celebrity, but, let it be played nowadays and one would

soon see the worthlessness of the imitation of Æschylus and Seneca, the

so-called original creation. And yet these two plays were the author's

principal works.

Try, too, to read a number of other tragedies and dramas and poems that

have fallen, buried beneath the cat-calls, laughter and hootings of the

public! Try to read _Méléagre_ or _Lovelace_ or _le Lévite d'Éphraïm_;

then, when you have thrown these first three works of the same author

aside, and feel sufficiently recovered and can breathe freely once

more, take up the task again and try to read _Ophis, Plaute_ or _la

Comédie latine, Baudouin, Christophe Colomb, Charlemagne, Saint

Louis, la Démence de Charles VI., Frédegonde and Brunehaut_, which

Mademoiselle Rachel for some unknown purpose drew from the tomb, and

galvanised three or four times without being able to bring back to

life. Then, what else? Stay...we should be lost on the battlefield,

among the productions that did not even linger wounded, but fell

stark dead--_Camille_ and _le Masque de poix_, and _Cahin-Caha_ and

_la Panhypocrisiade_: folly succeeding mediocrity; sheer nonsense and

balderdash.

And yet, although wounded by these rebuffs and completely maimed

by his falls, M. Lemercier sat quietly on in his arm-chair in the

Palais Mazarin--as did his colleagues, M. Droz, M. Briffaut, and M.

Lebrun, one trying to make people forget that he had written a little

volume on _Bonheur_, another that he had perpetrated a tragedy called

_Minus II._, and the third, that he had missed fire in his _le Cid

d'Andalousie_ and mangled Schiller's _Maria Stuart_--he need not

have troubled to say anything, the world would have let him sleep as

quietly in his tomb as the spectators had fain have slept at the

performance of his pieces, if hissing had never been invented. But

nothing of the kind happened! When M. Lemercier perceived the literary

movement of 1829 he cried out at the sacrilege, want of good taste

and scandal of the thing; he signed petitions to the king to have

the representation of _Henri III._ and of _Marion Delorme_ stopped;

he barred the entrance to the Academy when Lamartine and Victor Hugo

endeavoured to gain an entrance; he set the Archbishop of Paris against

the one and produced a M. Flourens to checkmate the other; he recovered

the use of his legs sufficiently to run about collecting votes against

them, and the use of his right hand to turn the lock against them.

Thank Heaven I had very little to do with this wicked little cur,

neither have I had any personal quarrel with him, as I have never had

any dealings with the Academy; but since someone must rise up and speak

for justice I claim the privilege of being the first to set the example.

When M. Flourens was nominated in place of Hugo, I was passing through

the green-room of the Théâtre-Français. I forget what the new play

was, but M. Lemercier was holding forth there against the author of

_Notre-Dame de Paris_ and of _Marion Delorme_ and the _Orientales_,

just as he had opposed him all day long, silently, in the Academy. I

listened to his diatribe for a few minutes, then, shaking my head, I

said to him--

"Monsieur Lemercier, you have refused your vote to Victor Hugo; but

there is one thing you will some day be compelled to yield him, and

that is your own place. Take care lest, instead of the ill-natured

things you are saying against him here, he be not obliged to say a kind

word for you some day to the Academy."

And it happened just as I had predicted. It was no easy matter to

praise Lemercier, but Hugo accomplished the matter by describing the

period instead of speaking of the man, by referring to the emperor

rather than to the poet.

"Have you read my speech?" Hugo asked me the day after he had made it.

"Yes."

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"I think you read as though you had just succeeded Bonaparte as a

member of the Institute, instead of M. Lemercier as a member of the

Academy."

"The deuce! I would much rather have seen you there than myself. How

would you have got out of it?"

"As Racan did, by saying my big white rabbit had eaten my speech."

Racan, it will be remembered, once presented himself before the Academy

with the scraps of a speech he had meant to read.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I had prepared a splendid speech, which could

not fail to have won your suffrages; but my big white rabbit gobbled it

up this morning.... I have brought you the remains, and you must try to

make the best you can of them!"

"Ah! indeed," replied Hugo; "I could have done that, but it never

occurred to me."

M. Liadière's _Jane Shore_ did for Mademoiselle Georges what M.

Lemercier's _Jane Shore_ had done for Talma. It was, besides, the first

attempt Mademoiselle Georges had made in Shakespearean drama: she led

up to it in _Christine_ and in _Lucrèce Borgia._

It was the age of limitations; no one was strong enough to be original.

They had to look for fresh things across the frontier; they sought

admission to the theatres on the shoulders of Rowe or Schiller: if they

were successful, they quietly put the German or English author outside;

if they came a cropper, they fell on him, and it broke the shock of

their fall.

After M. Liadière's production of _Jane Shore_, the Odéon presented

M. Ancelot's _Fiesque._ But M. Ancelot was a purist: he never for one

moment supposed that Schiller's _Fiesque_ could be presented complete

as in the German play; therefore he entirely and discreetly suppressed

the character of the Moor.

Can you imagine _Fiesque_ shorn of the Moor! without the Moor! the main

peg on which the drama is hung! Without the Moor! the character for

which Schiller constructed his play! When shall we have a law which,

whilst permitting translation, will forbid mutilation? The Italians

have no law affecting translators; but they have a proverb as short as

it is expressive, as concise as it is true, "_Traduttore, traditore._"

Meanwhile, the Romantic school, although still shy in theatrical and

literary circles, was boldly invading other branches of art.

M. Thiers, in history, had published his _Révolution française_,

and Botta his _Histoire d'Italie_; M. de Barante was producing his

excellent _Chronique des ducs de Bourgogne_, a work full of knowledge

and brilliancy, which justly, this time, though accidentally, opened

the Academy doors to its author. But the struggle was more noticeable

in painting. David dead and Girodet just dead, their successors were

such men as Scheffer, Delacroix, Sigalon, Schnetz, Coigniet, Boulanger

and Géricault. The works of this galaxy of bold young artists adorned

the walls of the Salon of 1824. Scheffer hung his _Mort de Gaston de

Foix._ It was one of his first pictures, and rather gaudy in colouring,

but the face of the warrior kneeling at the head of Gaston stood out

most remarkably; Scheffer was the painter-poet, the best translator of

Goethe I know; he re-created a whole world of German characters, from

Mignon to the King of Thule, from Faust to Marguerite.

It was Scheffer who transferred to canvas Dante's great and exquisite

story of Francesca da Rimini, a conception which all dramatic poets

have failed to reproduce; Scheffer found time to join in every

conspiracy going, in Dermoncourt's, Caron's and la Fayette's, and yet

managed to become one of the finest painters France has ever produced.

Then there was Delacroix, whose _Massacre de Scio_ roused much

discussion among all schools of painters. Delacroix was doomed to be

pursued by fanatical ignoramuses and determined vilifiers, just as

was Hugo in literature; he had already become known though his _Dante

traversant le Styx_; and all his life he maintained the privilege--rare

among artists--of being able to arouse a storm of hatred and of

admiration upon the production of each fresh work. Delacroix is an

intellectual man, full of knowledge as well as imagination, but he has

one idiosyncrasy, he will persist in trying to become the colleague of

M. Picot and of M. Abel de Pujol, who, let us hope, will happily have

none of him.

Next comes Sigalon, with his rough, passionate Southern nature. His

picture, _Locuste faisant sur un esclave l'essai de ses poisons_, had

been recommended to the notice of M. Laffitte, and this banker patron

of art bought it, probably before he had seen it; when it was hung in

his salon, it terrified the bank clientèle and all the jobbers of the

money market. Everyone asked the future minister why he had bought such

a horrible picture, rather than one of Madame Haudebourg-Lescaut's or

Mademoiselle d'Hervilly's little gems. M. Laffitte was plagued to such

an extent that he sent for Sigalon and begged him to take back his

_Locuste_, which threatened to send the great ladies of the commercial

world into hysterics, imploring him to paint him something else in its

place.

Sigalon took back his _Locuste_, but I do not know what he gave in

exchange. Alas! Sigalon was among the number of those destined to

premature death. He was sent to Rome to copy Michael Angelo's _Last

Judgment_, and he had but just time to bequeath that great piece of

work to France, and to stretch out his arms towards his country, before

he died.

Schnetz had three pictures in the Salon of 1824--two great canvases

which might have been painted by anybody just as well as by himself,

and one of those _genre_ paintings in which he is inimitable. This

_genre_ painting was called _un Sixte-Quint enfant_, the subject being

a gipsy woman predicting he would become pope. The reader will guess

with what fidelity Schnetz succeeded in depicting in his canvas, six

foot high by four feet wide, an old fortune-teller, a shepherd lad and

a young Roman girl: the _Sixte-Quint_ was a masterpiece.

Coigniet's _le Massacre des Innocents_ was hung opposite the door, and

riveted attention directly people entered. It showed a woman crouching

down, disordered in appearance by a long journey, terror in her looks

and very pale, hiding herself, or rather hiding her child, in the

corner of a ruined wall, whilst the massacre was proceeding in the

distance. It was a fine piece of work, every detail of which, well

thought out, well executed, well painted, I can still recall, after

twenty-five years.

Boulanger had taken the subject of his painting from the works of the

famous poet who had just died. Mazeppa, captured, is being bound to a

wild horse, which is going to bear him away, heart-broken, fainting

and dying, to those new lands where a kingdom awaited him on his

awaking. The contortions of the strong young limbs as they struggled,

stiffening, against the villains who were lashing him to the back

of the savage beast, offered a marvellous contrast, not only in the

technical presentation of the flesh, which was quite excellent, but

even more so in the physical and moral suffering of Mazeppa as compared

with the callous strength of his executioners.

Finally, there was Géricault, who, although he was not represented

in that year's Salon, was talked about almost as much as those whose

pictures hung on its walls. And this was because the new school,

wanting a leader, felt that Géricault was the man, even although so far

he had only painted a few studies. He had just finished _le Hussard_

and _le Cuirassier_,--which the Musée lately bought back, on the

accession of King Louis-Philippe,--and he was finishing his _Méduse._

Poor Géricault! he too was to die, and to die miserably, after he

had done his _Méduse._ I saw him a week before his death. The reader

wonders how I became acquainted with Géricault? In the same way that

I became acquainted with Béranger and Manuel. At my weekly dinners

at M. Arnault's house, I often met Colonel Bro, a brave, excellent

soldier, to whom every thought of the army was dear, and who had been

friendly to me solely because I was the son of a general who served in

the Revolution. Of course Bro was opposed to the Bourbon Government.

He had a house in the rue des Martyrs, No. 23, and in that house there

lodged various people according to their varying fortunes--Manuel the

deputy who had been expelled from the Chamber, Béranger the poet and

Géricault. One day when we had been speaking of Géricault, who was

dying, Bro said to me--

"Come and see his picture _la Méduse_, and the painter himself, before

he dies, so that you can at least say you have seen one of the greatest

painters who ever lived."

I took care not to refuse, as will readily be believed, and the meeting

was arranged for the following day. You ask what Géricault died of?

Listen, and observe how, at every turn, fate seemed to put a cross

against his name. He possessed some fortune, an income of about twelve

thousand livres; he loved horses and painted them admirably. One day,

as he was mounting a horse, he noticed that the buckle of his breeches

belt had come off: he tied the two ends of the strap together and set

off at a gallop. His horse threw him, and the knot of the strap bruised

two vertebrae of the spinal cord as he fell. He was under treatment at

the time for a disease which settled in this place; the wound never

healed, and Géricault, the hope of a whole century, died of one of the

longest and most painful diseases there is--decay of the spine. When we

called upon him, he was busy drawing his left hand with his right.

"What on earth are you after, Géricault?" asked the colonel.

"You see, my dear fellow," said the dying man, "I am turning myself to

account. My right hand will never find a better anatomical study than

my left hand can offer it, and the egoist is taking advantage of the

fact."

And, indeed, so thin was Géricault that one could see the bones and the

muscles of his hand through the skin, as they are seen in plaster casts

used for models by art students.

"My dear friend," asked Bro, "how did you bear your operation

yesterday?"

"Very well ... it was a very curious experience. Just imagine, those

butchers were cutting me about for ten minutes."

"You must have suffered horribly."

"Not very much.... I thought of other things."

"What did you think about?"

"A picture."

"How was that?"

"It was very simple. I had the head of my bed turned to the glass,

so that, while the doctors were working at my back, I could see what

they were doing when I raised myself on my elbows. Ah! if I could but

recover, I swear I would make a noble sequel to André Vésale's study in

anatomy! Only, my anatomical study would be taken from a living man."

This was the very scene which, two years later, Talma rehearsed before

Adolphe and me, when he was in his bath.

Bro asked permission of the sick man for me to go upstairs and see his

_Méduse._

"Do what you like," said Géricault; "you are in your own house." And he

went on drawing his hand.

I stood a long time before the marvellous picture, although I was at

that time ignorant about art and unable to estimate it at its true

worth. As I left the studio, I stepped upon an overturned canvas. I

picked it up, looked at the right side of it and saw a wonderful head

of a fallen angel: I gave it to Bro.

"See," I said, "what I have found on the floor."

Bro went back to the sick man's room.

"Why, my dear fellow, you are mad, to leave such things as these lying

about on the floor."

"Do you know whose head that is?" Géricault asked laughingly.

"No."

"Well, my good friend, it is the head of your porter's son. He

came into my studio the other day, and I was so struck with the

possibilities of his face that I asked him to sit for me, and in ten

minutes I had done that study from it. Would you like to have it? Take

it."

"But if it is a study, you did it for an object."

"Yes, for the object of study itself. It will perhaps come in useful to

you some day."

"Some day, my dear Bro, is a far cry, and in the meantime much water

will have flowed under the bridges and many dead bodies will have been

taken through the gates of the cemetery Montmartre."

"Well! well!" said Bro.

"Take it, my friend, and keep it," Géricault replied; "if I ever want

it, I shall be able to find it at your house."

Then he bowed us adieu, and we left him; Bro bringing away his angel's

head. A week later, Géricault died, and his intimate friend and

executor, Dreux-d'Orcy, had the greatest difficulty in getting the

authorities of the Beaux-Arts to purchase _la Méduse_ for six thousand

francs--a canvas which is now considered one of the most valuable

possessions of the Musée. Yet the Government wanted it merely for the

purpose of cutting out five or six of the heads as studies for its

pupils to copy. Happily, De Dreux-d'Orcy stopped this sacrilege before

it got beyond its inception.

But I see I have forgotten to speak of Horace Vernet, of M. Ingres and

of Delaroche, each of whom deserves special mention. They shall receive

notice presently, but first one word more about Lord Byron.

On 5 July, the body of the noble lord reached London from Missolonghi.

It lay in a perforated shell steeped in a cask of spirits of wine.

When the body was taken ashore from the _Florida_, in which it had

been conveyed, the captain was going to throw this liquid overboard;

but now that Lord Byron was dead, even his own countrymen became his

worshippers, and these admirers begged the captain for the spirits

of wine in which Lord Byron's body had been preserved, offering a

louis a pint for it. The captain accepted the offer, and the sum thus

received was at the same rate per pint as, so it was said, the poet

had received per line. Two days after the arrival of the body, a

post-mortem examination was made, and the doctors, who really ought

to be able to find out a few things, discovered that Lord Byron had

died because he had refused to be bled. His body was laid in state,

but only those who had special tickets given them by his executor

were admitted; yet, in spite of this precaution, the crowd was so

great it was necessary to call in the aid of an armed force to keep

order. The spirits of wine had preserved the flesh well enough for

the poet to be still recognisable: his hands, especially, had kept

almost life-like in their beauty--those hands of which the eccentric

nobleman had taken such good care that, even when swimming, he had worn

gloves! His beautiful hair, of which he had been very proud, had become

nearly grey, although he was but thirty-seven. Each white hair in the

poet's head could tell a tale of sorrow. Such had been the public

excitement over Byron, that the question at once arose of burying him

in Westminster Abbey; but his friends were afraid the authorities might

refuse the request, and the family declared that his body should be

buried in the vault at Newstead Abbey, where his ancestors lay. Even

his death raised the clamour of tongues that pursued him through life.

On the 12th, an immense crowd collected from break of day along the

route the cortège was to take. Colonel Leigh, Byron's brother-in-law,

was chief mourner; and in the six coaches that followed were the most

famous Opposition Members of Parliament--Hobhouse, Douglas Kinnaird,

Sir Francis Burdett, and O'Meara, surgeon to the emperor. Then, in

their own private carriages, followed the Duke of Sussex, brother of

the king, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Earl Grey, Lord Holland, etc.

Two Greek deputies closed the procession. When it reached Hampstead

Road, the pace was quickened; it was planned to spend the night

at Welwyn, and to set out early the next day, Tuesday, to reach

Higham-Ferrers that evening; on Wednesday it was to reach Oakham; on

Thursday, Nottingham; and Newstead Abbey on Friday. The arrangement was

punctually carried out, and on Friday, 17 August, the body was laid in

the burying-place of his ancestors. Byron, who had been exiled by his

wife, hunted down by his own family and repulsed by his contemporaries,

had at last earned the right to return triumphantly to his country and

to his home. He was dead! And yet it might have happened to him as it

happened to Sheridan's dead body; poor Sheridan, who drank so much rum,

brandy and absinthe that Lord Byron once said to him during an orgie--

"Sheridan! Sheridan! you drink enough alcohol to set fire to the very

flannel vest you wear next your skin."

And the prophecy was fulfilled: Sheridan drank so much that his flannel

vest was scorched. Sheridan was dead; and he left both his pockets

and his bottles empty. This did not prevent the highest people in the

land from doing him honour, as he lay dead in his home, which had been

stript bare of everything by his creditors. Those friends who had,

perhaps, refused to lend him ten guineas the day before, gave him a

royal burial. The coffin was just going to be borne to the hearse, when

a gentleman clad in deep mourning from head to foot, and apparently

overcome with grief, came into the room in which were assembled the

most aristocratic gentlemen of the three kingdoms, and, advancing to

the coffin, begged, as a particular favour, to be allowed to look for

the last time on the features of his unfortunate friend. He was refused

at first, but his entreaties were so vehement, his voice was so broken,

he was so shaken with sobs, that they did not like to refuse such grief

a hearing. The top of the coffin was unscrewed and the body of Sheridan

uncovered. Then the expression on the face of the gentleman in mourning

changed completely, and he drew out of his pocket an order for the

seizure of the body and took possession of it. He was a bailiff. Mr.

Canning and Lord Lydmouth took the man outside and settled the amount

he claimed, namely, the sum of £480.

CHAPTER V

My mother comes to live with me--A Duc de Chartres born

to me--Chateaubriand and M. de Villèle--Epistolary

brevity--Re-establishment of the Censorship--A King of France should

never be ill--Bulletins of the health of Louis XVIII.--His last moments

and death--Ode by Victor Hugo--M. Torbet and Napoleon's tomb--La

Fayette's voyage to America--The ovations showered upon him

My mother had been quite as lonely without me as I had been without

her, so, in response to my letter, she shut up the tobacco-shop, sold

a portion of our shabby furniture, and wrote telling me she was coming

to Paris, bringing with her her bedstead, a chest of drawers, a table,

two arm-chairs, four chairs and a hundred louis in hard cash. A hundred

louis! Why, it was exactly double my year's income and we should now

have 2400 francs a year for the next two years, so for that time we

should feel quite safe. It was all the more important to be settled

since, on 29 July 1824, whilst the Duc de Montpensier came into the

world at the Palais-Royal, a Duc de Chartres was born to me at No. 1

place des Italiens. This, together with the smallness of my little

yellow chamber, where there was no room for my mother, was one of the

reasons that obliged me to look out for fresh lodgings. To find a new

home was a serious consideration; lodgings were very dear close to

the Palais-Royal, and if I were too far away from the Palais-Royal

my four journeys a day, to and fro, meant a serious wear and tear in

shoe-leather. Any expense comes heavy on a man who only earns four

francs five sous per day.

I had, indeed, two or three plays in hand with de Leuven, but I was

compelled to admit to myself that probably de Leuven, who had not

managed to succeed with Soulié--whom we acknowledged to be the best of

us all--would not have more chance with me. His _Bon Vieillard_ had

been declined at the Gymnase; his _Pauvre Fille_ had been rejected

by the Vaudeville, and his _Château de Kenilworth_ had not even

been read--Mademoiselle Lévêque had politely sent word that she had

not "time at the moment" to pay attention to a new part, and the

Porte-Saint-Martin had received a melodrama upon the same subject.

