The lantern_--La 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
De Leuven and I went to hunt up Rousseau, who was then living in the
rue du Petit-Carreau with a woman. We found him in a mad state of mind.
The night before, he had been supping, and supping very well, too, at
Philippe's--I may as well mention here that I can recommend Philippe
as the only man left at whose place one can still have a good supper.
Rousseau had left with Romieu at about one o'clock in the morning,
just tipsy. He had not taken two steps before the fresh air had its
usual effect, and he became drunk; after walking about a hundred paces
he was dead drunk. Romieu made heroic efforts to lead him as far as
he could; but, when he had been dragged down to the pavement twice,
he decided to place him in the safest position possible and then to
leave him. Consequently, at thirty paces from his door, recognising
the impossibility of dragging him farther, Romieu laid him comfortably
down outside a fruiterer's shop-door, on a heap of cabbage leaves and
dead carrot tops which he found there, propping his head up against
a wall. Then, by the aid of his knuckles and boots, he knocked up a
grocer hard by, where he bought a lantern, which he lighted and placed
by Rousseau's side. Then he bid adieu to his unlucky friend, addressing
him in the following terms, half in satisfaction of a duty fulfilled
and half in supplication to the Powers above:--
"And now, sleep peacefully, son of Epicurus. No one will trample upon
you!"
Rousseau spent the night quite quietly, thanks to the lamp which kept
watch over him, and he woke up finding two or three sous in his hand.
Some kind souls had given him alms, taking him for a poor wretched
outcast. But, as he was in his own neighbourhood, when daylight broke,
he was recognised by both grocer and fruiterer, and was exceedingly
humiliated by the fact. We comforted him by the offer of a good
breakfast at the _café des Variétés_, and, being Sunday, and therefore
a holiday, we afterwards took him off to Adolphe's rooms.
Adolphe had a very charming apartment at that time, almost as pretty
as Soulié's. The house that M. Arnault had built in the rue de la
Bruyère was a very nice one, and the de Leuven family had followed the
Arnaults from the rue Pigalle to the rue de la Bruyère. We sat down
and had some tea, Rousseau declaring he was dying of thirst, and then
we each read in turn to our guest the whole of our literary attempts,
in order that he might judge for himself which he thought worthiest
of his exalted protection. By the time we had come to the second
scene, Rousseau pretended that he could listen better if he lay down
on Adolphe's bed, and consequently he mounted it; at the fourth scene
he was snoring--which testified that, no matter how soft the bed of
herbs lent him by the fruiterer in the rue du Petit-Carreau, one never
sleeps properly when one stays out all night. We respected Rousseau's
sleep, and waited patiently till he awoke again. When he awoke, his
head felt heavy and he could not put two ideas together, so he asked to
be allowed to take our MSS. away with him, and promised to read them
carefully at home and let us know the result. We confided our treasures
to him,--two melodramas and three comic operas,--and we arranged to
dine with him at Adolphe's rooms on the following Thursday. Madame de
Leuven herself undertook to see that the dinner should be good and
well served, for she was conscious of the importance of the occasion,
and Rousseau was invited by letter as well as verbally. At the bottom
of the letter, where' one puts on ball invitations "Dancing," we put,
"There will be two bottles of champagne"; and Rousseau, of course,
turned up.
Neither melodramas nor vaudevilles had pleased him. The melodramas were
borrowed from novels too well known, from which plenty of melodramas
had already been taken. The vaudevilles were founded on ideas which
were dull from beginning to end. Stronger men than we might well
have been cast down at such a verdict. But Adolphe had an idea which
supported our courage and soothed our self-respect.
"He has not read them," he whispered to me.
"Quite likely," I replied.
This semi-conviction somewhat restored our spirits. At dessert, I told
several stories, and among them a hunting tale.