So I had to find a lodging, as I have said, that should not be too

far away and yet that was not too high a rent. I set to work, and

discovered rooms at No. 53 Faubourg St. Denis, in a house adjoining

the _Lion d'Argent._ We had two rooms on the second floor looking on

the street, one serving for store-room, dining-room and kitchen. We

soon found out that for these apartments we paid a great deal too

much--they were 350 francs. Finally everything was settled; my mother

sent her goods on by carrier, and arrived at the same time they did.

We were delighted to be together again once more; my mother, however,

was a trifle uneasy and unable to share and believe in all my hopes and

plans; for she could look back upon a long and sad life, wherein she

had experienced all kinds of disappointments and sorrows. I consoled

her to the best of my power, and, in order to make the first four or

five days of her life in Paris pleasant, I used all the influence I had

with M. Oudard, M. Arnault and Adolphe de Leuven to get her tickets for

the theatre. In a week's time we were settled in our little nest, and

as accustomed to our new life as though we had never known any other.

On the same landing with us, but on the opposite side, lodged a worthy

fellow of forty years of age, named Després, who was employed in a

ministerial department. He was one of the most regular attenders at the

Caveau; he composed songs after the style of Brazier and Armand Gouffé;

and he had had one or two pieces played at second-rate theatres. He was

dying of consumption. When, after the payment of two terms, we found

our lodgings were dearer than we could afford, he said to us--

"Wait until after my death, which will not be long now; then you can

take my rooms, which are very convenient, and only two hundred and

thirty francs."

And, as a matter of fact, he died six weeks after this--died in that

quiet, gentle, calm, philosophical mood that I have noticed in the case

of nearly all who were born in the eighteenth century. And, as he had

bidden us, we took his rooms when they were vacant, and found ourselves

accommodated according to our means.

In the meantime, political changes were taking place. M. de Villèle

(whom my friend Méry was to make so celebrated and who, in his turn,

also returned the compliment) was sharing political power with M. de

Chateaubriand; and for two years they presented the unusual spectacle

of an alliance between a financier and a poet. It is easy to believe

that such a connection was not likely to last long, and the two

ministers quarrelled over two proposed laws. M. de Chateaubriand

thought to cement the monarchy by the Act of septennial duration, M. de

Villèle thought to enrich the State by an Act concerning the conversion

of consols (_rentes_). The law concerning the conversion of consols was

rejected by the Chamber of Peers by a majority of 128 votes against

94. It was noticed that M. de Chateaubriand, who seemed opposed to the

Act, did not get up to defend it at the Tribune. It was even said that

he voted against it. Such opposition as this, directed against the

president of the Council, was punished with the callous bluntness of

feeling peculiar to men of money.

When M. de Chateaubriand went to mass on Whitsunday, he received

information that a very urgent despatch awaited him at the ministry. He

immediately went there, and found a letter from the president of the

Council in the following terms:--

"M. LE VICOMTE,--I am obeying the King's command in handing

you the enclosed mandate."

The mandate enclosed was a dismissal. Ten minutes later, M. de Villèle,

in his turn, had received M. de Chateaubriand's reply. The letter of

the Minister for Foreign Affairs was just as laconic as the letter

received from the Minister of Finance:--

"M. LE COMTE,--I have left the Foreign Office; the

department is at your disposal."

There were exactly fifteen words in each letter: it was the fault

of the words themselves, and not of M. de Chateaubriand, that the

answer[1] contained four letters more.

This dismissal was a very bitter pill for the author of _le Génie du

Christianisme_, and it was in connection with this event that he gave

utterance to the words which we believe we have already quoted:--

"I hadn't even stolen a watch from the king's mantelpiece!" he had said

on leaving the Foreign Office.

The order had been drawn up by M. de Renneville,--to whom we shall

refer in due course,--the secretary described by Méry and de Barthélemy

as being _sewed to M. de Villèle's coat-tails._

"M. de Renneville," says Chateaubriand in his _Mémoires_, "is still

so good as to appear embarrassed in my presence! And, good God, who

is this M. de Renneville, that I should ever think of him? I meet him

often enough, ... does he happen to know that I am aware that the order

striking my name off the list of ministers was in his handwriting?"

There were actually men, under the Empire, who were cowardly enough to

cut off their first fingers to prevent their being made soldiers. It is

a pity some men are not brave enough to cut off the whole hand before

they write certain things.

But at the time when M. de Chateaubriand was being ejected from the

ministry, Providence was signing an order, in terms I almost as

brusque, for Louis XVIII. to quit this life. The king was ill at the

time of the Feast of St. Louis, so ill that he was I advised not to

entertain on account of the fatigue it would I entail on him; but, with

his usual sententiousness, the king answered, "A King of France may

die, but he ought never to be ill."

As though Louis XVIII. wished to leave the path easy for his successor,

with regard to the rejection of the appeal of the public ministry in

the affair of the _Aristarque_, he revived the law of 31 March 1820

and 26 July 1821--that is to say, he re-established the Censorship.

It is an odd coincidence that, when this happens, kings are generally

either about to fall or to die. The re-establishment of the Censorship

produced a terrible commotion; to do justice to the literary men of

that time, none of them dare accept or publicly exercise the function

of Censor; a secret commission had to be organised and placed under the

presidency of the _conseiller d'État directeur general_ of the police.

M. de Chateaubriand then threw himself openly into the Opposition

against the measure, and published his _Lettres sur la Censure._ In

a few days, both the Liberal Oppositionist and the Royalist papers

offered nothing but blank columns to their subscribers.

Two days after Louis XVIII. had said that a King of France might

die but he ought never to be ill--that is to say, on 27 and 28

August, during his last two walks at Choisy, he perceived that he

must seriously face the question of death. But he continued to give

audiences, to preside in the Council and to direct the work of the

ministers with a courage one cannot help but admire, when one remembers

that he was suffering from mortification of the legs, the cellular

tissue, muscles and even bones of which were decayed; the right foot

entirely and the lower part of the leg as high as the calf had become

mortified, the bones of it were quite soft, and four toes had rotted

away. It was not until after a consultation of doctors held the night

of 12 September, that it was decided that the condition of the King of

France could no longer be concealed from his subjects. Up to that time

Louis XVIII. had been faithful to the principles enunciated by him, and

had refused to admit that he was ill. "You do not know what it means

to tell a people its king is ill. It means they must close the Stock

Exchange and places of amusement; my sufferings will be protracted, and

I do not want public interests to suffer for such a length of time."

On the morning of 13 September two bulletins appeared at the same time

in the _Moniteur_, signed by the doctors and by the First Gentleman of

the Chamber.

They announced the illness of the king, and made it very evident that

his disease was incurable. At the end of the second bulletin came the

command which Louis XVIII. had greatly dreaded, ordering the Bourse and

theatres to be closed. These were the first bulletins France had read

for half a century--that is to say, since the death of Louis XV.--and

they were to be the last they were to read.

_First Bulletin of the King's health_

"THE TUILERIES, 12 _September_, 6 _a.m._

"The King's chronic and long-seated infirmities have become

sensibly worse for some time past, his health has been very

considerably impaired and his condition necessitates more

frequent consultations.

"His Majesty's constitution and the care he has taken of

himself had caused hope to be felt for some time that he

might be restored to his usual state of health; but the

fact cannot now be disguised that his strength has declined

considerably and that the hopes entertained are less likely

to be realised.

_(Signed)_ PORTAL, ALIBERT, MONTAIGU, DISTEL, DUPUYTREU,

THÉVENOT First Gentleman of the King's Chamber

COMTE DE DAMAS"

_Second Bulletin_

"9 _p.m._

"The fever has increased during the day. The lower limbs

have become extremely cold: weakness and lethargy have also

increased, and the pulse has been very weak and irregular.

_(Signed)_ PORTAL, ALIBERT, MONTAIGU, DISTEL, DUPUYTREU,

THÉVENOT First Gentleman of the King's Chamber

COMTE DE DAMAS

"In consideration of the King's state of health, all theatres and

places of public amusement, as well as the Bourse, will be closed

until further orders, and public prayers will be offered in every

parish."

On the 16th, at four o'clock in the morning, Louis XVIII. breathed

his last breath. He had blessed the two royal children of France the

previous, evening. Then, turning to his brother, the Comte d'Artois,

who was about to change his title for that of Charles X., and pointing

to the Duc de Bordeaux, he said, "Brother, look well after the crown

for that child."

The dying king's fears for his nephew's future were almost prophetic.

He had rallied all his remaining strength to utter these last words.

His breathing soon became husky and his pulse intermittent, and a

crisis was reached during which the king sank into an alarmingly quiet

state. At two in the morning, the pulse hardly beat and his voice had

completely failed him, although he signified, with his eyes, that he

understood, and could still hear, the exhortations of his confessor.

Finally, at four o'clock in the morning, when the last sign of life

ceased and the body became still for ever, M. Alibert drew one of the

king's hands outside the bed-covering and said, "The king is dead." At

the words, the Comte d'Artois, who had not left his brother's side for

two days, knelt down by the side of the bed and kissed his hand. Madame

la Duchesse d'Angoulême and Mademoiselle followed his example; then

both flung themselves in the arms of the Comte d'Artois and remained

there for some time, weeping bitterly.

As the new king left the death-chamber to return to his apartments, a

herald-at-arms exclaimed three times--

"The king is dead, gentlemen! Long live the king!"

And from that moment Charles X. was King of France. On 23 September we

watched out of our windows the funeral procession of the last king that

was to be taken to Saint-Denis.

Chateaubriand wrote a poem, _le Roi est mort! vive le roi!_ about the

death of the king, and it was one of the poorest productions that ever

came from his pen.

The same occasion inspired Victor Hugo to publish his _les Funérailles

de Louis XVIII.,_ and it was one of his finest odes. I need not ask the

forbearance of my readers if I quote a few stanzas:--

"Un autre avait dit: 'De ma race

Ce grand tombeau sera le port;

Je veux, aux rois que je remplace,

Succéder jusque dans la mort.

Ma dépouille ici doit descendre!

C'est pour faire place à ma cendre

Qu'on dépeupla ces noirs caveaux;

Il faut un nouveau maître au monde;

A ce sépulcre que je fonde

Il faut des ossements nouveaux!

'Je promets ma poussière à ces voûtes funestes.

A cet insigne honneur ce temple a seul des droits;

Car je veux que le ver qui rongera mes restes

Ait déjà dévoré des rois.

Et, lorsque mes neveux, dans leur fortune altière,

Domineront l'Europe entière,

Du Kremlin à l'Escurial,

Ils viendront tour à tour dormir dans ces lieux sombres,

Afin que je sommeille, escorté de leurs ombres,

Dans mon linceul impérial!'

Celui qui disait ces paroles

Croyait, soldat audacieux,

Voir, en magnifiques symboles,

Sa destinée écrite aux cieux.

Dans ses étreintes foudroyantes,

Son aigle, aux serres flamboyantes,

Eût étouffé l'aigle romain;

La victoire était sa compagne,

Et le globe de Charlemagne

Était trop léger pour sa main!

Eh bien, des potentats ce formidable maître

Dans l'espoir de sa mort par le ciel fut trompé.

De ses ambitions, c'est la seule peut-être

Dont le but lui soit échappé.

En vain tout secondait sa marche meurtrière;

En vain sa gloire incendiaire

En tous lieux portait son flambeau;

Tout chargé de faisceaux, de sceptres, de couronnes,

Ce vaste ravisseur d'empires et de trônes

Ne put usurper un tombeau!

Tombé sous la main qui châtie,

L'Europe le fit prisonnier.

Premier roi de sa dynastie,

Il en fut aussi le dernier.

Une île où grondent les tempêtes

Reçut ce géant des conquêtes,

Tyran que nul n'osait juger,

Vieux guerrier qui, dans sa misère,

Dut l'obole de Bélisaire

A la pitié de l'étranger.

Loin du sacré tombeau qu'il s'arrangeait naguère,

C'est là que, dépouillé du royal appareil,

Il dort enveloppé de son manteau de guerre,

Sans compagnon de son sommeil.

Et, tandis qu'il n'a plus, de l'empire du monde,

Qu'un noir rocher battu de l'onde,

Qu'un vieux saule battu du vent,

Un roi longtemps banni, qui fit nos jours prospères,

Descend au lit de mort où reposaient ses pères,

Sous la garde du Dieu vivant!"

But the poet is too generous towards Napoleon in describing him as

"_ce vieux saule battu du vent_" (old weather-beaten willow tree), for

at that very moment the authorities in St. Helena having abolished

the toll that had at first been exacted from, and submitted to by,

visitors to Napoleon's tomb, M. Torbet, the owner of the ground in

which the emperor was interred, when he found that he could not gain

any more from the body, requested that it should be exhumed and removed

elsewhere. There was a long controversy about it, and M. Torbet

threatened that he himself would disinter the body of the man who had,

notwithstanding what the poet had written, usurped everything, even

his own grave, and that he would throw the remains out on the highway,

until at last the Government decided that the India Company should

purchase the land from Torbet for five hundred pounds sterling. It

was decided that in future, in consequence of this _douceur_ given to

M. Torbet, people should visit the tomb of Napoleon free of charge. We

have already mentioned M. Torbet's name three times: let us say it a

fourth, in order that it may not be forgotten.

If anything could make up for such a disgrace to humanity, for such

deeds as M. Torbet revelled in, it would be the reception accorded

forty years afterwards to la Fayette in America, when that nation sent

one of its finest ships, the _Cadmus_, to fetch him to America as the

nation's guest. It was indeed a fine sight to see a whole nation rising

up to do honour to one of the founders of its liberty.

Directly the two Chambers heard, on 12 January, that la Fayette was

contemplating the paying of a visit to the United States, they drew

up a resolution, upon the motion of Mr. Mitchell, to the following

effect:--

"Seeing that the illustrious champion of our liberty and

the hero of our Revolution, the friend and comrade of

Washington, Marquis de la Fayette, who was a volunteer

general officer during the War of our Independence, has

expressed a strong desire to pay a visit to our country,

to whose liberty his courage, his blood and his wealth

contributed in a very large degree,

"It is resolved, that the President be asked to convey to

the Marquis de la Fayette an expression of the feelings of

respect, gratitude and affectionate attachment that the

Government and the American people harbour towards him,

and to assure him that the fulfilment of his desire and

intention to visit their country will be received by both

people and Government with deep pleasure and patriotic pride.

"It is besides, resolved, that the President shall inform

himself as to the time that it would be most agreeable to

the Marquis de la Fayette to pay his visit, so that one

of the nation's vessels may be offered him as a means of

transport."

So, in accordance with this offer, la Fayette embarked at Havre, on

board the _Cadmus_, 13 July, and reached New York on 15 August, after

a voyage of thirty-two days. No national fête ever did honour to

a finer or a more saintly character. When he left North America it

had scarcely a population of three millions; now seventeen millions

welcomed him. Everything was changed: forests had become plains, plains

had become towns, and millions of steam-boats, the first of which had

been launched in 1808 by Fulton, after having been refused by France,

now plied up and down rivers as big as lakes, and on lakes as big as

oceans. Nor were the towns of the artificial kind that Potemkin built

along the Catherine Road which crosses the Crimea; modern civilisation

was striding across the Atlantic as though it were a stream, to plant

its foot for the first time in the New World.

After four months of fêtes given to and honours showered upon the

friend of Washington, a special committee brought in a Bill on 20

December as under:--

"That the sum of 200,000 dollars be offered to Major-General

la Fayette in recognition of his valuable services, and to

indemnify him for his expenses in the American Revolution;

also that a portion of land be set aside from the as yet

unappropriated lands, for the establishment of a township

for Major-General la Fayette, and that this Act be handed

him by the President of the United States."

This Bill was carried with enthusiasm by the Chamber of Representatives

on 22 December and by the Senate on the 23rd.

We must just mention before we take leave of the year 1824, that, on 2

December, M. Droz and M. de Lamartine were competitors for the Academy,

and that M. Droz was elected and M. de Lamartine rejected.

[Footnote 1: In the French original.--TRANS.]

CHAPTER VI

Tallancourt and Betz--The café _Hollandais_--My Quiroga cloak--First

challenge--A lesson in shooting--The eve of my duel--Analysis of my

sensations--My opponent fails to keep his appointment--The seconds hunt

him out--The duel--Tallancourt and the mad dog

On 3 January 1825, one of our friends, by name Tallancourt, having,

by Vatout's solicitations, been promoted from his office, to the

Duc d'Orléans' library, he treated me and another of our friends

called Betz to a dinner at the Palais-Royal. Both were old soldiers.

Tallancourt had fought at Waterloo. After the defeat, he felt in

his pockets and found that they were empty, he struck his stomach

and felt that it was hollow, therefore, catching sight of a small

dismounted cannon, and being endowed with herculean strength, he

lifted it upon his shoulder and sold it, two leagues away, to an

ironfounder, for ten francs. Thanks to these ten francs, he managed

to effect quite a comfortable retreat, and he returned to his native

country of Semur, where Vatout got him a berth first in the Duc

d'Orléans' offices and finally in the library. After dinner, these

gentlemen, who were inveterate smokers, as becomes old soldiers of

thirty-two and thirty-five years of age, proposed to adjourn to the

café _Hollandais_ to smoke a cigar. I did not wish to desert them, in

spite of my aversion to tobacco cafés, and for the first, and I hope

I may say for the last time in my life, I crossed the threshold of

that famous establishment which is decorated outside with the sign of

a ship. I possessed a large cloak, romantically called in those days

a Quiroga; I had coveted such a cloak as passionately as I had the

famous top-boots, and I had ended by obtaining it with just as much

difficulty. Apparently, my mode of dress annoyed one of the habitués

who at that moment was playing billiards; he exchanged some words with

his antagonist, accompanied by a glance in my direction, and a burst

of laughter followed. This was quite sufficient to infuriate me, so I

picked up a cue, and mixing up all the balls, I said--

"Who would like to play at billiards with me?"

"But," remonstrated Tallancourt, "the table belongs to those gentlemen."

"Well," said I, looking straight at the player I specially wished to

have dealings with, "we will turn these men out, and I will tackle this

gentleman"; and I advanced towards him.

The provocation was too gross and too pointed not to raise ire.

Betz and Tallancourt at once sprang to my assistance, for they knew

me too well not to be aware that I should not insult anyone in this

fashion without good occasion. The chief thing we cared about was that

it should not be noised abroad that we had taken part in a miserable

café quarrel, so my adversary and I exchanged cards and arranged a

meeting for the next day but one, at nine o'clock in the morning, by

the café which adjoins the threshold of the big lonely house which

stood for a long while in the middle of the place du Carrousel, called

the _hôtel de Nantes._ Of course, Tallancourt and Betz were my seconds,

although they were a little uneasy about their commission: first,

because I was very young, and it was my first duel; then, because I

had just come from the provinces and they did not know whether I knew

how to handle the firearms I was about to use. They had arranged with

the seconds of my adversary, M. Charles B---, our meeting for the

following day at four o'clock in the afternoon, in the garden of the

Palais-Royal, opposite the Rotonde, in order to give them more time to

coach me.

On leaving the café they asked me to tell them the cause of my quarrel,

which I hastened to do; then, as they were commissioned to deal with

the question of arms, they asked me which weapon I preferred. I replied

that the question of weapons was a matter of indifference to me, and

that as I had confided my interests into their hands, it was their

affair and not mine. My assurance somewhat eased their minds; but

Tallancourt nevertheless insisted I should have some practice, next

morning at nine, in Gosset's shooting gallery. I had not put foot in

a shooting gallery since I had come to Paris; but my familiarity with

M. de Leuven's _Kukenreiter_ cannot have been forgotten, nor my broken

slates, and the frogs I shot in two and the pieces of cardboard held in

the hand as targets at Ponce's. Tallancourt asked for a dozen bullets.

"Does the gentleman want to shoot _à la poupée_ or _à la mouche_?" the

lad asked me.

As I did not quite understand Parisian shooting habits and terms, I

turned to Tallancourt, who asked for a _poupée._ The boy placed a metal

doll on the spike--without doubt the biggest the establishment could

produce; for the boy (whose name was Philippe--one recalls the minutest

details connected with events of this sort) noticing my utter ignorance

of shooting-gallery methods, took me for a schoolboy. Tallancourt, too,

it was quite evident, shared the lad's opinion concerning me. I must

confess this unanimity piqued me.

"Tell me," I asked Tallancourt, "what that metal toy costs?"

"Four sous," he said.

"And how many bullets have you applied for?"

"A dozen."

"Well, then, as I am not rich enough to allow myself the luxury of

smashing a dozen dolls, I will make this one a present of eleven of the

bullets, and I will smash it with the twelfth."

"What do you mean?" asked Tallancourt.

"You shall see how we played this game at Villers-Cotterets, my dear

Tallancourt."

I went up to the target, I drew a circle round the doll, and I began

operations. Everything went off as I had anticipated. I did what I

had done a score of times with de Leuven and de la Ponce, but as

Tallancourt was witnessing my proceedings for the first time, he was

perfectly astounded at what took place.

"Well, it will be all right with pistols, I see, and I shall feel easy

enough if you get in the first shot," said he; "but suppose they choose

swords?"

"Well, if they choose swords, we must fight with swords, my friend,

that is all."

"Can you defend yourself with a sword?"

"I hope so."

"I ask this," added Tallancourt, "as I do not like pistols."

"I agree with you, they are fiendish weapons."

"I shall not accept unless I am compelled."

"You will be quite right."

"You agree with me, then?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, so much the better! Give the boy twenty-four sous and let us go

to breakfast."

Fortunately, it was but the fourth day of the month, so I could afford

the twenty-four sous. We breakfasted, and went to the office. Betz

was already there, and he took Tallancourt aside, no doubt to inquire

about my qualifications; but I had every ground for believing that

Tallancourt reassured him. At five o'clock, Betz and Tallancourt came

to tell me my adversary had chosen swords. The rendezvous was to be

the same, at nine next day, by the _hôtel de Nantes._ I returned home

with a smiling face, although my heart beat fast enough. In matters of

courage I had made the following observations with respect to myself. I

was of a sanguine temperament, and readily threw myself in the way of

danger; if the danger were imminent, and I could attack it instantly,

my courage never failed me, for I was kept up by excitement. If, on the

contrary, I had to wait some hours, my nerves gave way, and I relented

having exposed myself to danger. But, by degrees, after reflection,

moral courage overcame physical cowardice, and vigorously commanded it

to conduct itself properly. When arrived on the spot, I shivered to

the bottom of my back; but I never showed the slightest external signs

of my feelings. I fought a duel in 1834, and Bixio was my second: he

was a medical student at the time, and, feeling my pulse just after

I had taken up my pistol, it only indicated sixty-nine pulsations

to the minute, two beats faster than normal. The longer I wait, the

calmer I become. For that matter, I believe every man, especially if

endowed with sensitive organisations, naturally fears danger, and if

left to his own instincts, would do his best to escape it; he is kept

back simply and solely by moral strength and manly pride, and exposes

himself to death and suffering with a smiling face. As a proof of this

theory, I may mention that a man of this temperament, who is brave in

his waking hours, is a coward in his dreams; for in sleep the soul is

absent, and the animal part of him alone remains; and, in the absence

of his strength, his will-power and his pride, the physical part of him

is afraid.

Well, I returned home without saying a word of what had passed; but I

stayed in with my mother the whole night.

It was mid-winter, so I had not to go and make up the portfolio. I

rose at eight next morning, and making some sort of excuse to my

mother, I kissed her, and went out with my father's sword under my

cloak. Tallancourt had undertaken to provide a second sword. I reached

the _hôtel de Nantes_ at ten minutes to nine, and we found there my

adversary's two seconds. I had not had any breakfast, for Thibaut,

who accompanied us, had advised me not to eat, in case I might have

to be bled. We waited: half-past nine, ten, eleven struck. Betz and

Tallancourt were dreadfully impatient, for my adversary's delay was

making them late at their office. I must admit that, so far as I was

concerned, I was enchanted; I had been in hopes that the affair would

conclude with excuses, and I should have liked nothing better. At

eleven o'clock my adversary's godparents gave up waiting, in disgust,

and suggested to my seconds that they should all go and call upon

their godson, who lived, I believe, in the rue Coquillière. As for

me, they sent me back to the office, and, in case we were grumbled at

for our absence, I was to explain frankly to Oudard what had passed

and tell him the cause of our absence. But there was no need to

confess anything, as I found Oudard had been sent for by the Duchesse

d'Orléans. Betz and Tallancourt returned half an hour later: they had

found my adversary in bed! When they pointed out to him that he ought

to have been elsewhere than in his bed, M. Charles B--- replied that,

having been skating on the canal the whole of the previous day, at

seven that morning he felt so utterly fatigued he had not sufficient

strength to get up. His own two seconds considered this such a feeble

excuse that they told him he need not count on their services again,

if the quarrel were followed up. Upon which they withdrew. But Betz

and Tallancourt, who were much angrier than I was myself in my heart

of hearts, had remained, and they had insisted on M. Charles B---

informing them at what hour they might expect to see him take the field

the next day. He promised to meet us, with two fresh seconds, at the

Rochechouart barrier, the following day, at nine o'clock. The fight

could take place in one of the Montmartre quarries. Thus the matter

was only postponed. I thanked my two seconds very cordially, telling

them they had done quite right and that I would wait. The day passed by

quietly enough, and by becoming absorbed in my work and in conversation

I even managed to forget I was to fight on the morrow. Nevertheless, a

slight spasm would attack my heart from time to time, to be stifled in

a yawn.

I returned home early, as on the previous day, and stayed in with my

mother.

Next day was Twelfth Night, and someone had presented us with a

bean-cake. My mother was the queen. I kissed her and wished I might

be able to kiss her for thirty years longer at the same hour, day and

occasion. I knew only too well what I was doing when I wished such a

wish. I slept soundly for the first four or five hours of the night,

badly enough for the remaining two or three. I left my mother at

half-past eight, as on the previous morning, only I had no sword to

carry this time, Tallancourt had taken charge of both. At ten minutes

to nine we reached the barrier at Rochechouart; and, as nine struck,

a cab brought our man and his two fresh seconds. They got out, bowed,

silently crossed the outer boulevard and reached the ramparts of the

mount. One of the seconds of my adversary, who has since become a

friend of mine (in common with the majority of those who, not knowing

me, began by being my enemies), came up to me and, evidently taking me

for one of the witnesses, entered into conversation with me. We walked

for nearly half an hour before a suitable spot could be found. It was

very cold and had snowed all night; it was still snowing; so nearly all

the quarries were occupied.

As it is not a usual sight for six people to be walking across fields

at ten in the morning in such weather, the people in the quarries

became inquisitive about our tramp and followed us. We had already

quite a considerable following, and it was probable that the farther we

thus went the more it would increase; so it was imperative we should

stop at the first place that appeared, I will not say suitable, but

possible, for our purpose. I confess the walk would have seemed very

long had I not talked the whole way with my adversary's witness. At

last they settled upon a sort of plateau, ten paces wide by twenty

long, which was as much room as we needed. Here we stopped. Tallancourt

drew forth the swords from under his cloak and handed them to the

witnesses to be examined. The one he had brought was two inches longer

than the other; Tallancourt had not made a choice, he had taken the

first that came to his hand; so he proposed to draw lots as to which

should have the longest sword. I ended the debate by declaring that I

would take the shortest, which was my father's. I much preferred to

lose the two extra inches of steel, rather than to have my father's

sword turned against my breast. It was only at this juncture that my

opponent's second discovered that the man he had been talking with the

whole way was the other duellist. There was little time to spare by the

time the ground was chosen and the swords distributed; it was horribly

cold, and our audience was increasing every moment.

I flung off my coat and stood on guard. Then my opponent asked me to

take off my waistcoat and my shirt as well as my coat. The demand

seemed to me an exorbitant one; but, as he insisted, I stuck my

sword in the snow and I threw down my waistcoat and my shirt on top

of my coat. Then, as I did not want even to keep on my braces, and

as, like poor Géricault, I had lost the buckle from my trousers, I

tied the two straps into a knot to gird up my loins. These elaborate

preparations took a minute or two, during which my sword remained fixed

in the snow. Then I picked it up, and stood on guard in a pretty bad

temper. My opponent had delivered his commands with a great air of

self-confidence, and as he had also selected swords as our weapons,

I expected to find I had to deal with an experienced swordsman. So I

set to work cautiously. But to my great astonishment, I found he put

himself very carelessly on his guard and exposed himself to my sword.

Of course, his carelessness might be just a ruse to put me off my

guard, when he could take advantage of my imprudence. I took a step

backwards and lowered my sword.

"Ready, monsieur," I said; "defend yourself!"

"But what if I do not choose to put myself into a position of defence?"

replied my adversary.

"Well, that is your affair, ... but your taste is peculiar, I must say."

I fell back on guard, I attacked him _en quarte_, and without making a

pass with my sword in order to feel my way with my man, I thrust out

freely _en tierce._ He gave a leap backwards, stumbled over a vine-root

and fell head over heels.

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed Tallancourt, "have you really killed him at the

first blow?"

"No," I replied, "I think not; I had not even passed, I hardly touched

him."

In the meantime, my opponent's seconds had run up to M. B---, who was

getting up. The point of my sword had pierced his shoulder, and as its

position in the snow had frozen the steel, the sensation it had given

my opponent was so startling that, lightly though he was wounded, the

shock had overturned him. Luckily I had not passed first, or I should

certainly have run him right through. It turned out. that the poor lad

had never handled a sword before!

When he made this confession, and in consideration of the wound he had

received, it was decided the fight should stop there. I put up my sword

in its shield; I donned my shirt, waistcoat and coat; I wrapped myself

in my Quiroga, and I descended the ramparts of Montmartre with a much

lighter heart than I had ascended them.

Such was the cause, such were the sensations, such was the issue of

my first duel. What has become of the two men who were my seconds? I

have lost sight of Betz: he obtained a post as _receveur particulier_

in the provinces. A vague rumour has since reached me of his death.

As for Tallancourt, poor fellow! I saw him die most miserably,

unfortunate and unhappy. The Duc d'Orléans took a fancy to him; for he

was of the type of tools the prince loved--active but not too clever.

Moreover, Tallancourt possessed a further qualification: although he

was sufficiently intelligent, he knew when to appear stupid. When the

Duc d'Orléans became king, he sent for Tallancourt, for he could not

do without him. If his fortune were not exactly made--fortunes are not

often made through being associated with kings--his position was, at

any rate, secure. As Tallancourt had not left the Duc d'Orléans during

27, 28 and 29 July, he knew a fair number of state secrets concerning

the Revolution of 1830. When the king was at Neuilly, he would

purposely send Tallancourt to Paris, and the Hercules of a fellow, ill

at ease in his arm-chair, seated at his desk, in his office, would walk

the distance on foot, in order to breathe the open air and distend his

big lungs a bit.

One day, an enormous savage dog leapt out of the ditch by the side of

the high road and sprang at him. Tallancourt instinctively put up his

hands to save his face, and, by unheard of good luck, in so doing he

seized the beast round its neck. It was useless for the dog to struggle

against the powerful grip of two such fists as Tallancourt's, which

throttled the dog tighter and tighter, and in about five minutes'

time the brute was strangled and the giant had never even received a

scratch. But during these five minutes of struggle and mortal danger

Tallancourt's brain underwent a terrible strain, and five or six months

later, softening of the brain set in. For a year poor Tallancourt

grew visibly feebler, both morally and physically; his strength and

intellect, his power of motion, and even his voice declined, and he

died by inches, after eighteen months of suffering.

CHAPTER VII

The Duc d'Orléans is given the title of _Royal Highness_--The

coronation of Charles X.--Account of the ceremony by Madame la

Duchesse d'Orléans--Death of Ferdinand of Naples--De Laville de

Miremont--_Le Cid d'Andalousie_--M. Pierre Lebrun--A reading at

the camp at Compiègne--M. Taylor appointed a royal commissioner to

the Théâtre-Français--The curé Bergeron--M. Viennet--Two of his

letters--Pichat and his _Léonidas_

My mother never knew anything of the story of my duel; she would have

died of grief had she had the faintest suspicion of it. As we did

not return to the office until nearly one o'clock, we had to tell

Oudard everything; and he appeared quite content, after hearing Betz

and Tallancourt's account, with the way his employé had conducted

himself. Besides, the Palais-Royal had been in a constant state of fête

since the accession of His Majesty Charles X. to the throne. The duc

d'Orléans had just been granted the title of Royal Highness from the

new king--a favour he had begged in vain from Louis XVIII. As we have

already mentioned, Louis XVIII. persistently refused everybody who

asked him to grant M. le Duc d'Orléans this privilege.

"He will always be sufficiently close to the throne," he would reply.

And in other ways, Charles X. made himself most popular.

As a pendant to his phrase, "Nothing is changed in France, there is

simply one more Frenchman in it," he added another dictum, simpler

still, and quite as much appreciated--

"My friends, let there be wider criticism!"

And in the midst of the general merrymaking the preparations for his

coronation went on in sumptuous style.

The last few coronations had brought ill-fortune in their train. It

will be remembered that, at Reims, Louis XVI. had quickly removed the

crown from his head.

"What is the matter, sire?" asked the archbishop.

"That crown hurts me," replied Louis XVI. And, twenty years later, he

died upon the scaffold.

Napoleon wished to be crowned by a higher official than an archbishop;

he wished to have a pope, and had sent for Pius VII. to come from the

Vatican at Rome to Notre-Dame at Paris.

"Il fallut presqu'un Dieu pour consacrer cet homme!

Le prêtre, monarque de Rome,

Vint sacrer son front menaçant,

Car sans doute, en secret effrayé de lui-même,

Il voulut recevoir son sanglant diadème

Des mains d'où le pardon descend!"

Fifteen years later, Napoleon died at St. Helena! And now it was the

turn of Charles X.

Every sovereign in Christendom had been informed of the solemn

celebration, and sent their ambassadors extraordinary. Austria was

represented by Prince Esterhazy; Spain by the Duke of Villa-Hermosa;

Great Britain by the Duke of Northumberland; Prussia by General de

Zastrow; and Russia by Prince Volkonski.

The king and the dauphin left the Tuileries at half-past eleven on the

morning of 24 May, and set out for Compiègne. All went well as far

as Fismes; but an accident augured ill to the king, whose reign was

only to last six years, and to end in his exile. As they descended

at Fismes, the batteries of the Royal Guard, which were mounted in a

dingle to the left of the road, fired a salute to greet the king. The

detonation and its echo were terrible, and at the noise of the firing

the horses attached to the carriage containing the Ducs d'Aumont and

de Damas, and the Counts de Cossé and Curial, ran away; the carriage

was overturned and smashed to bits on the causeway. Two out of the four

occupants of the carriage were seriously injured--MM. the Duc de Damas

and Count Curial; the latter's case was worst, he had his collar-bone

broken. Had it not been for the coachman's strength and presence of

mind, the king himself would not have escaped a similar accident. His

horses bolted; but the coachman had the sense not to try to stop them,

and used all his efforts to keep them in the centre of the roadway; and

after ten minutes' unrestrained career they calmed down.

At the village of Tinqueux the king found the Duc d'Orléans and the Duc

de Bourbon awaiting him. The rain, which had never stopped pouring all

morning, ceased, and the sun, which had not hitherto shown itself, now

shone forth brilliantly. The king, M. le Dauphin, M. le Duc d'Orléans

and M. le Duc de Bourbon entered the coronation coach, and in the

language of the _Report of the Coronation_, "the whole of the way to

Reims was one _arc de triomphe_."

After the coronation service, Charles X. signed the amnesty granted to

men who had deserted from the navy and to political offenders. It was

this amnesty that brought Carrel back to France. Thirteen years later,

Charles X. died at Goritz.

Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans had been present at the coronation,

and wrote an account of it in her private diary in Italian. On her

return to Paris, she desired to have it translated into French, and

commissioned Oudard to do it. Oudard was much embarrassed, and handed

the album over to me, giving me a couple of days' holiday to translate

it for him. This album was the book in which the Duchesse d'Orléans

wrote her most secret thoughts and related her private deeds. I was not

forbidden to read it, so of course I read it. However, there was not

a single word throughout the book that could have put an angel to the

blush, though it contained the actions and reflections of the Duchesse

d'Orléans for the last ten years, though she never intended it to leave

her own hands, not even to pass into those of the Duc d'Orléans, since

it was for the Duc d'Orléans that the translation was being made.

One thing above all struck me as I read, and that was the profound

gratitude of Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans for the favours that the new

king, Charles X., had lavished on the prince her husband, and for the

kindness displayed every day towards her and her family by Madame la

Duchesse de Berry.

Alas and alas! how many times the remembrance of that album came into

my mind when I saw King Charles X. at Gratz, and Madame la Duchesse de

Berry at Blaye, and it made me shudder as I thought of how deeply the

religious-hearted Marie-Amélie must have suffered, when, because of

what princes term "political necessities," the honour of the one, and

the crown of the other, were broken in her husband's hands.

Another page also riveted my attention and kept me for a long time

enthralled, wherein Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans related how lovingly

and tactfully her husband broke to her the news of the death of her

father, Ferdinand I. Now, Ferdinand I. was the very king who had kept

my father a prisoner in the dungeons of Naples for eighteen months;

the very same man who had allowed people to try and poison him three

times, and once to attempt his assassination; he, the shepherd who had

devoured his own flock during those terrible years of 1798-99, had

just been called to render an account of his stewardship to the Lord.

It was a strange coincidence that I, the son of one of the king's

victims, should hold this album in my hands and read the sorrowful

outpourings of the daughter's grief at the death of her father! What a

strange juxtaposition of destiny and fortunes! However, he was dead,

even as just men have to die; he who had watched those whom he called

his friends hung before his very eyes, burnt beneath his very windows,

disembowelled and torn to pieces in his very presence; the people whom

a treacherous capitulation had yielded into his hands; those who, under

another reign, might have been the honour of their king and the glory

of the country!

On 3 January 1825 he was quietly sleeping, at two in the morning. His

attendants heard him cough several times; then, at eight o'clock, as

he had not summoned them to him according to his usual custom, the

officers of his chamber, followed by the Court doctors, entered his

room, and found him dead from a stroke of apoplexy. Ferdinand I. had

just reigned sixty-five years, when he died at the age of seventy-four.

Oudard got his translation, which he re-copied in his own writing,

and handed to the Duchesse d'Orléans as his own. True, he faithfully

retailed to me the compliments he had received for it, adding

that for which I was far more grateful--two tickets for the first

representation of _Roman_ at the Théâtre-Français; it was a capital

five-act comedy in verse, by de Laville de Miremont, already known

because of _Folliculaire_, a piece more commendable for its action than

for any other quality. I knew de Laville very well: an accusation by

Lemercier worried him greatly. Lemercier had accused de Laville, who

had occupied the post of Censor, of having suppressed his _Charles

VI._ and of having afterwards used his plot and ideas. But, in the

first place, de Laville plainly proved both by _Folliculaire_ and by

_Roman_ that he did not need to borrow ideas from other people's plays;

besides, he was utterly incapable of doing such an action. There was a

charming creation in _Roman_: a father who was friendly to and almost

a companion in the escapades of a son born to him when he was only

twenty. Nothing could have been more natural than this situation, which

de Laville was the first to employ in a play.

Owing to the kindness of Talma, I had several times seen the _Cid

d'Andalousie._ Casimir Delavigne's example was infectious: Talma

having taken part in comedy, Mademoiselle Mars asked why she might not

play in tragedy; hence the new reunion of the two actors in the _Cid

d'Andalousie_. But M. Pierre Lebrun, author of an _Ulysse_ which had

not been played, or what is far worse, which had only run one or two

nights, was not Casimir Delavigne. There was nothing at the time to

support him as there had been in 1820 when, in _Maria Stuart_, he had

had the sturdy framework of Schiller to fall back upon. Reduced to

drawing from Spanish romanceros, which only suggested simple scenes,

he was lacking in everything--power, originality and style, and in

spite of the unusual support of both Talma and Mademoiselle Mars, who

had doubled the power of a strong creator and who could not conceal the

weakness of a feeble writer, the _Cid d'Andalousie_ fell flat at the

first representation, managed to survive the second, upheld by hired

applause, dragged on miserably for five or six nights, and then finally

was taken out of the bill. This failure was the beginning of the

fortune of M. Pierre Lebrun--Academician, peer of France and Manager of

the Royal Printing-house.