"What do you mean," exclaimed Rousseau, "by telling such capital
stories as that and yet amusing yourself by cribbing melodramas from
Florian and tales from M. Bouilly? Why, in the story you have just
related, there is a comedietta complete in itself, _la Chasse et
l'Amour._"
"Do you think so?" we both exclaimed.
(At that period of our friendship we addressed Rousseau in formal
parlance.)
"The deuce I do."
"But suppose we were to write this comedietta ...?"
"Let us do it!" we repeated in chorus.
"Wait a moment; not so fast," said Rousseau. "There is still another
bottle of champagne; let us drink it."
"Yes," said Adolphe, "and we must have a third to toast our new
venture. We will begin work upon it immediately."
"Amen!" cried Rousseau; and he raised his glass. "To the success of _la
Chasse et l'Amour_!" he cried.
We took good care to do full justice to the toast, which was renewed
until not one drop of the golden liquor was left in the bottle.
"The third bottle!" said Rousseau, as he drained the last drops of the
second into his glass.
"Let us set to work on the draft.... The third bottle shall be brought
up."
"All right, let us start!" cried Rousseau.
We rang for the servant, who removed the plates, dishes and cloth,
leaving only the three glasses; then pens, ink and paper were put on
the table, a pen was stuck into my hand, and the third bottle was
brought up. It was emptied in a quarter of an hour's time, and by the
end of an hour the plan was drawn up. Do not ask me to describe the
play, I have no wish to remember it. We divided the twenty-one scenes
which, I believe, composed the work, into three divisions of seven
each. My seven were those of the beginning, Rousseau took the seven
dealing with the denouement and de Leuven the middle seven. Then we
arranged to meet again at dinner in a week's time to read the play,
each undertaking to complete his part in a week. This was how plays of
the old school were composed. Scribe has changed all that, after the
fashion of Molière's doctor, who had located the liver on the left and
the heart on the right. That which had been undertaken before Scribe's
time in a spirit of caprice and flippancy was turned by him into a
serious business. My seven scenes were written by the following night.
At the appointed day we all met; both Adolphe and I had done our parts,
but Rousseau had not written a word of his. He declared that he was so
accustomed to writing in company that his ideas would not flow when he
was alone, and he could not do a thing. We told Rousseau that that need
certainly not stop him, for we would keep him company.
It was arranged that the evening of that day should be given up to
revising Adolphe's and my portions, and that the following day the
sittings should begin, during which Rousseau should compose his
part. My part was read, and was received with great applause--one
couplet especially astonishing Rousseau. The comic rôle was filled
by a Parisian sportsman, bespectacled, a sportsman of the plain of
Saint-Denis, in fact; and he sings the following lines in explanation
of his prowess:--
"La terreur de la perdrix
Et l'effroi de la bécasse,
Pour mon adresse à la chasse,
On me cite dans Paris.
Dangereux comme la bombe,
Sous mes coups rien qui ne tombe,
Le cerf comme la colombe,
A ma seule vue, enfin,
Tout le gibier a la fièvre;
Car, pour mettre à has un lièvre,
Je sais un fameux lapin!"
Adolphe read his part, and received honourable mention for his
workmanship in the _couplet de facture._[1] No one nowadays has any
knowledge of the _couplet de facture_, save the Nestors of art, who
have pleasant memories of the _his_ and _ter_ [repeated encores] which
almost always welcomed the _couplet de facture._ Here are Adolphe's
couplets--to every man his due:--
AIR DU VAUDEVILLE DES _BLOUSES_
"Un seul instant examinez le monde,
Vous ne venez que chasseurs ici-bas.
Autour de moi quand on chasse à la ronde,
Pourquoi donc seul ne chasserais-je pas?
Dans nos salons, un fat parfumé d'ambre
De vingt beautés chasse à la fois les cœurs,
Un intrigant rampant dans l'antichambre
Chasse un cordon, un regard, des faveurs.
Sans consulter son miroir ni son âge,
Une coquette, à soixante-dix ans,
En minaudant, chasse encore l'hommage
Que l'on adresse à ses petits-enfants.