O thou venerable deity, Mediocrity! Surely thou hast the secret of

the precious essence given to Phaon by Venus to assure successfulness

in this world of ours! Thou who for long rejected Hugo, Lamartine

and Charles Nodier! Thou who left Soulié and Balzac to die without

doing for them a third of what thou didst for M. Pierre Lebrun! Thou

who ignored Alfred de Musset,--wisely, for all light of originality,

all nervous strength, makes thy owl's eyes to blink! Thou whose

leaden-based statue ought to be a hundred feet high, so that its

shadow should fall on the Pont des Arts and the respectable monument

to which it leads! O Mediocrity! sole divinity for whom France has not

a 21 January, a 29 July or a 24 February! Thou whom I despise above

everything else in the world, and would fain hate if I could ever hate

anything! Look ever askance on me and be benign to my enemies, that is

the sole favour I ask thee. And, on this condition, may thou remain in

undisturbed possession of the future, as thou hast been of the past!

Now let us note well that the failure of the _Cid d'Andalousie_ took

place in 1825. One might therefore reasonably have hoped that by 1838,

thirteen years later, the unlucky _Cid_ would have been forgotten by

everybody, even by its author. Nothing of the kind. At Compiègne, in

his country house, the Duc d'Orléans entertained his comrades with

sport in the forest by day, and at night he opened his drawing-rooms to

those who preferred card-playing, dancing and conversation. One evening

a fatal idea came into the unfortunate prince's head. Turning towards

several poets who stood round, he said to them--

"Gentlemen, let us see which of you has some poetry to read to us."

Everybody kept silence, as will be readily understood, and moved a step

or two backwards; except M. Pierre Lebrun, who stepped forward.

"I will, monseigneur," he said; and he sat down and drew a manuscript

out of his pocket--think of it! a whole manuscript!--and, in the midst

of the general silence, he read the title--

"Gentlemen, the _Cid d'Andalousie._"

They all stared at him; but there was no way out of it, they were

trapped, and M. le Duc d'Orléans most of all. Upon my word, it was a

great success. When the reading was over and compliments had been paid,

the Duc d'Orléans said to me--

"Dumas, can you tell me what was the reason of the noise I heard by the

side of the window, which interrupted M. Lebrun, towards the beginning

of the third act?"

"Monseigneur," I replied, "it was A--, who squatted behind the

curtains, where he could sleep more comfortably; but it would seem he

had a nightmare: he gave a cuff to a small stand, and has smashed a

table full of Sèvres china, for which he is excessively sorry."

"He need not be unhappy about it," said the Duc d'Orléans; "tell him he

did quite right, and I will bear the cost of the china."

The poor duke was as wise a prince as Solomon, and as good as St. Louis!

In other respects, too, the Théâtre-Français was not very fortunate

at this time. After playing the _Cid d'Andalousie_ of M. Lebrun, it

put on M. de Comberousse's _Judith_ and _Bélisaire_, by M. de Jouy.

An important change had taken place at the theatre in the rue de

Richelieu. Baron Taylor had been appointed royal commissioner in place

of M. Choron, upon the recommendation of MM. Lemercier, Viennet and

Alexandre Duval.

When Charles X. returned to Paris after the coronation, and the Bishop

of Orléans issued orders for prayers to be offered up in thanksgiving

for the safe accomplishment of the ceremony just concluded, M.

Bergeron, curé of the commune of Saint-Sulpice, canton of Blois, after

delivering from his reading-desk the bishop's mandate, added these

simple words:--

"My dearly beloved brethren, as Charles X. is not a Christian, as he

desires to keep the Charter, which is an Act contrary to religion, we

ought not to pray for him, any more than for Louis XVIII., who was the

founder of that Charter; they are both damned. Those who agree with me,

please rise."

And three hundred listeners out of four hundred rose, and by that act

declared that they were entirely of the same opinion as their priest.

Alas! If the Academy could have known what kind of man Baron Taylor

was, whom the order of Charles X. had introduced into the sanctuary of

the Comédie-Française! If it could only have guessed that he was to

open its doors to MM. Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo and de Vigny,[1] it

would have followed the curé Bergeron's example and excommunicated King

Charles x. But it knew nothing at all about it.

The first bad turn the new commissioner of the king did to his patrons

was to have M. Viennet's _Sigismond de Bourgogne_ played, and M.

Lemercier's _Camille._ I need hardly mention that both these plays

fell flat. This did not discourage M. Lemercier: he decided to change

his style of play, and began a melodrama called the _Masque de poix._

This elated M. Viennet, who, instead of changing his method, like his

honoured confrère, made up his mind, on the contrary, to force his

method into acceptance, and began by reading his _Achille_ in the

salons, a play which had been written twenty years before, and which

had been accepted ten years ago.

"Do you not think my Achille is very heroic?" he said to M. Arnault,

after one of these readings.

"Yes," replied M. Arnault, "as fierce as a turkey-cock!"

But very few men could be more brilliant at repartee than M. Viennet.

It was like watching a tilting bout in the lists to hear him, save that

he never retorted when his adversary missed fire. He certainly offered

a favourable target for such attacks, and people were not slow to avail

themselves of their opportunities. Once, at Nodier's house, he went up

to Michaud.

"Tell me, Michaud," he began, in a manner that was peculiarly his

own,--"tell me what you think, I have just finished a poem of thirty

thousand lines."

"It will need fifteen thousand men to read them," replied Michaud.

On another occasion, at a dinner party, M. Viennet made an attack upon

Lamartine.

"He is a puppy," he said, "who thinks himself the greatest politician

of his age, and who is not even the first poet!"

"At all events," Madame Sophie Gay retorted from the other end of the

table, "he is not the last--that place is already occupied."

Besides everything M. Viennet wrote in verse--fables, comedies,

tragedies, epistles and epic poems--he wrote a couple of letters

in prose which are perfect models. We will quote them in toto and

verbatim; extracts would not give a proper idea of their style. One

was in reference to the nomination of Hugo as an officer of the Légion

d'honneur; the other was in connection with his own nomination to the

peerage. For M. Viennet was both a deputy and a peer of France, besides

also being a Commander of the Légion d'honneur and a member of the

Academy.

Here is M. Viennet's first letter:--

"MONSIEUR,--Je n'ai pas dit que je ne voulais plus porter

la croix d'officier de la Légion d'honneur, depuis qu'on

l'avait donnée au chef de l'école romantique.

"En ôtant mon ruban de la boutonnière où l'empereur l'avait

placé, j'ai suivi seulement l'exemple de la plupart des

généraux de la vieille armée, qui trouvaient plus facile

de se faire remarquer en paraissant dans les rues sans

décoration. Il ne s'agissait ici ni de romantiques ni de

classiques.

"Il est tout naturel qu'un ministre romantique décore ses

amis; il serait cependant plus juste de donner la croix de

chevalier à ceux qui auraient eu le courage de lire jusqu'au

bout les vers ou la prose de ces messieurs, et la croix

d'officier à ceux qui les auraient compris. Je désire, en

outre, qu'on n'en donne que douze par an aux écrivains qui

font des libelles contre les grands pouvoirs de l'État, les

ministres et les députés: il faut de la mesure dans les

encouragements.--Agréez, etc., VIENNET"

And this is M. Viennet's letter about his nomination to the peerage of

France:--

"MONSIEUR,--Sur la foi d'un journal judiciaire que je ne

connais pas, vous publiez, que, des vendredi dernier, je me

suis empressé d'écrire à M. Vedel, pour mettre opposition

à la représentation des _Serments_, et vous accompagnez

cette annonce d'une fort jolie épigramme contre cette

comédie. L'épigramme me touche fort peu, elle sort peut-être

de la même plume qui avait loué l'ouvrage quand l'auteur

avait cessé d'être un homme politique. Je ne prétends pas

l'empêcher de continuer, mais le fait n'est pas vrai et je

me récrie. Il n'y a eu de ma part ni possibilité ni volonté

de faire ce qu'on m'impute. Je suis parti vendredi de la

campagne, et je suis arrivé chez moi, à Paris, vers les

sept heures, sans me douter de ce que _le Moniteur_ avait

publié, le matin, d'honorable pour moi. C'est mon portier

qui m'a salué du titre de pair, attendu qu'il avait expédié,

le matin même, pour mon village, une lettre officielle qui

portait ce titre, et comme cette lettre ne m'est pas encore

revenue, j'ignore à quel ministre je suis redevable de ce

premier avis. Quant à ma volonté, elle n'existe point,

elle n'existera jamais! c'est m'insulter que de me croire

capable d'abjurer les travaux et les honneurs littéraires,

pour un honneur politique. La Charte n'a pas établi

d'incompatibilité entre le poète dramatique et le pair de

France; si elle l'eût fait, j'aurais refusé la pairie. Les

lettres et les succès de théâtre honorent ceux qui cultivent

les unes et qui obtiennent les autres sans intrigue et sans

bassesse. Au lieu d'y renoncer, je sollicite, au contraire,

avec plus d'instance la représentation des _Serments_, la

mise en scène d'une de mes tragédies et la lecture d'une

comédie en cinq actes. Si vous avez quelque crédit auprès de

M. le directeur du Théâtre-Français, veuillez l'employer en

ma faveur. Les épigrammes dont on m'a poursuivi comme député

sont bien usées; vous devez désirer qu'on en renouvelle la

matière, et une nouvelle comédie, une nouvelle tragédie

de moi, seraient de merveilleux aliments pour la verve

satirique de mes adversaires. Rendons-nous mutuellement

ce service; je vous en serai très-reconnaissant pour mon

compte, et je vous prie d'agréer d'avance les remercîments

de votre très-humble serviteur, VIENNET"

We will now return to Baron Taylor and the changes he brought about

at the Théâtre-Français. At the Panorama-Dramatique he had produced

_Ismaël et Maryam_ alone; _Bertram_ in collaboration with Nodier; and

_Ali-Pacha_ with Pichat's assistance.

Pichat was a young man of twenty-eight at that time: a play of his,

_Léonidas_, had been received two or three years before at the

Théâtre-Français. Taylor extracted _Léonidas_ from the pandemonium

he found himself in, and had it put in rehearsal. Talma was cast for

the rôle of Léonidas:--not that his supreme intellect was mistaken

about the part, which, dramatically speaking, was nothing at all; but

in the matter of "business" it contained something fresh to do, and

poor Talma, to the day of his death, was ever seeking new worlds,

and, less fortunate than Vasco de Gama, he never succeeded in finding

them. Besides, it was a very appropriate moment for the playing of

_Léonidas_; all Europe was looking towards the successors of the three

hundred Spartans. And the new piece, so it was announced in advance,

was to be staged with unusual sumptuousness and unheard-of effects.

I well remember the first performance of the tragedy of _Léonidas_,

wherein one felt the dawn of new ideas, wherein every historic saying

which immortalised the famous defence of the Thermopælians was

felicitously adapted, and admirably rendered by Talma. One hemistich

of the young Agis was Substituted for the written line. Agis wounded,

fell, exclaiming--

"Ils sont tous morts ... Je meurs!..."

The play met with a most enthusiastic reception, on account of the

circumstances under which it was played. It was a splendid success for

Talma: he looked like an antique statue descended from its column.

After the performance, when the curtain had fallen, I saw a noisy group

of rejoicing people rush along the corridor and the foyer, anxious to

convey their friendly congratulation. A fine-looking young man, with

a face as radiant as a conquering Apollo, formed the centre and was

the hero of the group. He was the author of _Léonidas._ Alas! he died

only two years later--died before he had hardly lifted the intoxicating

cup of success to his lips. But Taylor had at least the happiness

of holding out to him the nectar which sweetened his last moments.

Without Taylor, Pichat would have died in obscurity, and even though

he were but an ephemeral meteor, many people, myself among the number,

recollect the brilliant light he gave during his short career!

[Footnote 1: It will, of course, be understood that I place my own name

and those of my honoured confrères according to the chronological order

of the representations of _Henri III_, _Marion Delorme_ and _Othello._]

CHAPTER VIII

Death of General Foy--His funeral--The _Royal Highness_--Assassination

of Paul-Louis Courier--Death of the Emperor Alexander--Comparison of

England and Russia--The reason why these two powers have increased

during the last century--How Napoleon meant to conquer India

Since we have just uttered the word _death_ let us consecrate this

chapter entirely to the pale daughter of Erebus and Night.

On 26 June, Princess Pauline Borghèse died at Florence, and, with her,

one of the most striking memories of my early youth passed into the

regions of eternity.

Then, on 28 November, I learnt news which was a more personally

disastrous shock to me. As I was coming out of the office, I saw people

talking together and heard them say, "You have heard that General Foy

is dead!"

They were inclined to doubt the information! But there is a kind of

news about which one is never in doubt; for who, if it were false, dare

spread the news which the brazen lips of Destiny alone has the right

to announce? Yes, General Foy had died directly after returning from

a journey among the Pyrenees, where he had been to take the waters;

he died of an aneurism, and news of his death came before the news of

his illness. They had concealed the fact of the disease, in hope that

it might not prove fatal; but for a week past it had made terrible

strides; attacks of suffocation, beginning at intervals of fifteen

minutes, succeeded one another more rapidly, and sickness occurred

constantly. The general's two nephews were with him, never leaving his

bedside for a moment, lavishing every possible care on him, and as

they were both men, he did not attempt to hide from them his serious

condition.

"I can feel," he said, "some destroying power at work within me; I am

fighting against it, but it is too strong for me, and will conquer my

efforts."

When the final hour approached, he felt the need of more air, although

it was November, and he longed for the comforting rays of the pale

winter sunshine. His nephews placed him on a couch in front of the

window, but he could not manage to sit up for more than a moment.

"My lads," he said to his nephews, "my dear lads, carry me back to my

bed, and with God be the final issue."

He had scarcely spoken the words before God freed his pure and loyal

spirit from the body in which it was confined. I went home to my mother

utterly miserable. Obscure as I was, I felt that the great man who had

just passed away had a right to have expected some return from the

unknown youth whose career in life he had really started. So I wrote

the piece of poetry of which I have already quoted a stanza. They were

not my first lines,--God pardon me the others,--but they were the

first in which, however old and defective the form, appeared something

that resembled an idea. Of some two hundred and fifty to three hundred

lines, only that one stanza, happily, has remained in my memory. I had

this ode printed--at my own expense, of course. It cost my poor mother

two or three hundred francs; still, neither of us regretted it. All

the poems that were written on this occasion were collected under the

title _Couronne poétique du General Foy_, and they made a volume in

themselves.

The most remarkable verses in the whole volume were by a beautiful

young girl of seventeen or eighteen, called Delphine Gay, who had just

become known by a volume of _Essais poétiques._ This is the elegy which

the death of General Foy inspired her to write; it was quoted in all

the newspapers of the day and was immensely popular:--

"Pleurez, Français, pleurez! la patrie est en deuil;

Pleurez le défenseur que la mort vous enlève;

Et vous, nobles guerriers, sur son muet cercueil

Disputez-vous l'honneur de déposer son glaive!

Vous ne l'entendrez plus, l'orateur redouté

Dont l'injure jamais ne souilla l'éloquence;

Celui qui, de nos rois respectant la puissance,

En fidèle sujet parla de liberté:

Le ciel, lui décernant la sainte récompense,

A commencé trop tôt son immortalité!

Son bras libérateur dans la tombe est esclave;

Son front pur s'est glacé sous le laurier vainqueur,

Et le signe sacré, cette étoile du brave,

Ne sent plus palpiter son cœur.

Hier, quand de ses jours la source fut tarie,

La France, en le voyant sur sa couche étendu,

Implorait un accent de cette voix chérie ...

Hélas! au cri plaintif jeté par la patrie

C'est la première fois qu'il n'a pas répondu!"

General Foy's funeral took place on 30 November. The body was carried

from his house to the church of Notre-Dame de Lorette; and thirty

thousand persons followed it, in spite of a pouring rain which fell

unceasingly from noon until four o'clock in the afternoon, and hundreds

of thousands of spectators lined the roadway. The livery of the Duc

d'Orléans could be distinguished among the mourning carriages which

formed the procession. The day after the funeral the following song,

directed against the prince who had just given a public expression of

his appreciation of the talent and character of the noble general and

illustrious patriot, could be heard in every street of Paris:--

AIR_--Tous les bourgeois de Châtres_

"Bon Dieu! quelle cohue!

Quel attroupement noir!

Il tient toute la rue

Aussi loin qu'on peut voir.

Est-ce pompe funèbre ou pompe triomphale?

Est-il mort quelque gros richard?

Car j'aperçois là-bas le char

D'une Altesse Royale.

Est-ce un songe civique?

Est-ce un de ses héros

Qu'ainsi la république

Mène au champ du repos?

Un déluge nouveau fond sur la capitale;

On ferait rentrer un canard!

Dehors pourquoi voit-on le char

D'une Altesse Royale?

Appuyé sur sa canne,

Un vieil et bon bourgeois

Me regarde, ricane,

Et me dit à mi-voix:

Un carbonaro mort cause tout ce scandale;

Tout frère a son billet de part;

C'est pourquoi nous voyons le char

D'une Altesse Royale.

'Le défunt qu'on révère,

C'est Foy l'homme de bien,

C'est Foy l'homme de guerre,

C'est Foy le citoyen.

Jamais à sa vertu, vertu ne fut égale!

Moi, je n'en crois rien pour ma part;

Mais, ici, j'aime à voir le char

D'une Altesse Royale.

'Ce Foy, d'après nature,

Ce député fameux,

Fut un soldat parjure,

Un Français factieux.

Aux vertus de Berton, la sienne fut égale;

Ce n'est pas l'effet du hasard,

Si nous voyons ici le char

D'une Altesse Royale.

'Sortis de leurs repaires,

Au tricolor signal,

Les amis et les frères

Suivent leur général.

De la France c'est là l'élite libérale;

Qu'ils sont bien près du corbillard!

Qu'ils sont bien tous autour du char

D'une Altesse Royale!

'Philippe de ton père

Ne te souvient-il pas?

Dans la même carrière

Tu marches sur ses pas.

Tu crois mener, tu suis la horde libérale;

Elle rit sous ce corbillard,

En voyant derrière son char

Ton Altesse Royale.'"

Although this petty insult was anonymous, the quarter whence it came

was guessed, especially as a hundred thousand copies were printed and

distributed gratis. Only Government-endowed poets could produce such

doggerel; only works that cannot be sold are printed by the hundred

thousand. Let us drop this wretched side of the affair. There was a

great and noble and magnificent side to it when it was noised abroad

that General Foy had died without being able to bequeath his wife

anything save his renowned name: a subscription was started which, in

three months' time, produced a million [francs].

In the course of one year a Government and a people had each shown

that rare article, a fine sense of gratitude: the American Government

had voted a million to la Fayette, and the French people had raised a

million for the widow and children of General Foy.

Towards the beginning of the year, the death had taken place of a man

who had contributed as much to the emancipation of France by his pen,

as General Foy had by his speeches. About ten o'clock on the morning

of 11 April, Paul-Louis Courier de Méré was found, assassinated within

three-quarters of a league of his country residence, in the wood of

Larçay. He had been killed by a gun or pistol shot, which had entered

his right thigh low down; the weapon had been loaded with three small

balls, one of which remained in the body, and the other two had gone

through and out again. The wad was found by the side of the shot inside

the body, showing that the victim had been killed at close quarters;

his clothes, too, were singed round the wounded part. Three people were

arrested, Symphorien and Pierre Dubois, carters, who both pleaded, and

proved, an alibi and were discharged; and Louis Frémont, whom the jury

acquitted. So Paul-Louis Courier, the famous savant, the precursor of

M. de Cormenin, a pre-eminently intellectual man, was murdered without

his assassinator being found out. The Liberal party lost in Courier one

of their hardiest champions; he did for the pamphlet what Béranger did

for the chanson.

But the death that produced the profoundest and most stirring sensation

was that of the Emperor Alexander, which was to influence not only

the affairs of France, but the fate of the whole world. When I was a

little child, I narrowly escaped being run over at Villers-Cotterets by

a small _kibitz_, driven by a coachman who was bending over the three

horses he was urging forward at a great pace, by the use of a short

whip. This coachman wore a leather cap and a green uniform, he had a

budding beard, gold rings in his ears, and his face was spotted with

freckles. He was driving two officers dressed almost alike, wearing a

star, two or three crosses and two enormous epaulettes. One of these

two officers was a species of Kalmouk, hideous in countenance, rough

in manner, noisy of voice; he swore in French at the top of his voice,

and seemed to be particularly well acquainted with our language, so

far as its coarse slang expressions were concerned. The other was a

handsome man of thirty-three or thirty-four, who looked as gentle and

as polished, as his companion seemed vulgar and ill-bred. His hair was

golden blond, and although he looked strong and healthy, a sad sweet

smile played about his lips whenever he corrected his foul-mouthed

companion.

He was the Emperor Alexander: according to Napoleon, the most beautiful

and the most treacherous of Greeks. His companion was the Grand-Duke

Constantine, and their driver was the Grand-Duke Michel. A strange trio

it was, an almost grotesque vision, that passed before my eyes and

impressed itself so vividly on my memory that I can see it pass before

me to-day, thirty-seven years after--the low carriage drawn by its

three horses, the driver and his two companions. Well, the possessor

of the gentle and melancholy face, who lived longest in my memory of

those three men, was the first to die. Napoleon had done his utmost

at Erfürt to make not merely an ally of this man, but a brother. They

had called each other Charlemagne and Constantine, and Napoleon had

offered Alexander the Empire of the East on condition he would leave

him in peaceful possession of the Empire of the West. For the emperor

had been impressed with one dominant idea during his reign--he had

comprehended that our natural ally against our natural enemy England,

was Russia. And of a truth, I beg my readers to ponder the question

well, instead of accepting hackneyed political traditions that have

been handed on ready-made: alliances between nations become firm on

account of _difference of interests_ and not because of _similarity of

principles._ Now, of what consequence was it that England proclaimed

similar principles to those of France, if she had the same interests

throughout the world? What matters it that Russia has different

principles so long as her interests are different from ours? Look back

over a century, and see how England has increased in power; and you

will find that she has robbed us, her neighbouring country and ally,

of all she could lay her hands on. Look back over a century of Russian

growth and you will see that she has not touched anything belonging

to us. Reckon up the colonies of the one and consider the limits of

the other. England, who a century ago possessed only five factories

in India--Bombay, Singapore, Madras, Calcutta and Chandernagor; who

possessed only Newfoundland, in North America, and that strip of

coast-line which extends like a fringe from Arcadia to Florida; who

possessed only the Lucaya Isles among the Bahamas, the Barbadoes

among the Lesser Antilles and Jamaica in the Gulf of Mexico; whose

only station in the equinoctial portion of the Atlantic Ocean was St.

Helena, of unhappy memory; to-day, like a gigantic sea-spider, has

stretched out her web over the five parts of the globe. In Europe she

possesses Ireland, Malta, Heligoland and Gibraltar;--in Asia, the town

of Aden, which commands the Red Sea, as Gibraltar the Mediterranean;

Ceylon, that great peninsula of India, Nepal, Lahore, the Sind,

Baluchistan and Kabul; the Singapore Isles, Poulo-Penang and Sumatra;

that is to say, a total of 122,333 square leagues of territory,

supporting 723,000,000 of men. Without counting, in Africa, Bathurst,

the Isles of Léon, Sierra-Leone, a portion of the coast of Guinea,

Fernando-Po, Ascension Isle, and St. Helena, which has already been

mentioned; Cape Colony, Natal, Mauritius, Rodriguez, the Seychelles,

Socotra; in America, Canada, the whole of the northern continent from

the Bank of Newfoundland to the mouth of the Mackenzie River; nearly

the whole of the Antilles; Trinidad, part of Guiana, Falkland Isles,

Belize, Tuathan and the Bermudas; in the Pacific, half of Australia,

Van-Diemen's Land, New Zealand, Norfolk Island, Hawaii, and the general

protectorate of the Polynesian Isles. She foresaw everything and is

ready for everything. Perhaps one day the isthmus of Panama will be cut

through; if so, she has Belize ready on the spot. Perhaps the isthmus

of Suez will also be opened up; if so, she has Aden as sentry on guard.

The passage from the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean will belong to

her, and the passage from the Gulf of Mexico to the immense Pacific

Ocean. In her Admiralty safes she will hold the keys of India and of

the Pacific, as she already does those of the Mediterranean. But this

is not all. Through her title of protectress of the Ionian Isles, she

holds the entrance to and exit from the Adriatic and the Ægean Seas;

she has placed her foot on the territory of the ancient Epirotes and

the modern Albanians. When Ireland refuses to lend her her peasantry

and Scotland her Highlanders, when the slave-markets of men kept by

German princes shall be closed to her, she will draw her recruits from

warlike tribes, she will have her Arnautes, like the Viceroy of Egypt,

or like the Pacha of Acre and of Tripoli. She will have a squadron at

Corfu which will be able to reach the Dardanelles in a few days; she

will have at Cephalonia an army which will be able to reach the summit

of the Balkans in a week. Then, when she has destroyed our influence at

Constantinople, she will do her utmost to supersede Russian influence

in Greece, and she will only need a few warships to destroy the whole

of Austria's commercial seaboard. That is what England has been doing;

and you can see with what powerful allies she has increased her

strength--Canada, India, the Antilles and Mauritius;--you can see how

she has complete control of the Mediterranean, which Napoleon called a

_French lake_ and which was to have no other masters than ourselves;

you can see how England has snatched from us piecemeal our protectorate

over the Holy Land, Egypt and Tunis, envying us our possession of

Algiers, which we bought with blood and treasure and which she managed

to cheat us of twenty years ago.

Now let us pass on to Russia, and see what a foreign country it is

compared with our own. A hundred years ago, Russia extended from Kiev

to the island of St. Lawrence, from the great Ural Mountains to the

Gulf of Yenisei, and possibly those are in the right who think that

it was with a view to setting a bound to her extension that Behring

discovered the Straits which bear his name.

Russia was not to be kept back and has not stopped there--she has

broken her ancient limit of Kiev. The Scandinavian serpent which

enfolded two-thirds of the globe has expanded: it has opened its

jaws to devour Prussia;--in the West, its jaws touch the Vistula on

the one side, and on the other the Gulf of Bothnia. In the East, in

one of its worm-like expansions, it has leapt across the Behring

Straits and has come to a full stop only upon meeting the domains of

England. Divided from the other extremity of the world, at the foot

of Mt. Saint-Elias and the Blackburn Mountains, as though a barrier

mounted up behind it, it bears sway to-day over the whole of that

indented coast-line which, by way of an ultimate limit to the surface

of the globe, fringes the Arctic Ocean from the Piasina river to

the Bear Isles; from Lake Piasina to Holy Cape. Thus, in a century,

Russia has acquired Finland, Abo, Viborg, Esthonia, Livonia, Riga,

Reval and a part of Lapland from Sweden;--Kurland and Samogitia from

Germany;--Lithuania, Volhynia, a part of Galicia, Mohileff, Vitebsk,

Polotsk, Minsk, Bialystok, Kamenetz, Tarnopol, Vilna, Grodno, Warsaw,

from Poland;--part of Little Tartary, the Crimea, Bessarabia, the

coast of the Black Sea, the protectorate of Servia, of Moldavia and

of Wallachia, from Turkey;--Georgia, Tiflis, Erivan and a part of

Circassia from Persia;--the Aleutian Isles and the north-west part of

the northern continent from the St. Lawrence archipelago, from America.

From the other side of the Black Sea, she watches Turkey, whom she is

ever ready to invade, as soon as France and England permit her. Then

if, as seems probable, she some day annexes Sweden, she can close the

Straits of Sund on the west and the Dardanelles on the east, and no one

can then enter without her leave the Black Sea or the Baltic, those two

great mirrors in which are reflected already the towers of Odessa and

of St. Petersburg. Her greatest length extends 3800 leagues, and her

greatest width is 1400 leagues. In all that extent of territory she has

not one inch of land once ours. She has 70,000,000 inhabitants and not

one single soul ever belonged to us.

On 24 June 1807, Lariboissière, general of artillery, had a raft

constructed on the Niemen and placed a pavilion upon it. On the 25th,

at one in the afternoon, the Emperor Napoleon, with the Grand-Duke

de Berg, Murat, Marshals Berthier and Bessières, General Duroc, and

Caulaincourt the grand equerry, crossed from the left bank of the river

to visit this pavilion, prepared for him. The Emperor Alexander set out

at the same time from the right bank, accompanied by the Grand-Duke

Constantine, Benigsen, General-in-chief Prince Labanof, General Ouvarov

and Count de Liéven, general aide-de-camp. The two boats both reached

the raft at the same time, and thus two emperors stepped on the

floating island, confronted one another, clasped hands with each other

and embraced.

This meeting was the prelude to the peace of Tilsit: and the peace of

Tilsit was meant to destroy England. First of all, by the Berlin decree

concerning the Continental blockade, England had been placed in the

dock before a European tribunal. In the North Seas, Russia, Denmark and

Holland, and in the Mediterranean, France and Spain, had closed their

ports to her, and had solemnly engaged to hold no commerce with her.

There were therefore only Portugal on the Atlantic Ocean and Sweden on

the Baltic open to her.

By a treaty dated 27 October 1807, Napoleon decided that the House

of Braganza had ceased to reign, and on 27 September 1808, Alexander

determined to go to war against Gustavus IV. But this was not all. Upon

that raft, and in that pavilion, on the Niemen, a much more terrible

scheme was arranged.

"It is through India that England must be struck down," Bonaparte had

said when he was inducing the Directory to begin the Egyptian campaign.

And, from Alexandria, he had despatched a messenger to Tippoo-Sahib,

to encourage him to take up arms. But the messenger did not get beyond

Aden: the throne of Mysore had fallen and Tippoo-Sahib was dead. From

that moment, the conquest of India, which had been one of Bonaparte's

dreams, became the rooted purpose of Napoleon.

Why had he made his peace with Alexander? Why had he embraced him on

the Niemen? Why had he addressed him as Constantine? Why had he offered

him the Empire of the East? In order to gain him as a sure ally, so

that, supported on the alliance, he could conquer India. What was

to hinder Napoleon from doing what Alexander had done, two thousand

two hundred years before his time? It would be ridiculously easy, as

you will perceive! Thirty-five thousand Russians could embark on the

Volga, descend the river as far as Astrakan, sail down the Caspian Sea

and land at Astrabad. Thirty-five thousand French could descend the

Danube to the Black Sea; there, they could embark, and at the extreme

end of the Sea of Azov land on the banks of the Don; they could ascend

the river for nearly a hundred leagues, cross the twelve or fourteen

leagues that separated the two rivers, the Don and the Volga, at the

point of their nearest approach, then sail down the latter river as far

as Astrakan, and at Astrakan embark to join the Russians at Astrabad.

Seventy thousand men would meet in the heart of Persia before England

was aware of their movements. At Astrabad, they would be exactly a

hundred and fifty leagues off the kingdom of Kabul, and it would only

take them twelve days to reach India; a dozen days would be sufficient

to reach Herat from Astrabad by way of the fertile valley of Herio Rud.

From Herat to Kandahar there were a hundred leagues of splendid road;

from Kandahar to Ghizni fifty leagues; from Ghizni to Attock, sixty;

and the two armies would be on the Indus, a river with a flow of about

a league an hour, with any number of fords, never more than ten to

fifteen feet deep, between Attock and Dera-Ismail-Khan. Moreover,

it was the route followed by all previous Indian invaders, from the

year 1000 to 1729--from Mahmoud de Ghizni to Nadir-Shah. Mahmoud de

Ghizni alone had invaded India seven times between the years 1000

and 1021. In his sixth expedition, in three months he had penetrated

from his capital at Ghizni, to Chanaud, a town situated a hundred

miles south-west of Delhi; in the seventh, he penetrated as far as

the centre of Gujarat and razed the temple of Somnath. Then, in 1184,

came Mahomet Gouri, who marched upon Delhi by the same route, _viâ_

Attock and Lahore, seized the town and substituted his dynasty for

that of Mahmoud de Ghizni. Then, in 1396, came Timur the lame, known

commonly as Tamerlane. He set forth from Samarcand, crossed the river

Amou, leaving Balkh on his right, descended Kabul by the defile of

Andesab, followed the river banks until he reached Attock, where he

crossed it and invaded the Punjaub, seizing Delhi, which he put to

fire and sword, and, the next year, after fourteen months' campaign,

returned to Tartary. Then came Baber in 1505, who again crossed the

Indus, established himself at Lahore, and from Lahore attacked Delhi,

which he took, founding the Mongolian dynasty there. Finally, in 1739,

Nadir-Shah descended from Persia upon Kabul, and, following the same

route to Lahore, took possession of Delhi, which he pillaged for three

days. It would probably be at Delhi that the two combined armies of

Russia and France would meet the Anglo-Indian forces. When Napoleon

and Alexander had demolished that army, they would march next upon

Bombay, rather than on Calcutta, which is only a commercial centre; the

destruction of Bombay would be far more damaging to England than that

of Calcutta, since it is through Bombay that England communicates with

the Red Sea and Europe. If Bombay were taken, the head of the serpent

would be crushed; there would only be Madras left, with its poor

fortification, and Calcutta with its fortress, which, without being

able to support them, would need fifteen thousand men to defend it.

England's power in India would be annihilated, and Russia would succeed

her: Alexander would take as his share, Turkey in Europe, Turkey in

Asia, Persia and India; while we should take Holland, Italy, Spain,

Portugal, the whole of the African seaboard from Tunis to Cairo, the

Red Sea with its Christian colonies and Syria as far as the Persian

Gulf.

I need hardly add that Malta, the Ionian Isles and Greece, to the

Dardanelles, would also be yielded up to us. And then the Mediterranean

would be truly a _French lake_, by means of which we should share the

commerce of India with our sister Russia.

Had Alexander but kept his promise, instead of betraying his ally, this

dream would have become a reality.

So it will be seen that there was another reason for the war with

Russia, besides the refusal of the hand of Princess Olga, which

everyone persists in thinking the sole cause. Alexander conquered, he

would be compelled by force to do what he had refused to do out of

goodwill. But God saw otherwise.

CHAPTER IX

The Emperor Alexander--Letter from Czar Nicolas to Karamsine--History

after the style of Suetonius and Saint-Simon--Catherine and

Potemkin--Madame Braniska--The cost of the imperial cab-drive--A ball

at M. de Caulaincourt's--The man with the pipe--The emperor's boatman

and coachman

We will now devote a few words to the emperor who had failed Napoleon

in his lofty mission of sharing the world, and to the Grand-Duke

Constantine, whom the whole of Europe, in ignorance of the family

secret we are about to relate, looked upon as his successor.

Russian history is less known than that of other countries, not because

it is not worth being known, but because no one dare write it. One

man only, Karamsine, received that mission, but he died before he had

accomplished his task, on 3 June 1826, in the palace of the Taurida,

where the emperor had lodged him.

Three weeks before his death, the Emperor Nicolas, who had been six

months on the throne, wrote him the following letter, which might very

well serve as an example to certain heads of Governments, who flatter

themselves that their ideas are more liberal than, say they, are those

of the Czar of All the Russias:--

"CZARKOSJELO, 25 _May_ 1826

"NICOLAI-MIKAÏLOVITCH,--As your failing health makes it

necessary for you to leave your native country for a time to

seek a warmer climate, it gives me much pleasure to express

to you, on this occasion, the earnest hope that you will

soon return among us with renewed strength, still to serve

the interests and the honour of your country as you have

hitherto done. I have much pleasure in bearing witness,

on behalf of the late Emperor, who was aware of your noble

and disinterested devotion to his person, on my own behalf

and in the name of all Russia, to our grateful recognition

of your services both as citizen and author. The Emperor

Alexander said to you, 'The Russian people deserves to know

its history'; and the history you have written is worthy of

the Russian people.

"I now fulfil the intention which my brother had not time

to carry out. The accompanying paper will assure you of

my goodwill; it is but an act of justice, so far as I am

concerned, but I also regard it in the light of a sacred

legacy deputed me by the Emperor Alexander.

"I trust your travels will be beneficial to you, and give

you ample strength to finish the principal work of your

life."

This letter might have been signed by François I., Louis XIV. or

Napoleon, but it was simply signed "Nicolas." With it was a ukase,

informing the Minister of Finance that His Imperial Majesty had granted

a pension of five thousand roubles to M. de Karamsine, to be continued

to his wife and to his children; the sons were to enjoy the pension

until they were old enough to enter the army, the daughters till they

married.

Karamsine died before he could finish his history; but, had it been

finished, it would only have informed us of the general facts and great

events connected with the Russian Empire, and it would not have given

us any details of the kind we are about to relate.

There are two ways of writing history: one, after the fashion of

Tacitus, the other after that of Suetonius; one like Voltaire, the

other like Saint-Simon. Tacitus is magnificent, but we find Suetonius

more amusing. Voltaire is limpidly clear, but Saint-Simon is a far more

picturesque writer.

We will now write a few pages of Russian history as Suetonius wrote

Roman history and as Saint-Simon wrote French history. The reader, of

course, knows Catherine II. by name?--she whom Voltaire called the

Semiramis of the North; who gave pensions to our literary men when

Louis XV. proscribed them or left them to die of hunger even when he

had not proscribed them.

Catherine II. was thirty-three years of age; she was beautiful,

benevolent and pious; up to that age she had been considered faithful

to her husband, Peter III., when, all at once, she learnt that

the emperor intended to repudiate her, in order to marry Countess

Vorontsov, and as an excuse for this repudiation he proposed to declare

that the birth of Paul-Petrovitch had been illegitimate. She quickly

perceived that it was a matter of life and death for her, and of the

throne for her son; there was a game to be played, and he who was

first in the field would win. The tidings were announced to her at

ten one night. By eleven, she had left the castle of Peterhof, where

she lived, and, as she did not wish her departure to be known by

ordering her carriage to be made ready, she stopped a peasant's cart

and mounted beside him, the carter imagining he was merely taking up

a country woman. She reached St. Petersburg just as day was beginning

to dawn. Directly she arrived, she ordered out the regiments in the

garrison there without revealing for what object, got together the

few friends upon whom she believed she could rely, and went on parade

with them before the assembled soldiers. She rode on horseback up and

down the lines, addressed the officers, invoking their chivalry as

men of honour and appealing to their loyalty as soldiers; then she

seized hold of a sword, drew it from its scabbard, flung the scabbard

far from her, and, fearing lest the sword might drop out of her

unaccustomed hands, asked for a sword-knot to tie it to her wrist. A

young officer of twenty-eight heard his sovereign's request through

the din of the shouts of enthusiasm raised by the regiments, broke

through the ranks, ran up to her side offering her his sword-knot;

then, when Catherine had accepted his offer with the gracious smile of

a woman bent on reigning as empress, a queen in quest of a throne, the

young officer turned aside to fall back in his place; but his horse,

which was one day to share in his master's good fortune, refused to

turn aside; it reared and danced about, and, being used to cavalry

manœuvres, persisted in ranging itself by the side of the empress's

horse. Catherine, who was as superstitious as all are who stake their

fortunes upon the cast of a die, fancied she augured from the horse's

persistency that its rider would become one of her most powerful

defenders; and she promoted him. A week later, after Peter III., who

had been made prisoner by the very person whom he thought to make

captive, had resigned into Catherine's hands the crown which he had

intended to snatch from her, the empress sent for the young officer

from the _place du Sénat_, made him one of her suite and appointed him

groom of the chamber in her palace. This young man's name was Potemkin.

From that day, without hindering in the least the reign of the twelve

Cæsars, as the new régime was dubbed, Potemkin became the favourite of

the empress, and her partiality for him continued to increase.

Many, hoping to replace him, sought to undermine his position and

ruined themselves. A young Servian, called Lovitz, himself a protégé

of Potemkin, imagined he had succeeded. He had been placed near

the empress by his patron, and resolved to take advantage of his

protector's absence to ruin him. How did he bring it about? That

must remain one of the secrets of the closet which the walls of the

palace of the Hermitage has not revealed to us. It is only known

that Potemkin was sent for to the palace; that, upon entering his

apartments, he was told he was utterly disgraced, that he was exiled,

and he was threatened with death if he did not obey. He went at once,

travel-stained as he was after his journey, to the empress's rooms. A

young orderly officer tried to bar his entrance, but Potemkin took him

round the hips, lifted him up, flung him across the chamber, entered

the empress's room and, in ten minutes' time, came out with a paper in

his hand.