Un lourd journal que la haine dévore,
Toujours en vain chasse des souscripteurs;
Et l'Opéra, sans en trouver encore,
Depuis longtemps chasse des spectateurs.
Un jeune auteur, amant de Melpomène,
Chasse la gloire et parvient à son but:
Un autre croit, sans prendre autant de peine,
Qu'il lui suffit de chasser l'Institut.
Pendant vingt ans, les drapeaux de la France
Sur l'univers flottèrent en vainqueurs,
Et l'étranger sait par expérience,
Si nos soldats sont tous de bons chasseurs:
Un seul instant examinez le monde,
Vous ne verrez que chasseurs ici-bas.
Autour de moi quand on chasse à la ronde,
Pourquoi donc seul ne chasserais-je pas?"
As we have said, only Rousseau's part now remained to be done. We set
to work the following evening, but, because of the making up of the
mail-bag, we could not begin until nine o'clock, and we did not finish
before one in the morning. As I lived in the faubourg Saint-Denis,
it fell to me to conduct Rousseau to the rue Poissonnière. But when
Rousseau left our hands he was nearly always in a sound state of mind
and body, so I had no occasion to go to the expense of purchasing
lanterns to keep watch over him.
When the play was finished, we had to consider to what theatre we would
present our _chef-d'œuvre._ I had no preference in the matter; so long
as the play was acted at all, and taken up promptly, I cared little
at what house I was presented. Adolphe and Rousseau were in favour of
the Gymnase, and, as I had nothing to say against that house, it was
agreed. Rousseau asked for a reading, and, as he had had his pieces
played there before, they could not refuse him a hearing. He therefore
obtained a reading, though Poirson, who was the mainspring of the
Gymnase, kept him waiting three weeks. There was nothing to be done but
to wait--we had been waiting for the past two years!
The great day arrived at last. We had arranged that the names of only
two of the authors should appear in the matter. I generously yielded
the post of honour to de Leuven, for I did not wish my name to be
known until I had done some really important work. All depends in this
world on a good beginning, and to make myself known by _la Chasse
et l'Amour_, remarkable though that work was, did not seem to my
ambitious pride a sufficiently worthy début. For, although my hopes had
been dwindling during the past two years, my pride was still to the
fore. It was therefore decided that I should not appear either in the
matter of the reading or on the play-bills, but that my name, Dumas,
should be published when the play was printed.
The great day arrived at last. We breakfasted together at the café du
Roi; then, at half-past ten, we separated: Rousseau and Adolphe went to
the Gymnase, and I went to my office.
Oh! I must confess I passed through a terrible strain from eleven
till three o'clock. At three, the door opened, and through the crack
I caught a glimpse of two sorrowful faces. Rousseau came in first,
followed by de Leuven. _La Chasse et l'Amour_ had been declined
unanimously. There hadn't been a single dissentient voice. Poirson
seemed astounded that anyone should have dreamed of reading such a
piece of work at a theatre that bore the lofty title Théâtre de Madame.
He was dreadfully scandalised by the passage which ended with these
four lines:--
"A ma seule vue, enfin,
Tout le gibier a la fièvre;
Car, pour mettre à has un lièvre,
Je suis un fameux lapin!"
Rousseau pointed out to him that there had not always been, even in
prohibited seasons, such a horror of game, since, in the _Héritière_,
Scribe had made his colonel say, whilst holding up an old hare that he
drew from out his game-bag:--
"Voyez ces favoris épais
Sous lesquels se cachent ses lèvres;
C'est le Nestor de ces forêts,
C'est le patriarche des lièvres!
D'avoir pu le tuer vivant,
Je me glorifîrai sans cesse,
Car, si je tardais d'un instant,
Il allait mourir de vieillesse!"