"Here, monsieur," he said to the young officer, who was still

considerably knocked about by the treatment he had just received, "this

is the brevet of a captaincy that Her Majesty has been graciously

pleased to sign for you."

That same day, Lovitz was exiled to the town of Schaklov, which was

made into a principality for him.

From time to time Potemkin dreamt of the duchy of Courland and the

throne of Poland; but, upon further reflection, he saw that he did

not want either, for whether the crown were ducal or regal, he knew

he could not be more powerful nor more fortunate than he was in his

present position. Did not there pass through his hands every hour, to

play with as a cowboy plays with pebbles, more diamonds, rubies and

emeralds than any one crown could contain? Had he not couriers at his

beck and call to fetch him sturgeon from the Volga, water melons from

Astrakan, grapes from the Crimea, and most beautiful flowers from

whatever quarter they could be found? Did he not give his sovereign

every New Year's Day a plate of cherries that cost him ten thousand

roubles?

The Prince de Ligne (grandfather of the prince of that name, with whom

we are acquainted), author of the charming memoirs which bear his name,

and of the most intellectually refined letters that have probably ever

been penned, knew Potemkin, and said of him--

"That man was a compound of colossal, romantic and barbaric ideas."

The Prince de Ligne was right. For thirty years, not a single action,

good or bad, was done in Russia save through his instrumentality: angel

or demon, he created or destroyed as the caprice took him; he set

everything at sixes and sevens, but he inspired life into everything;

nothing went on without him; when he reappeared everything else

disappeared and, before his presence, vanished into Limbo.

One day he conceived the notion of building a palace for Catherine;

she had just conquered Taurida, and this palace was to be a monument

in memory of that conquest. In three months' time, the palace was

raised in Catherine's capital, without Catherine knowing anything about

it; then, one evening, Potemkin invited the empress to a night-fête

which he desired to give in her honour, he said, in the palace that

extended along the left bank of the Neva; and there, amidst fine trees,

brilliantly lighted up, and shining with marble, she found the fairy

palace that seemed to have sprung up at one wave of a wand, filled with

statues, magnificently furnished, its lakes abounding in gold and

silver and azure fishes.

Everything connected with this man was mysterious, his death as well as

his life, his unexpected end just as his undreamt of beginning. He had

passed a year in St. Petersburg in fêtes and orgies of all kinds, had

succeeded in advancing Russia's boundaries as far as the Caucasus, and

was thinking that, this new frontier line now made, he had done enough

for his and Catherine's glory. Suddenly, he learnt that old Repnin

had taken advantage of his absence to defeat the Turks, and, forcing

them to demand peace, had accomplished more in two months than he had

in three years. So there was then no more rest for the favourite, but

more glory ahead for the general. He was ill, but that did not matter!

He would wrestle with his disease and slay it. He set out, crossed

Jassy and reached Otchakoff, where he halted for a night's rest; next

day, at dawn, he resumed his journey; but, after traversing several

versts, the atmosphere inside his carriage stifled him, and he had it

stopped: his cloak was spread on the bank of a ditch, and he lay down

on it, panting for breath; he died in his niece's arms before a quarter

of an hour had elapsed! I knew his niece; I have heard her relate the

details of her uncle's death as though it had only just happened. She

was seventy when I knew her. Her name was Madame Braniska, and she

lived at Odessa. She was very wealthy, being worth between sixty and a

hundred millions, possibly. She possessed some of the finest sapphires,

pearls, rubies and diamonds in the world. How had she begun such a

collection of precious gems? She would relate--for she dearly loved

talking about anything that concerned her uncle--that Potemkin, as we

have said, liked nothing better than playing with precious stones which

he poured in cascades from hand to hand; those which, escaping from

the main stream of the cataract, dropped to the ground, fell to the

spoilt child, who made a collection of them. Often, when he composed

himself to rest, on an ottoman, a divan or a couch, Potemkin would push

his arms under the cushion, and then, when he fell asleep, his hands

would relax and a handful of pearls dropped out, which he would forget

to pick up when he awoke. His niece knew this, and, either during his

sleep or after he awoke, she used to raise the cushion and carry off

the treasures. What did it matter to Potemkin? His pockets were full

of other precious stones! And, when his pockets were empty, had he not

casks full, like the sovereigns of Samarcand, Bagdad and of Bassora,

mentioned in the _Thousand and One Nights_?

This Madame Braniska was a singular character, with her sixty to a

hundred millions. She often had fits of avarice, interspersed with

bursts of generosity--very unusual traits to find combined in one

person. For instance, she would send her son, who lived either at

Moscow or St. Petersburg, 500,000 francs for a New Year's gift, and add

a postscript to the letter in closing it, saying--

"I have a dreadful cold; send me some jujubes, but wait till you see a

convenient opportunity; the carriage from Moscow and Odessa is ruinous!"

Catherine nearly died when she heard of Potemkin's death; those two

great hearts and lives seemed to beat in perfect unison. She fainted

away three times on receipt of the fatal news, mourned him for long and

ever regretted him.

Paul-Petrovitch, for whom she had saved the crown when she took it away

from Peter III., became the father of that rich posterity of which I

had seen a specimen in the kibitz driven by the Grand Duke Michael,

besides the emperor reigning to-day.

At that period no one for a moment thought he would ever reign.

Ranging over her fine and numerous company of descendants, the eyes of

Catherine were most constantly fixed on the two eldest, and by their

very names--one was called Alexander and the other Constantine--she

seemed to have divided the world in advance between them. This idea

had, indeed, been so firmly rooted in her mind, that she had them

painted, while they were both infants, one cutting the Gordian knot,

the other carrying the Roman standard. She carried the idea even

farther, and had them educated in conformity with the same two great

ideas. Constantine, whom she destined for the Empire of the East, had

only Greek nurses and tutors, whilst Alexander, destined to rule the

Western Empire, was surrounded by English, Germans and French. Nothing

could have been more diametrically different than the methods employed

in the education of the august pupils. Whilst Alexander, aged twelve,

said to Graft, his professor in experimental physics, who was telling

him that light was a continual emanation from the sun, "That cannot be

true, or the sun would grow smaller every day," Constantine said to his

special tutor, Saken, who was endeavouring to get him to learn to read,

"No, I do not want to learn to read; you are everlastingly reading, and

it only makes you more and more stupid."

We shall see later how mistaken the empress's forecasts were with

regard to Constantine; but first we will devote a little attention to

the Emperor Alexander.

He was much beloved both by the people and the nobles; loved on account

of his own character, and perhaps even more so because of the fear

with which Constantine was regarded. There are hosts of anecdotes told

in his praise, doing honour to his kindliness, his courage and his

ability. Once, when he was walking on foot, as was his custom, seeing

threatenings of rain, he hailed a drovsky to take him to the imperial

palace; on arrival, the emperor searched in his pockets and saw he had

no money.

"Wait," he said to the driver; "I will have your fare sent out to you."

"Oh yes, I know that tale," growled the man.

"What are you saying?" demanded the emperor.

"I am saying that I can't rely on your promises."

"Why not?" asked Alexander.

"Oh, I know what I am talking about," said the driver.

"Well, let me hear all about it."

"I say that there are too many persons whom I take up to houses with

double doors, who go inside without paying me their fares, too many

debtors whom I never see again."

"What! even at the emperor's palace?"

"Oh, there are more there than anywhere else; you don't know what short

memories great nobles have."

"But you should complain, and denounce the thieves, and have them taken

up," said Alexander.

"I have a nobleman taken up! Your excellency surely knows that we

poor devils have no power to do anything of the kind. If it were one

of ourselves, it would be another matter and easy enough," added the

driver, pointing to his long beard, "for they know how to get hold of

us; but all you great nobles have your chins too smoothly shaven for

that.... Good-night, there is nothing more to be said, unless your

excellency will please search your pockets once more, in case there is

a trifle with which to pay me."

"No," said the emperor, "it would be useless ... but I have an idea."

"What is it?"

"You see this cloak--it is worth more than your fare, is it not?"

"Certainly! And if you excellency wishes to give it me without

expecting the change ...?"

"No! keep it as a pledge and do not give it up till I send someone for

it with your fare."

"All right, well and good; you are something like a reasonable

gentleman, you are," replied the driver.

Five minutes later, the driver received a note for a hundred roubles,

in exchange for the pledged cloak. The emperor had paid off the debts

of those who came to see him as well as his own; but the driver made

out he was still out of pocket.

During the time in which Napoleon and Alexander were on friendly terms,

when he inclined towards him and smiled at the line,

"L'amitié d'un grand homme est un bienfait des dieux!"

the Emperor Alexander was one night at a ball, given by M. de

Caulaincourt, the French Ambassador, and at midnight the host was

informed that the house was on fire. The remembrance of the terrible

accidents that had happened in a fire at the Prince of Schwartzenberg's

ball was still in everybody's mind, so Caulaincourt's first fear when

he received news of the fire was that there would be a panic and the

same disastrous results would happen at his house. He therefore decided

to make sure first himself how serious the danger was, so he placed

an aide-de-camp at every door with directions that no one should be

allowed to go out, and he made his way up to the emperor.

"Sire, the house is on fire," he said in a whisper. "I am going myself

to see how things are; it is important that no one should be told of

the danger until we can ascertain the amount and nature of the peril.

My aides-de-camp have received orders to prevent any person from going

out, except your Majesty and their Imperial Highnesses the Grand-Dukes

and Grand-Duchesses. If your Majesty therefore desires to withdraw,

the way is clear.... But I may, perhaps, be permitted to suggest that

no one will be so ready to take fright at the fire if they see your

Majesty among them."

"Very good," said the emperor; "go, I will stay here."

M. de Caulaincourt went out and discovered that, as he had anticipated,

the danger was not so grave as he had at first been given to

understand. He went back to the ballroom, and found the emperor dancing

a polonaise. They exchanged significant glances, and the emperor danced

to the finish. When the dance was at an end, he asked Caulaincourt how

matters stood.

"It is all right, sire," the ambassador replied; "the fire has been

extinguished." And that was all.

It was not until the next day that the guests who had attended that

magnificent fête learnt that, for a quarter of an hour, they had, as M.

de Salvandy expressed it, been "dancing upon a volcano."

We have mentioned that the Emperor Alexander liked walking alone about

the streets of St. Petersburg; he also indulged in the same habit when

he travelled about. He was once journeying through Little Russia, when

he reached a large village, and whilst the grooms were changing horses

he jumped out of his carriage and told the postillions that he meant to

walk on on foot for a while, therefore they need not hurry after him.

Then, alone, clad simply in a military cloak, and divested of all his

insignia, he began his walk. When he got to the end of the village, he

found there were two roads and did not know which he ought to take, so

he went up to a man who was dressed in a military cloak very similar to

his own. The man was sitting smoking a pipe at his front door.

"My friend," inquired the emperor, "which of those two roads ought I to

take to get to---?"

At this question, the man with the pipe eyed the interrogator from

head to foot and, astounded that such an ordinary looking traveller

should dare to speak with that familiarity to a man of his importance

(especially in Russia, where differences in rank place a great gulf

between superiors and inferiors), he went on puffing at his pipe, and

snapped out--

"The road to the right."

The emperor understood, and respected the reason for his haughty

indignation.

"Forgive me, monsieur," he said, touching his cap, as he went up to the

man with the pipe, "may I ask one more question ...?"

"What is it?"

"May I ask your rank in the army?"

"Guess it."

"Well ... perhaps Monsieur is a lieutenant?"

"Higher."

"A captain?"

"Higher still."

"Major?"

"Go on."

"Commandant of a battalion?"

"Yes, and I didn't gain it save by hard work!..."

The emperor bowed.

"And now," said the man with the pipe, persuaded that he was talking to

an inferior, "who are you, my good man?"

"Guess," replied the emperor, in his turn.

"Lieutenant?"

"Higher."

"Captain?"

"Higher still."

"Major?"

"Go on."

"Commandant of a battalion?"

"Try again."

The questioner drew his pipe out of his mouth.

"Colonel?"

"You haven't got it yet."

The man stood up and assumed a more respectful attitude.

"Your excellency is a lieutenant-general, perhaps?"

"You are getting nearer."

"Then your Highness must be a field-marshal?"

"Have one more guess, Commandant."

"His Imperial Majesty!" exclaimed the stupefied questioner, letting his

pipe fall and breaking it in pieces.

"Exactly so," Alexander replied, with a smile.

"Ah! sire," cried the officer, clasping his hands together, "I entreat

your forgiveness!"

"Oh! what the deuce is there to forgive?" said Alexander. "I asked you

to tell me the way and you told me. Thank you."

And the emperor, waving his hand to the poor stupefied commandant, took

the road on his right and was soon caught up by his carriage.

On another occasion also, when he was travelling (for the life of

Alexander the son of Paul was spent like that of Alexander the son

of Philip, in perpetual journeyings), while crossing a lake in the

department of Archangel, the emperor was overtaken by a violent gale.

Alexander was of a melancholy temperament, and the melancholy grew upon

him, so he would oftener than not travel quite alone. He was thus alone

in a boat with only the boatman, and the waves of the lake, lashed by

the tempest, rose high and threatened to swamp them.

"My friend," said the emperor to the boatman, who was fast losing his

nerve under the weight of the responsibility that rested on him, "about

eighteen hundred years ago Cæsar was placed in just such a position as

we are, and he said with pride to his boatman, 'Do not be afraid, you

are carrying Cæsar and his good luck!' I am not Cæsar; I believe more

in God and have less faith in my luck than the conqueror of Pompey, but

just listen to me: forget that I am the emperor, look upon me simply as

a man like yourself, and try to save both of us."

At these words, which the Russian boatman no doubt understood much

better than the pilot Opportunus understood Cæsar's injunctions, the

brave fellow renewed his struggle, and by strenuous efforts managed to

land the boat safely on the shore.

Unluckily, Alexander was not so fortunate in his coachman as he

was with his boatman. When he was once travelling in the provinces

bordering the Don, he was violently thrown out of his drovsky and his

leg was injured. Being a slave to that discipline which he enforced

on others, and which he made more efficacious by his own example, he

insisted on continuing his journey in spite of his injuries, in order

to arrive at his destination on the promised day. But fatigue and want

of prompt attention caused blood-poisoning from the wound. Erysipelas

set in in the leg, recurred again and again, confining the emperor

to bed for weeks, and leaving him lame for months. He had a violent

attack of the same complaint during the winter of 1824. He was living

at Czarkosjelo, his favourite retreat, to which he became more and more

attached, as it enabled him to give way to the deep melancholy which

preyed upon his spirits. He had been out walking until late, forgetting

the cold, so absorbed was he in his melancholy reflections, and when he

reached home he was frozen; he ordered his meal to be sent up to his

room, and that same night he was attacked by erysipelas, accompanied by

a higher temperature than in any of his previous illnesses. The fever

was so sharp that he became delirious in a few hours. They took the

emperor in a closed sledge to St. Petersburg, and as soon as they got

him there, they put him in the hands of the cleverest physicians. All

these, except his own special surgeon, Dr. Wylie, were unanimously of

opinion that his leg must be amputated. But Wylie took upon himself the

sole responsibility of attending to the august patient, and once more

managed to save his life. The emperor returned to Czarkosjelo almost

before he had recovered from his illness; for all his other residences

had become distasteful to him. There he was alone with the phantom of

his solitary grandeur--a phantom that necessarily terrified him. He

only gave audience at special hours to those ministers who did his

business for him; his life was more like a Trappist mourning over his

sins than that of a great emperor with countless lives in his care.

Alexander rose at six in winter and at five in summer, dressed

himself, went into his study, where he would find a fine cambric

handkerchief folded and laid at the left of his desk, and a packet of

ten freshly-cut quill pens at the right side of it. There the emperor

would set himself to work, never using the same pen twice over if he

were interrupted in his labours, though his pens were only used to

sign his name; then, when he had finished his morning's budget and

signed everything, he would go out into the park, where, no matter what

rumours of conspiracy were abroad (and for two years I there had been

no lack of these), he would always walk unattended, with no other guard

than the palace sentinels.

About five o'clock he would return to the palace, dine alone, and

retire to bed in his private rooms to the melancholy strains of music

selected by himself, lulled to sleep in the same sad frame of mind in

which he had passed his waking hours.

The empress accepted this physical and mental separation with a

philosophy that was characteristic of her. Her gentle influence could

be felt surrounding the emperor, without ever being perceived, and she

seemed to watch over her beloved husband like an angel from heaven.

The winter and spring of 1824 passed in this manner; but, when summer

came, the physicians unanimously declared that a voyage was necessary

for the restoration of the emperor's health, advising the Crimea as

the best climate to hasten his convalescence. And, as though he had

a prevision that he was reaching the end of his life, Alexander made

no plans for the coming year. He consented with profound indifference

to everything that was decided for him. The empress was more alarmed

by this condition of morbid acquiescence, than if he had been in a

constant state of irritability; she begged and obtained leave to

accompany him; and, after a public service soliciting a blessing on his

journey, attended by the whole of the imperial family, Alexander left

St. Petersburg, driven by his faithful coachman Ivan, and followed by

his surgeon Wylie, and by several orderly officers under the command of

General Diebitch.

He left on 13 September at four in the morning, and the empress started

on the 15th. Only his dead body was destined to return to the capital

four months later.

CHAPTER X

Alexander leaves St. Petersburg--His presentiments of his death--The

two stars seen at Taganrog--The emperor's illness--His last

moments--How they learnt of his death in St. Petersburg--The Grand-Duke

Constantine--His character and tastes--Why he renounced his right to

the imperial throne--Jeannette Groudzenska

The departure of the emperor naturally meant an increase of work

before he left, so that he was not able to write and bid his mother,

the dowager-empress, adieu until four o'clock on the afternoon of 12

September. At four o'clock it suddenly became very dark, a great cloud

overshadowing the light. The emperor called his valet.

"Fœdor," he said, "bring me lights."

The valet brought four candles; but it grew light again before the

emperor had done writing, and the valet immediately entered to put them

out.

"Sire," he asked, "shall I take away the lights?"

"Why so?" asked the emperor.

"Because we look on it as an ill omen to write by artificial light when

it is daylight."

"What conclusion do you draw from that?"

"I, sire?... I do not infer anything from it."

"But I do. I understand. You think that people passing by, seeing the

light inside, will imagine there has been a death in in the house."

"Exactly so, sire."

"Ah, well, take away the candles."

The emperor did not seem to take any notice of his valet's

observations, but the incident remained in his mind.

As we have already noted, he left the city of St. Petersburg at four

in the morning of 13 September, just as the sun began to rise.

He stopped his carriage, and stood looking back at the city of the Czar

Peter, plunged in deep sadness, as though warned by some inward voice

that he was looking upon it for the last time. The emperor had spent

the previous night in prayer, both in the convent of Saint-Alexandre

Nevsky and in the cathedral of Kasan. In the monastery he had an

interview, lasting nearly an hour, with the monks and the metropolitan

Seraphin. The latter related a story to the emperor of a monk of his

convent who had voluntarily submitted himself to a life of the most

scrupulous austerity by shutting himself up in a hollow place, scooped

out of the thick walls of the convent, where he meant to pass all his

remaining days. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the emperor asked

to be taken to this monk's cell, and talked with him for nearly twenty

minutes.

Before leaving St. Petersburg, Alexander wished to see his beloved

Czarkosjelo once more. He mounted on horseback at the palace door and

rode over all his favourite haunts, as though to bid them farewell.

When Fœdor asked Alexander when he expected to return to the imperial

palace, he pointed with his finger to an image of Christ and said--

"He alone knows!"

The emperor reached Taganrog towards the close of September. On 5

October the empress, who could only journey by short stages on account

of her state of health, also arrived there. The emperor advanced a

little ahead of the empress, and together they made a solemn entry into

the town.

Why had the emperor taken a liking for Taganrog? It seemed inexplicable

except on the grounds of that fatal destiny which compels men towards

the place in which it is foreordained they are to die.

Taganrog is situated in the finest climate of the Crimea, in the midst

of a fertile country and in a pleasant place at the entrance to the

Sea of Azov, close to the mouths of the Don and the Volga; but the

town itself contains nothing but a heap of tumbledown houses, of which

about a sixth are built of brick or stone, whilst the remainder are

really nothing but wooden huts smeared over with a mixture of clay and

mud. The streets are certainly wide, but they are unpaved, and the soil

is so powdery that, after the least shower of rain, one sinks in mud

up to one's knees. Then, when the heat of the sun has dried up this

damp marsh, the cattle and horses that pass by raise such clouds of

dust that it is impossible in full daylight to distinguish a man from

a beast of burden ten paces away. This dust penetrates everything; it

gets through closed blinds, tightly fastened shutters and the most

impenetrable curtains; it makes its way through clothing, no matter how

thick it be, and fills the water with a kind of crust that can only be

precipitated by boiling it with salts of tartar. The emperor alighted

at the governor's house, but he went out first thing in the morning

and did not return until dinner-time at two o'clock. At four, he took

another long excursion, not returning until nightfall, neglecting all

the precautions that the natives of those parts themselves take against

the dangerous malarial fevers common along the entire coast-line; at

night, he slept on a camp bedstead, his head resting on a leather

pillow. Presentiments of his approaching end never left him. The very

evening of his arrival at Taganrog, just as his valet was about to

leave him for the night, he said to him--

"Fœdor, the candles that I ordered you to take out of my study at St.

Petersburg constantly recur to my mind; before very long they will be

burning for me."

During one night in the month of October several of the inhabitants of

Taganrog saw, at two in the morning, above the house where the emperor

was living, two stars which at first were a wide distance apart from

one another, then approached each other and then again separated. This

phenomenon was repeated three times. Then one of the stars gradually

grew into a luminous ball of considerable dimensions, obliterating the

other, and soon afterwards disappeared below the horizon and was no

longer seen. In its fall, the bigger star left the smaller one behind

in its place; but it, too, paled by degrees, and soon also disappeared.

The superstitious interpreted the larger and more brilliant star to be

the Emperor Alexander, and the other the empress; they augured from the

portent that the emperor was soon to die, and that the empress was only

to survive her husband for a few months.

Besides his daily excursions, the emperor would make others that

lasted for days together, either in the country round the Don, or at

Tcherkask or at Donetz. He was prepared to start for Astrakan, when

Count Voronzov, Governor of Odessa, arrived to tell the emperor that

discontent was increasing throughout the whole of the Crimea and

would cause considerable trouble, if the emperor did not quell the

insubordination, and calm the disquiet by his personal presence.

There was a distance of some three hundred leagues to be traversed;

but what are three hundred leagues in Russia? Alexander promised

the empress he would return within a month, and gave orders for his

departure. He was impatient and irritable throughout the journey--an

attitude of mind so at variance with his usual gentle melancholy

that it surprised all around him; he complained that the horses did

not go fast enough; of the badness of the roads, of the cold in the

morning, the heat at noonday, the frost at night. Dr. Wylie advised the

traveller to take precautions against the changes of temperature which

he seemed to feel so much, but here the emperor's wayward mood showed

itself: he rejected both cloaks and capes, apparently courting the very

dangers his friends advised him to guard against. Finally, one evening

he caught cold, and a persistent cough developed into an intermittent

fever, which, aggravated by the patient's obstinacy, had, by the

time they reached Oridov, become a serious fever, which the doctor

recognised as an attack of the same kind that had raged all autumn

through from Taganrog to Sebastopol. They immediately turned back

towards Taganrog, the emperor himself giving the order to retrace their

journey. Whilst on the way back, the doctor urged upon his patient the

necessity for taking prompt measures, for he knew the gravity of the

nature of his illness. But the emperor objected.

"Leave me alone," he said. "Surely I know myself best what I need--I

want rest, solitude and quiet.... Look after my nerves, doctor; it is

they that are in such a deplorable state."

"Sire," replied Wylie, "kings are much more subject to nervous

disorders than ordinary individuals."

"True," said Alexander in reply, "specially nowadays.... Ah! doctor,

doctor," he continued, shaking his head, "I have ample reason for being

unwell!"

In spite of the doctor's objections, Alexander would ride on horseback

part of the way, until he felt compelled to return to his carriage, and

he was so exhausted by the time he set foot in the governor's house at

Taganrog that he fainted away.

Although the empress was herself dying of heart disease, she forgot

her own sufferings, and rallied when she saw her husband's condition.

When he was a little better, Alexander wrote to reassure his imperial

mother, telling her that although he was ill, she need not be anxious;

that he was able to take food and there was nothing serious to fear.

This was on 18 November. On the 24th, the fever set in with increased

vigour, and the erysipelas in the leg disappeared.

"See!" cried the emperor, when he saw what had occurred,--"this is the

end ... I shall die as my sister died!"

But he still refused to take any medicines. As Dr. Wylie stood by

his side that night, he exclaimed suddenly, as he turned towards the

doctor--

"What a deed! What a deplorable act!"

What reminiscence was it that drew such a sorrowful exclamation from

him? It can hardly be doubted that he was referring to the death of

Paul, who was smothered in a room above his head and whose last groans

he heard, without daring to go to his rescue.

On the 27th, the emperor at last gave himself into his doctor's hands,

who at once applied leeches; this application gave him a little relief,

but the fever soon returned worse than ever. They tried sinapisms, but

could not reduce the temperature, and the patient realised then that it

was time he prepared for his end. A confessor was brought to him at

five in the morning.

"Father," Alexander said to him, as he held out his hand, "deal with me

as an ordinary being and not as an emperor."

The priest drew close to his bedside, received the imperial confession

and administered the sacraments to the noble invalid. Towards two

o'clock the emperor's pains increased terribly.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, overcome by his sufferings. "My God! must kings

suffer more when they come to die than other men?..."

During the night he became unconscious, and remained in a state of

complete lethargy the whole of the next day. On the 29th he recovered

consciousness, and faint hopes were raised. The empress watched by his

bed, and noticed that he slept a little before dawn. He did not wake

until nine the next morning, just as the sun shone out from behind some

clouds as brilliantly as on the finest summer day. As Alexander opened

his eyes, he saw that he was flooded with sunlight.

"What beautiful weather!" he exclaimed, with that fervid joy at sight

of the sun so often noticed in the dying.

Then, turning to the empress and kissing her hand, he said--

"Madam, you must be worn out with fatigue."

Then he relapsed into the same condition of torpor from which he had

momentarily emerged. All hope of his recovery was given up on the 30th.

Nevertheless, towards two o'clock in the morning, General Diébitch

mentioned an old man, named Alexandrovitch, who had, he said, saved

several Tartars from the same fever that had attacked the emperor. They

sent for this old man at Dr. Wylie's instigation, and he came at eight.

He looked at the emperor, shook his head and said--

"It is too late; besides, those I have cured did not suffer from that

complaint."

And he left, taking with him the empress's last ray of hope. However,

the emperor reopened his eyes towards half-past ten that morning, and

all waited anxiously for him to speak. But he did not utter a word;

he only took the empress's hand, kissed it and laid it on his heart.

The empress remained bent over him in the position her husband's hand

caused her to take, and at ten minutes to eleven the emperor died. The

empress's face was so close to his that she felt him draw his last

breath.

She uttered a terrible cry and fell on her knees in prayer; not even

the doctor dared to approach the body, for she had made a sign to all

around not to disturb her. Then, some minutes later, she rose in a

calmer state of mind, closed the emperor's eyes, which had remained

open, tied a handkerchief round his head to prevent his jaws from

dropping, kissed his hands already as cold as ice, and, again falling

on her knees, she remained in prayer by the bedside until the doctors

were obliged to ask her to withdraw into another room, while they made

a post-mortem examination.

Whilst this sad operation proceeded, the widowed empress wrote to the

dowager-empress:--

"Our angel is in heaven, while I still linger on earth....

Alas! who would ever have thought that I, weak and ill as I

am, should have survived him?... Mother, I entreat you not

to desert me, for I am absolutely alone in this world of

sorrow!

"The face of our beloved dead has resumed its expression

of gentle kindliness; the smile upon it assures me that he

is happy, and that his eyes see better things than here

below.... My only comfort in this irreparable loss is that I

shall not long survive him!..."

And, indeed, the empress died six months later.

The letter was sent off by courier to St. Petersburg, where the

emperor's illness was already known. He had himself written, on 17

November, to say that he had had to return to Taganrog on account

of illness. On the 24th, the Empress Elisabeth had written to the

Grand-Duchess Helena asking her to inform the Empress Marie that the

emperor was going on well. On the 27th, however, General Diebitch

had sent news that the emperor was suffering from an attack of yellow

fever; and on 29 November the Empress Elisabeth again wrote to the

dowager-empress to tell her of a temporary improvement in the emperor's

condition. Although this improvement was so slight, the dowager-empress

and the Grand-Dukes Nicolas and Michel gave orders for a _Te Deum_ to

be sung on 9 December in the great metropolitan cathedral of Kasan. The

people flocked there joyfully, for the good news had been exaggerated

for their sake. Towards the close of the service the Grand-Duke Nicolas

was advised that a messenger from Taganrog was waiting for him in the

sacristy; he was the bearer of a despatch that had to be delivered

only in person. The grand-duke rose and went into the sacristy, where

he found the messenger, and received from his hands the letter we have

already read. He did not even need to read the letter: its contents

were revealed to him by the black seal.

The Grand-Duke Nicolas sent for the metropolitan and announced to him

the melancholy tidings, charging him to break the news as gently as

possible to the dowager-empress, as he felt he had not the courage to

fulfil the cruel mission himself. He then returned and took his place

by her who, in ignorance of the sad truth, was praying for the life

of her dead son. The grand-duke had scarcely resumed his position

by her side before the metropolitan re-entered the choir. He was a

fine-looking old man, with a long white beard and hair that fell almost

to his waist. At a sign from him, all the voices that were chanting

hymns of thankful praise to Heaven ceased, and a death-like silence

followed. Then, with the eyes of all upon him, he walked slowly and

solemnly towards the altar, took down the massive silver crucifix and

draped it with a black veil; then he advanced to the dowager-empress

and gave her the black draped crucifix to kiss.

"My son is dead!" cried the empress; and she fell on her knees, even

as, eighteen centuries before, at the foot of her Son's Cross, another

Mother, the Queen of Heaven, whose name she bore, had fallen.

And in that way Russia learnt she had lost her emperor.

We promised we would relate the history of the strange self-sacrifice

by which a man gave up an empire--a history all the more strange in

that the empire was an absolute monarchy, and that he would then have

succeeded to fifty-three millions of subjects, and to a territory which

already covered a seventh part of the world, without reckoning future

possibilities of expansion. This history is as follows:--

The reader knows what an Ukranian bear Constantine was, for ever

growling, grumbling or roaring, whose countenance was no more like a

human being's than the face of Kalmouk is like that of a man; he was as

rough as his brother Alexander was courteous, as ugly as his brother

Nicolas was handsome; a true son of Paul when he was in a bad temper.

We have learnt his reply as a lad to his own tutor, who tried to make

him learn to read--

"I do not want to learn to read; you are always reading, and you become

more and more stupid every day."

It will be readily believed that a mind built in that fashion had no

inclinations in the direction of learning. But in proportion as the

young prince grew to detest his mental exercises, his love of military

pursuits increased. Here he took after his father, Paul, who rose at

five in the morning after his wedding-night, to control the manœuvres

of a platoon of soldiers on guard near by. His military predilection

led Constantine to spend all his time in soldierly exercises, on

horseback, perfecting himself in the use of the lance, manœuvring

his men, all of which accomplishments seemed to him far more useful

than geometry, astronomy or botany. They only succeeded in making him

learn French by means of telling him that the best books on military

tactics were written in that language. Great was his delight when Paul

had a rupture with France and when Souvarov was sent into Italy. The

grand-duke was placed under command of an old marshal, a chief who

exactly suited Constantine, since he was one of the old Russian stock,

more savage, more brutal, more uncivilised, if that be possible, than

his young pupil. Constantine took part in his victories on the Mincio,

and in his defeats among the Alps; he watched him dig the grave in

which he wished to be buried alive. The consequence of association

with such an uncouth companion was to foster the young prince's own

peculiarities to such an extent, that people more than once queried

whether Paul, in being forced to leave the empire to Alexander, had

made a special point of bequeathing his mad temperament to Constantine.

After the French campaign and the Treaty of Vienna, Constantine was

made Viceroy of Poland. It was just the post for him. Here, placed at

the head of a warlike nation, whose whole history is one long struggle,

his military tastes grew with redoubled energy; unfortunately, he

substituted lawless encounters for the bloody struggles in which he

had just taken part. Summer or winter--whether living in the palace of

Bruhl or residing in the palace of Belvédère--he was up and equipped in

his general's uniform by three in the morning, without the assistance

in his toilet of any valet. He would then seat himself before a

table covered with regimental lists and military orders, in a room

wherein every single panel on the walls was painted with different

regimental costumes; he read the reports that had been drawn up the

day before, either by Colonel Axamilovisky or by Suboividsky, the

Prefect of Police, signifying his approval or disapproval of them in

a side note. With the exception of letter-writing to some members of

his family, these were the only occasions he handled a pen. This work

generally took him until nine in the morning, when he partook of the

hasty breakfast of a soldier. He then went down to the parade ground

to inspect a couple of regiments of infantry or a squadron of cavalry.

The band saluted him as he approached, and the review immediately

began. The platoons marched past the viceroy, a little way off, with

mathematical precision--a sight that always filled him with childish

joy, and moved him as much as though the men were marching to a real

battle. He would stand on foot watching them pass by, attired in the

green uniform of the Light Infantry, his cap, which was decorated

with cocks' feathers, posed on his head in such a manner that one

of the corners touched his left epaulette, whilst the other pointed

heavenwards at an alarming angle. Below shone, like two carbuncles,

eyes that seemed more like a jackal's than those of a human being, set

below a narrow forehead, which was furrowed with deep lines, indicating

constant and anxious preoccupation; and his thick long eyebrows were

crooked from habitual frowning. In his moments of extreme happiness,

the strange vivaciousness of the czarovitch's expression, coupled with

the snub nose that looked like a skeleton's, and his protruding lower

lip, gave a very savage appearance to his head. His neck, which he

could push out and withdraw at will, came in and out of his collar just

like a tortoise's from below its shell. As he listened to the music

and saw the men he had trained and heard the measured tramp of their

feet, his whole being expanded with delight, until he looked feverish

with excitement: the flush would come into his cheeks, his arms would

stiffen against his body down to his elbows, his rigid, tightly clasped

fists would nervously open and close, while his restless feet beat

time, and his guttural voice every now and then, between his harshly

uttered commands, would give vent to hoarse, raucous, inhuman cries,

expressive, alternately, of satisfaction or anger, according as matters

pleased him or he saw something that offended his sense of discipline.

For, indeed, his anger was a terrible sight, and his good humour was

that of a rough savage.

If he were pleased, he would double up in fits of laughter, rubbing his

hands together noisily and hilariously, stamping on the ground first

with one foot and then with the other: if he caught sight of a child

at the moment, he would catch hold of it, turn it over and over like a

monkey with a doll, make the child kiss him, pinch its cheeks, pull its

nose, and then putting it down, he would send it away with the first

piece of gold or silver in its hands that he could find in his pocket.

When he was angry, he roared aloud, striking the soldier who had

failed in his work, himself pushing the man towards the prison,

shouting or rather yelling imprecations after him till the man was out

of sight. His severity indeed extended to all--to animals as well as to

men. One day he had a monkey hung because it was too noisy: he lashed

a horse again and again and again with his riding-stick because it

stumbled while he had trustingly let the reins fall on its neck for a

little while; and he had a dog shot one morning because it had kept him

awake during the night with its howling. Between these fits of anger

and moments of exultation he was subject to hours of depression. He

fell into moods of deep melancholy which ended in complete prostration.

Weak as a woman, he would lie on his couch or roll about on the floor,

a prey to nervous attacks.

At these times, not even the most favoured person dared go near him.

The last valet to leave the room would open wide the window and the

door, and upon the threshold would appear a fair pale woman, clothed

almost always in a white dress clasped with a blue girdle, her

expression as sad as a ghost's, and, like a ghost, smiling through her

melancholy. The vision had a magical influence upon Constantine; his

spirits grew brighter, he first sighed and then sobbed, cried out, and,

after bitter and abundant tears, he rested his head on the woman's lap

and would fall asleep to wake up cured.

This woman was Poland's guardian angel, Jeannette Groudzenska. Once,

when quite a child, she was praying in the Metropolitan Church of

Warsaw, before an image of the Virgin, when a crown of immortelles that

had been placed at the foot of the picture fell on her head, resting

upon it, until she removed it and replaced it on its nail. On her

return home, Jeannette related this incident to her father, who told it

to an old Ukranian Cossack thought to be a seen The old Cossack replied

that the falling of the holy crown on the maiden's head meant that God

had intended an earthly crown for her, had she not herself renounced

it by returning it to the Virgin, who would keep her a heavenly

crown instead. Both father and daughter had forgotten all about this

prediction, or, if not forgotten entirely, they only thought of it

as a dream, when chance, or rather, shall we say, Providence, who was

watching over the interests of fifty-three millions of men, brought

Constantine and Jeannette face to face.

Then it came about that that hot-blooded savage, that roaring bear,

became as timid as a young girl; he who broke down all opposition, who

disposed of the lives of fathers and the honour of their children,

came bashfully to the old father to ask for the hand of Jeannette,

imploring him not to refuse him the being without whose presence he

could never be happy again. The old man recollected the Cossack's

prediction, and, seeing in the viceroy's request the fulfilment of

Almighty designs, the viceroy obtained his consent and that of the

daughter. Then the emperor's sanction had to be obtained. Alexander had

a constant dread of what would become of the empire in Constantine's

hands. More than anyone else did he feel the responsibility of having

had the charge of souls committed to him from Heaven. He therefore

tried to utilise this love affair for the benefit of the community at

large, though without much hope that he would succeed. He granted his

consent on condition that Constantine would abdicate his succession,

and awaited the brother's answer as anxiously as his brother waited for

his. Constantine received the imperial despatch, opened it, read it,

gave a shout of delight and renounced his rights. Yes, that strange,

inexplicable man renounced his right to the throne, he, an Olympian

Jove, before whose frown a whole people trembled. He gave up his

twofold right to both an Eastern and a Western sovereignty in exchange

for the heart of a young girl--an empire containing two great capitals

and territory that began at the shores of the Baltic and ended at the

Rocky Mountains, an empire washed by seven seas.

Jeannette Groudzenska received from the Emperor Alexander in exchange,

the title of Princess of Lovics.

Nevertheless, when the news of the death of the Emperor Alexander

reached St. Petersburg, the Grand-Duke Nicolas ignored the fact of the

renunciation, took oath of allegiance to the Grand-Duke Constantine

and despatched a messenger to him to invite him to come and take

possession of the throne. But at the same time that this letter was

being carried from St. Petersburg to Warsaw, the Grand-Duke Michel was

on his way from Warsaw to St. Petersburg with the following letter from

Constantine to his brother:--

"MY VERY DEAR BROTHER,--It was with the most profound grief

that I learnt yesterday evening the news of the death of our

adored sovereign and my benefactor, the Emperor Alexander.

I hasten to express to you my feelings of sorrow at this

cruel misfortune, and at the same time I beg to inform you

that I am sending a letter by the same hands to Her Imperial

Majesty, our royal mother, in which I declare that, in

accordance with the edict I obtained dated February 1822,

sanctioning my renunciation of the throne, it is still my

unalterable resolution to cede to you all my rights of

succession to the throne of the Emperor of All the Russias.

I therefore beg our beloved mother and those who are

concerned in this matter, to announce that my wishes in this

respect are still unchanged, in order that matters may be

settled as arranged.

"Having made this declaration, I look upon it as my sacred

duty very humbly to beseech your Imperial Majesty to let me

be the first to swear faithful allegiance and submission

to you, and to allow me to assert that I do not wish for

any fresh dignity or any new title; I wish simply and

solely to maintain my title of Czarovitch, which my revered

father condescended to confer upon me in recognition of my

services. Henceforth my only happiness will be to tender

your Imperial Majesty tokens of my profoundest respect and

of my unbounded devotion; I can offer in pledge thereof more

than thirty years of faithful service, and the unswerving

zeal that I have displayed towards my imperial father and

brother. Animated by these sentiments, I will not cease to

serve your Imperial Majesty and your successors as long

as life shall be granted me, in my present office and

functions.--I am, with the most profound respect, CONSTANTINE"

The day after the Grand-Duke Nicolas had despatched his courier to the

czarovitch, the Council of State had informed him that they had been

commissioned to keep a document for him, that had been handed to their

care on 15 October 1823, sealed with the seal of the Emperor Alexander

and accompanied by an autograph letter from His Majesty, who had

charged them to keep the document until further orders, and in case of

death to open it at an extraordinary session.