But Poirson retorted that there were hares _and_ hares; that the
comparison which M. Scribe made of his, to a patriarch and to Nestor,
elevated it in the eyes of all cultured people, whilst the horrible
play of words we had allowed ourselves by opposing the word _lièvre_
to _lapin_ was in the worst possible taste, and would not even be
tolerated by a _théâtre de boulevard._ I innocently asked if the
Gymnase was not a boulevard theatre; and now it was Rousseau's turn to
pay me out: he was very angry with me, as he looked upon my passage as
the cause of our rejection.
"You must learn, my dear friend, that there are boulevards _and_
boulevards, just as there are hares _and_ hares."
I was immensely surprised; I had never made any distinction between
hares, other than in dividing them into hares tender and hares tough;
or, in the matter of boulevards, beyond in summer preferring those that
were shadiest to those that were sunniest, and in winter those that
were sunny to those in the shade. I was mistaken: hares and boulevards
had degrees of rank.
We parted, after arranging a meeting for that night. Lassagne noticed
that I was cast down, and was most sympathetic towards me. When
Ernest's back was turned, he said--
"Never mind, my dear friend, we will write a play together."
"Do you really mean it?" I cried, leaping for joy.
"Hush!" he said; "don't go dancing like that in the passages and
bellowing in the office."
"Oh, don't be anxious!"
"I read your ode to General Foy; it is crude, but it contains several
excellent lines, and two or three good metaphors. I will help you to
succeed."
"Oh, thank you, thank you!"
"But we may perhaps be obliged to call in a third person, for neither
you nor I could attend the rehearsals; besides, it must not be known
that I have had anything to do with it."
"Add whoever you like. But when can we begin?"
"Well, try to think of a subject, and I will do the same; we will then
select whichever seems the likeliest."
Then Ernest came back, and Lassagne put his finger on his lips. I
nodded, and the matter was settled. That night, as arranged, Adolphe,
Rousseau and I met.
Can anything possibly be more melancholy than a meeting of authors
whose works have been refused? Unless one is a Corneille or a M.
Viennet, there is always the haunting doubt that the manager may
be correct, and the author self-deceived. Rather than settle this
momentous question outright, we adopted a _via media_, and that was
to read it before some other theatre. But to which should we take it?
Poirson had contemptuously condemned us to the boulevard theatres,
so Rousseau offered to read it at the Ambigu. The manager, Warez,
was a friend of his, so there was a chance he could get a hearing at
once, which would certainly not be the case elsewhere. We therefore
sanctioned the proposal, and the reading, which Rousseau, asked on the
following day, was accorded for the ensuing Saturday.
We awaited that day in great anxiety, I especially; for the result,
miserable though it might be, was almost a matter of life or death to
me. My mother and I were terrified to see how nearly we had reached
the end of our resources. Although our neighbour Després was dead
and we had taken his rooms as he advised, since they were a hundred
francs cheaper than ours, and although we exercised the greatest
possible economy in our expenses, our resources were lessening, little
by little, but quite fast enough to give us serious uneasiness as we
contemplated the time when we should be reduced to living on my income
only.
The eventful Saturday arrived.
I went to my office, the others to the reading.
At one o'clock the door of my office opened, but behind it stood two
faces whose expression left me no more room for doubt than I had had
the first time.
"Accepted?" I cried.
"With acclamation, my dear boy," said Rousseau.
"And what about the hare passage?"
"Encored!"
Oh! instability of human judgment! that which had revolted M. Poirson
sent M. Warez into ecstasies.
It seemed, then, that there were indeed hares _and_ hares, boulevards
_and_ boulevards. I ascertained what the rights of the author of a
vaudeville written for the Ambigu would amount to. They consisted
of twelve francs for author's rights and six seats in the theatre.
That meant four francs each per night and two seats. These two places
were valued at forty sous. The total I should make out of my dramatic
début would be six francs a day. Six francs a day, be it understood,
equalled my salary and half as much again. Only, when would our first
representation be given? They had promised Rousseau it should be as
soon as possible, and, as a matter of fact, he was summoned to read it
to the actors in a week's time. That was indeed a red-letter day. When
he came back after the reading, Rousseau drew me aside.
"Listen," he said; "we have become intimate friends during our ups and
downs of disappointment and delight--if you are hard up for a little
money...."
"Hard up for money? I should think I am, indeed!"
"All right; if you are in need, I will tell you of a decent fellow who
will lend you some."
"On what security?"
"On your tickets."
"On what tickets?"
"Why, on your theatre tickets."
"On my two seats a day?"
"Yes, that is what I mean. I have sold him both my tickets and my
rights ... he has paid me two hundred and fifty francs outright. So, I
said to myself, I mustn't forget my friends. I puffed you up well; I
told him you were a young fellow just beginning your career, but that
you showed considerable promise. I left him under the impression that
you I were going to surpass Scribe and Casimir Delavigne altogether,
and he is expecting you this evening at the café de l'Ambigu."
"What is your man's name?"
"Porcher."
"Good! I will go."
Rousseau had already gone a little way when he came back again.
"By the bye, talk to him about whatever you like, but don't run down
Mélesville to him."
"Why ever do you suppose I should say anything against Mélesville? I
think nothing but good of him."
"Oh, you callow lad! Don't you know that in the literary arena it is of
those one thinks the best that one says the worst things?"
"No, I did not know.... But why must one not speak ill of Mélesville to
Porcher?"
"Some day when I have time I will tell you."
And Rousseau nodded amicably to me, and, with a wave of his hand, went
off jingling his 250 francs, leaving me to puzzle as to why I might not
run down Mélesville to Porcher.
I did not wait till the usual closing hour, but ran home gleefully
with the good news to my mother. I did not, however, mention the offer
Rousseau had made me. That evening, after making up my second mail-bag,
I went to the café de l'Ambigu and asked for M. Porcher. He was pointed
out to me playing a game of dominoes. I went up to him, and he probably
knew who I was, for he got up.
"I am the young man Rousseau spoke about," I said to him.
"I am at your service, monsieur. Are you in a hurry, or will you allow
me to finish my game of dominoes?"
"By all means finish it, monsieur--I am in no hurry; I will take a walk
on the boulevard."
I went outside the café to wait, and Porcher came out five minutes
later.
"So you have had a play accepted at the Ambigu?" he began.
"Yes, and it has been put in rehearsal to-day."
"I know. And you want money advanced on your tickets?"
"Listen!" I said; "this is how I am placed." And I told him in a few
words the whole story of my life.
"How much do you want on your tickets? You know they are only worth two
francs per day?"
"Oh yes, I know that only too well!"
"I cannot therefore give you much."
"I know that also."
"For the piece may not be a success."
"Well, what can you give me?"
"How much?... Let us see!"
I rallied all my courage, for I thought myself that the request was
exorbitant.
"Can you give me fifty francs?"
"Oh yes," said Porcher.
"When?"
"Immediately--I haven't the amount with me, but I will get it from the
café."
"And I will come in and give you a receipt."
"No need; I shall put your name down on my register, as I do M.
Mélesville's and other authors'; but it is an understood thing, is it
not, that you will always do business with me?"
"I agree, on my sacred honour."
Porcher went in, got fifty francs from the desk and handed them to me.
I have experienced few sensations as delightful as the touch of the
first money I earned by my pen: hitherto, what I had earned had been
but for my orthography.
"Look here," he said, "be sensible, work hard, and I will introduce you
to Mélesville."
I looked at Porcher: this was the second time he had pronounced the
name in connection with which Rousseau had cautioned me particularly.
"Why should I make Mélesville's acquaintance?" I ventured to ask
timidly.
"Why, to work along with him, to be sure. If you worked with
Mélesville, your future would be assured."
I looked at Porcher.
"Listen, monsieur," I said; "lam awfully afraid that what I am going to
say to you may displease you."
"Oh! oh!" Porcher began. "You are not going to say anything against M.