Now, as the emperor had died, the Council of State had opened the

package, and within a double wrapping they found the Grand-Duke

Constantine's renunciation of the Empire of All the Russias. This

renunciation was couched in the following terms:--

"SIRE,--I am emboldened by the many proofs of your Imperial

Majesty's kindness towards me to venture to crave your

further indulgence and to lay my humble petitions at

your feet. As I do not think myself fitted by my mental

endowments and qualifications, nor gifted with sufficient

capability, should I ever be called upon to fulfil the high

position my birth would entitle me to assume, I earnestly

implore your Imperial Majesty to transfer my rights to my

immediate successor, and thus to place the empire for ever

upon a stable foundation. So far as I am concerned, my

renunciation will give an additional guarantee and added

strength to the solemn oath I took, at the time of my

divorce from my first wife. The existing condition of things

establishes me more firmly in the opinion, day by day,

that I am right in taking this step, and it will prove the

sincerity of my sentiments to the empire and to the whole

world.

"May your Imperial Majesty be moved to listen favourably to

my entreaties, to influence our noble mother to look upon

matters in the same light and to sanction my wishes with

your imperial consent!

"In the sphere of a private life I will ever strive to

set a good example to your faithful subjects and to all

who are animated by a feeling of affection towards our

beloved country.--I remain, with the most profound respect,

CONSTANTINE"

To this letter the emperor had made the following reply:--

"MY VERY DEAR BROTHER,--I have just read your letter with

all the attention it deserves. I am not surprised at its

contents, since I have always understood and appreciated

the lofty sentiments of your heart; it has afforded me one

proof more of your sincere attachment to the State, and

of your far-seeing care for the preservation of its best

interests. I have communicated the contents of your letter

to our beloved mother, as you desired me; she has read

it with the same feelings as those I have expressed and

gratefully recognises the noble motives that have prompted

you. After consideration of the reasons you have laid before

us, the only course we feel free to take is to leave you

full liberty to follow your fixed determination and to ask

Almighty God to bless your single-hearted zeal, and to

cause it to produce a happy issue.--I am ever your very

affectionate brother, ALEXANDER"

Nicolas, however, waited for the czarovitch's reply, and not until

25 December did he issue a manifesto accepting the throne that had

devolved upon him by his elder brother's renunciation. He then fixed

the following day, the 26th, for the taking of the oath of allegiance

to himself and to his eldest son, the Grand-Duke Alexander.

And that is the strange story of these two brothers and the refusal

of one of the most splendid crowns the world has to offer, and how

Constantine remained simply the Czarovitch and Nicolas became the

Emperor of All the Russias.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

Rousseau and Romieu--Conversation with the porter--The eight hours'

candle--The _Deux Magots_--At what hour one should wind up one's

watch--M. le sous-préfet enjoys a joke--Henry Monnier--A paragraph of

information--On suppers--On cigars

While these great events were happening in high political spheres, our

humble fortunes were on the wane. The hundred louis that my mother

had brought with her had come to an end; we were aghast to find we

had spent nearly 4000 francs within a year and a half--nearly 11 1800

francs, that is to say, more than we ought to have done, t; It was

therefore imperative that I should fulfil my promises and add to my

salary by working out of my office hours.

De Leuven and I had stuck valiantly and persistently at collaborating

together, but nothing had come of it--a result that made us bitterly

inveigh aloud against the injustice of managers, and the want of taste

of directorates, although, under my breath, I was more just in my

criticism of our efforts, and frankly admitted to myself that were I

a manager I would not have accepted my own work. So we made up our

minds to make certain sacrifices, and ask Rousseau to join us, in order

that he might add those indescribable finishing touches to our works

which would make all the difference in the world. These sacrifices

consisted in our procuring several bottles of good old Bordeaux, some

flasks of rum and some loaf-sugar. Rousseau belonged to the famous

school of Favart, Radet, Collé, Désaugiers, Armand Gouffé and Company,

who never worked save to the sound of the popping of corks, with the

vision of seething fumes of punch-bowls before their eyes. Rousseau had

a reputation which, later, he was most unwillingly obliged to share

with his illustrious collaborator Romieu. At a certain period I should

not have dared to speak thus of the famous prefect of the Dordogne,

for fear of injuring his political career. It will be remembered what

distress was caused by the news (which happily proved to be false)

of his having been devoured by bugs, and how his partisans hastened

to fling back the ill-natured jest into the face of the wretched

papers that had spread the report. It is, alas! so difficult for an

intellectual man to be forgiven his wit, and for a funny man to pass

for a serious one, that Romieu had scarcely begun to recover from

this duplex reputation, unluckily but too well deserved, when, after

ten years at the _sous-préfecture_ and _préfecture_, a similar fate

overtook him to that of the poor Roman cobbler who taught a raven to

exclaim, "_Vive César Auguste!_" the Cæsar Augustus of France fell, and

all Romieu's pains and labours were lost, _opera et impensa periit._

Romieu retired into private life, and the fall above referred to,

which, contrary to the laws of gravity, operated from the base upwards,

gave us full liberty with respect to the author of the _Enfant trouvé_

and the _Ère des Césars._

In 1825, then, Romieu was collaborating with Rousseau; but, as in the

case of Adolphe and myself, they got absolutely nothing out of it

beyond a crowd of adventures each more delightfully amusing than its

predecessor, which defrayed their expenses at the _café du Roi_ and the

_café des Variétés._

Let us make it clear, for there might be some ambiguity in the

matter, and it might be thought that something also came out of our

collaboration.

No, nothing at all came of ours: Adolphe had always been as jolly as a

Trappist monk, while I, although by nature extremely light-hearted, was

only able to laugh at the farces of others, without ever being able, in

all the farces that were made, to be more than a simple spectator. I

profoundly admired Rousseau's and Romieu's cleverness in these lines.

So there were few nights when Rousseau especially (who could not

carry his wine as well as Romieu, but who, it should be acknowledged,

went in for excellent wines), abandoned to himself by his treacherous

Pylades, had to be led home by some patrol or other, and taken to the

police-station for making a nocturnal uproar. But Rousseau was like

those children who, as a precaution against their being lost, are

taught their name and address. Rousseau had deeply engraved upon his

memory the name of a certain police-officer of his acquaintance, and

it was so firmly embedded there that neither wine, nor brandy, nor rum

nor punch was powerful enough to wash it out. Rousseau staggering,

Rousseau stuttering, Rousseau tight, Rousseau drunk, Rousseau dead

drunk, Rousseau forgetful of the name and address of his mother, the

name and address of Romieu, his own name and his own address, could

always distinctly articulate the name and address of that particular

police-officer!

And as no one could refuse a man as drunk as he was the reasonable

request to be taken to a police-officer, Rousseau was taken to his

friend, who delivered him a formal lecture, but always wound up by

setting him free.

Once, however, the lecture was more keen than usual, and Rousseau

listened to it looking very penitent. Then, as the police-officer

upbraided him for disturbing his slumbers, thus waking him night after

night, Rousseau responded--

"You are quite right, and I promise you I will henceforth have myself

taken before someone else once every three times."

He kept his word. But all police-officers were not so long-suffering as

good M.--. The first one before whom Rousseau appeared sent him to the

Saint-Martin guard-room and kept him there for a couple of days. After

this experience he decided to go back to his old habit.

Rousseau and Romieu were very fond of playing pranks on porters and

grocers. Rousseau would put his head in at a porter's grille and call

out--

"Good-day, my friend."

"Good-day, monsieur."

"May I ask what bird that is you have in your window?"

"It is a blackcap, monsieur."

"Ah! indeed!... Why do you keep a blackcap?"

"Because it sings so nicely, monsieur."

"Really?"

"Stop and listen...."

And the porter would put his hands on his hips and wag his head up and

down with a smile on his face as he listened to the singing of his

blackcap.

"Ah! you are right!... You are married?"

"Yes, monsieur,--been married three times."

"And where is your woman?"

"My wife, Monsieur means?"

"Yes, of course, your wife."

"She is at the lodger's, on the fifth floor."

"Indeed! indeed! And what is she doing at the lodger's on the fifth

floor?"

"Charing."

"Is the lodger on the fifth floor young or old?"

"Between the two."

"Good.... And your children?"

"I haven't any."

"You haven't any?"

"No."

"Then what have you been about during your three marriages?"

"Excuse me ... does Monsieur want someone?"

"No."

"Monsieur wants something?"

"No."

"Well, for the past quarter of an hour Monsieur has been asking me

question after question."

"Yes."

"What did you mean by these questions?"

"Nothing at all."

"What! nothing at all?... But surely Monsieur had some reason?"

"None."

"Monsieur had no reason?"

"No."

"Well, then, I should much like to know why Monsieur did me the honour

...?"

"Why, I was passing by ... I saw the words over your lodge '_Speak to

the porter_,' so I spoke to you."

Romieu would enter a grocer's shop.

"Good-morning, monsieur."

"Monsieur, your very humble servant."

"Have you candles eight to the pound?"

"Certainly, monsieur, plenty of them; it is an article much in demand,

for there are more small purses than large ones."

"Your observation, monsieur, savours of higher matters than groceries."

Romieu and the grocer bowed to each other.

"You flatter me, monsieur."

"Monsieur said that he wanted ...?"

"One candle of eight to the pound."

"Only one?"

"Yes, at first; later, I will see."

The grocer took a candle out of a packet.

"Here it is, monsieur."

"Will you cut it in half? I detest fingering candles!"

"Quite so, monsieur; they have such a strong smell.... Here is your

candle in two pieces."

"Ah! now will you be good enough to cut each of those halves into four

pieces?"

"Into four?"

"Yes; I need eight pieces of candle for my purpose."

"Here are your eight pieces, monsieur."

"Pardon me, will you oblige me by preparing the wicks for me?"

"The whole eight?"

"Seven rather, since one naturally has its wick ready."

"Quite so."

"That is all right ... there, there, very good ... there, thank you.

Now then ... place them on the counter at three inches' distance from

one another.... Ah!..."

"But what on earth is that for?"

"You will see.... Now, would you have the goodness to lend me a lucifer

match?"

"Certainly ... take one."

"Thanks."

And Romieu would solemnly light the eight candle-ends.

"But what is that for, monsieur?"

"I am creating a farce."

"A farce?"

"Yes."

"And now ...?"

"And now the farce is done, I am going"; and Romieu would nod to the

grocer and make off.

"What! are you going without paying for the candle?" shrieked the

grocer. "At least pay for the candle."

Romieu would turn round--

"If I paid for the candle, where would be the farce?"

And he would go on his way quite heedless of the grocer's objurgations.

Occasionally, Romieu's ambitions would soar higher than teasing

grocers, and he would play irreverent pranks in higher circles of

commerce.

One evening, he was passing along the rue de Seine, at the corner of

the rue de Bussy, at half-past twelve midnight, when an assistant

was preparing to close the shop of _les Deux Magots._ Generally, the

establishment closed at eleven, so it was unusually late.

Romieu rushed inside the shop.

"Where is the proprietor of the establishment?"

"M. P---?"

"Yes."

"He has gone to bed."

"Has he been gone long?"

"About an hour."

"But he sleeps in the house?"

"Certainly."

"Take me to him."

"But, monsieur...."

"Without delay."

"But...."

"Instantly."

"Is your communication then of so pressing a nature?"

"It is so important that I shudder lest I be too late."

"Since Monsieur assures me...."

"Come, take me to him, take me to him quickly!"

The assistant did not wait to close the shop, but took Romieu through

into an anteroom, where M. P---- was snoring like a bass-viol.

"M. P----! M. P----!..." shouted the shopboy.

"Well, what is it? Go to the devil with you! What do you want?"

"It is not I...."

"What do you mean by saying it is not you?"

"No, it is a gentleman who wishes a few words with you."

"At this time of night?"

"He says it is very urgent."

"Where is the gentleman?"

"He is at the door. Come in, monsieur, come in."

Romieu entered on tiptoe, hat in hand, with a smiling countenance.

"Pardon, monsieur, a thousand pardons for disturbing you."

"Oh, do not mention it, monsieur; it is nothing. What is your business?"

"I wish to speak with your partner."

"With my partner?"

"Yes."

"But I have no partner."

"You haven't?"

"No."

"Then why put on your sign, '_Aux Deux Magots_'? It deceives the

public!"

But sometimes it happened that the hoaxer was recognised, and then he

was caught in his own trap.

One day Rousseau went into a watchmaker's.

"Monsieur, I wish to see some good watches."

"Monsieur, here is the very article you desire."

"Whose make is it?"

"Leroy's."

"Who is Leroy?"

"One of the most famous of my craft."

"Then you can guarantee it?"

"I can."

"How many times a week does it need winding?"

"Once."

"Morning or evening?"

"Whichever you prefer; though it is really better to wind it in the

morning."

"Why so?"

"Because one may be drunk in the evening, Monsieur Rousseau, and break

the mainspring."

Rousseau was caught this time; he left, promising the watchmaker his

custom--a promise he never fulfilled, bearing in mind the watchmaker's

retort.

It will be seen that when Romieu became first a sub-prefect and then a

prefect he could not continue this kind of pleasantry; nevertheless,

I understand that the old Adam in him would crop out from time to

time, for it is very difficult to efface natural propensities, which,

according to the poet of Auteuil, will persist in returning full tilt.

So it is related that one night the sub-prefect was returning home at

eleven o'clock, after supper;--when Romieu was in Paris and took supper

out he never returned home until the following morning; but every

creature knows, alas! that Paris is not the provinces!--and he caught

sight of three or four street lads belonging to the district, busy

throwing stones at the complimentary street lamp that was always lit

in front of the _sous-préfecture_; however, as it was not Paris, but

only a provincial town, the young guttersnipes were country lubbers,

and had already thrown four or five stones without being able to touch

the spot. The sub-prefect saw them without being seen and shrugged his

shoulders. Finally, being totally unable to contain himself at the

sight of such clumsiness, he came up to them, took his place in the

midst of the astonished urchins, picked up the first stone he saw,

threw it--and behold, lo!--the lamp ceased to be a lamp. "That is how

it should be done, messieurs," he said, and he entered his house,

muttering--

"Oh! the young folk of to-day are a degenerate lot!"

Sometimes, too, M. le préfet, in his brave braided coat of office,

would condescend to be gluttonous,--for who does not have his bad

moments? even the wisest sin seven times a day, so surely the

intellectual man may make a beast of himself once a year.

Henri Monnier, the witty caricaturist, charming creator of _proverbes_

and friend of all, when passing through Périgueux, went to call on

his old comrade Romieu and invited himself to dinner that day. M. le

préfet gave a formal dinner party, the guests being mostly departmental

officials, the stiffest and most punctilious he could find. It took a

great deal to overawe Henri Monnier; he chattered away, told all sorts

of tales just as freely as if he had been in his own house, or in yours

or in mine; in other words, he was delightful. But he noticed that,

although he persistently addressed Romieu in familiar language, Romieu

was equally persistent in being formal with him.

This was entirely contrary to their habits and customs. Henri Monnier

made quite certain that he was not labouring under any misapprehension;

then, when he was sure he was right, he shouted from one end of the

table to the other, "Look here, my dear Romieu, why ever do you address

me as _you_ while I use the familiar _thou_? The company here will take

you for my valet."

Paris really missed Romieu when he left it, although it still possessed

Rousseau; as the authorities were bent on making Romieu a prefect,

Paris would have liked him to be prefect of Paris, but apparently that

was not possible. How could Romieu have left Rousseau behind him in

Paris? Ah! Rousseau never forgave him for doing that! He wrote a very

pretty song about it, which I will give my readers, if I can find it.

When Romieu was appointed sub-prefect, Rousseau jumped for joy; it

would, he argued, be a grave omission on the part of the Government

to make Romieu a sub-prefect without giving Rousseau some title or

other; and as Rousseau had not asked for even a sub-prefecture after

the Revolution, it was but reasonable to refrain from blaming the

Government, and, less proud than Cæsar, he was quite willing to play

second fiddle. He went in search of Romieu.

"Well done, my dear friend, I congratulate you."

"Oh! you have heard?"

"The deuce I have!"

"Yes, they have made me a sub-prefect."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"I hope you are thinking of me."

"Thinking of you? In what way?"

"You will require a secretary, I should think."

"Yes, so I shall."

"You have not got one yet?"

"No."

"Very well, that is my berth, then. Twelve hundred francs, board,

lodging and your society. I could ask for nothing better."

"Indeed?" said Romieu.

"Come, now!"

"Return the day after to-morrow, and I will tell you if the thing be

possible."

"Possible! What the devil should prevent it ...?"

Rousseau took his departure, and returned two days later. He found

Romieu looking very serious, even anxious.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, my dear friend, I am in despair."

"Why?"

"Impossible!"

"Impossible to take me with you?"

"Yes ... you see...."

"No, I don't see."

"Before I could take you with me I had to make some inquiries."

"About me?"

"Yes, about you, and I learnt...."

"You learnt ...?"

"I learnt that you drank."

Rousseau left; but this time he did not return again. Poor Rousseau!

Three months before his death, he related this story to my son and me,

with tears in his eyes.

"Romieu will come to a bad end," he said in tones as tragic as those of

Calchas; "he is an ungrateful being."

May Heaven preserve Romieu from Rousseau's prediction!

Romieu stayed in the provinces for three years without coming back to

Paris, and during those three years his absence led to great changes in

the capital, as the following distich by an unknown author appears to

state:--

"Lorsque Romieu revint du Monomotapa

Paris ne soupait plus, et Paris ressoupa."

I said great changes had taken place in Paris, I should have said

fatal changes. The cessation of supper parties has brought about more

troublesome consequences in a civilised world than might be supposed.

I attribute our present state of intellectual degeneration to the

cessation of supper parties and the innovation of the cigar. God forbid

I should state that our sons' mental abilities are not equal to our

own; I, at least, have a son who would not forgive me if I made such

a statement. But they are of a different type of mind. Time alone can

settle which is the better of the two.

We men of forty years and upwards still preserve something of the

aristocratic spirit of the eighteenth century, tempered with the

chivalrous spirit of the Empire.

Women had great influence over minds of that period, and supper parties

were a real social factor.

By eleven o'clock at night all the cares of the day are cast aside,

and one knows there are still from six to eight hours to spend at

one's ease between the night ends and day comes. When one sits at

a well-filled table, face to face with a pretty girl, amid the

pleasurable excitement of lights and flowers, the mind lets itself be

carried away into the realm of dreams, though wide awake, and at such

a time it attains its highest flights of brilliancy and exaltation. It

is not only that one is more brilliant at supper-time than at any other

meal, and that one has more wit than at any other repast, but one's

very nature seems to be different.

I am sure that the greater number of the witty sayings of the

eighteenth century were said at supper-time. Let us, therefore, have

more of these supper parties, and we shall not lack what made them so

brilliant.

Now let us turn to the cigar. Formerly, after _déjeuner_, men and women

would proceed to the billiard-room or to the garden; after dinner,

they would adjourn to the drawing-room; and there the conversation

would continue on the same lines, whether desultory or more general.

Nowadays, men have scarcely risen from table before they say to one

another, "Come, let us have a cigar."

Then they go out, and walk up and down the pavements smoking. There

they meet women also, but not at all capable of the same type of wit

as those whom they have just left in the drawing-room. Men's minds

are raised to the level of the women with whom they associate; one

cannot demean oneself before the most lovely half of creation. And this

generalisation is proved true every day.

One does not meet the same people in the public promenades two days

running, but, though the people change, the type of conversation is

pretty much the same always. Imperceptibly the tone of mind becomes

lower. If you add to this the influence of the narcotic contained in

tobacco, you can judge what the state of society will be in half a

century if the taste for the cigar goes on increasing incessantly. We

shall have about as much intellectual activity in France in 1950 as

there is in Holland at the present time.

The reader will see that we have travelled far from Rousseau and

Romieu. We have only Rousseau now to deal with, and let us, therefore,

return to him.