Mélesville to me, are you?"
"Heaven forbid, monsieur; no! I have only seen M. Mélesville once or
twice, I believe, at the most: he is a man of about thirty-five, is he
not?"
"Yes."
"Dark and thin?"
"Yes."
"Always laughing?"
"Yes."
"With a splendid set of teeth?"
"That is he."
"Well, M. Mélesville is a man of infinite genius."
"He is indeed!"
"But I have an ambition."
"What is it?"
"To succeed by my own efforts in a year or two's time."
"At what house?"
"At the Théâtre-Français."
"Ah! ah!--that would be a bad job."
"At the Théâtre-Français?"
"Yes."
"For whom?"
"For me."
"Why?"
"Ah! you have no idea of the difficulties they make over their tickets
at that deuced theatre. Never mind! Authors' rights are good, and if
you manage to get in there, why! you will do very well ... only, I warn
you, it won't be an easy matter."
"I know that well enough; but I know M. Talma slightly."
"Oh! all right, then; that is equivalent to the Roman saying, I know
the pope.' Good, excellent, magnificent! Go ahead ... but don't forget
that your first transactions were with Porcher."
"I will remember."
"Have a good memory; people with good memories are generally
good-hearted."
"Monsieur, I think you are a living proof of your own statement."
"Why so?"
"Because you have mentioned the name of Mélesville three times."
"Mélesville! Why, monsieur, I would kill myself for his sake."
"I will not be so inquisitive as to inquire the reason of this
devotion."
"Oh, it is easily explained. I was a hairdresser and used to cut M.
Mélesville's hair; he was in Fortune's good books, but that didn't
matter! he wrote plays. Ten or twelve years ago that was, and then
authors did not sell their tickets, they gave them away."
"Monsieur Porcher, believe me, if I were richer I would give you mine
with the greatest pleasure."
"You do not understand: tickets, in those times, were given away, not
sold. M. Mélesville, then, gave me his tickets; I went to see his plays
with friends, and I applauded. He produced so many plays, and gave me
so many tickets, that an idea came into my head; namely, instead of
taking them and giving them away for nothing, to buy them from him, and
sell them, so I proposed the business to him. 'You are a simpleton,
Porcher,' he said to me. 'What the deuce could you make out of that?'
'Let me try.' 'Oh, try if you like, my dear fellow.' I tried it,
monsieur, and it succeeded. From that time, I have carried on my little
business, and if I ever acquire a fortune, it will be to M. Mélesville
I shall owe it. Come home with me, and I will show you his portrait
along with those of my wife and children."
I have been several times to Porcher's home since then,--probably a
hundred times to ask his help, once only to give him assistance,--and
every time I have been there I have looked at Mélesville's portrait,
raised by the gratitude of that worthy man to the level of those of
his wife and children. Once, Porcher had something or other to ask
of Cavé, when Cavé was Director of the Beaux-Arts. I took Porcher to
Cavé's house, and I said to the latter--
"Look here, I am bringing you a man who has done more for literature
during the past five-and-twenty years than you and your predecessors
and successors have done, or will do, in a century."
And I only said what was true. It never enters the head of any literary
struggler to apply to the Minister of the Interior or to the Director
of the Beaux-Arts in his pecuniary difficulties. But it does occur to
him to apply to Porcher, and he will be aided. He will find a cheerful
face and open bank at Porcher's--two things he will certainly not find
at the Home Office. Théaulon, Soulié and Balzac among the dead, and all
authors now alive, will bear me out.
During the past five-and-twenty years Porcher has probably lent to
literary men 500,000 francs. I am as grateful on my own account to
Porcher, as Porcher was to Mélesville, and when I visit him nowadays I
feel both proud and delighted to see my own portrait, in bust, pastel
and medallion, hanging up beside the portraits of his own children.
But I am the most grateful of all for those first fifty francs he
gave me, which I carried to my mother, and which revived in her heart
the heavenly flower of hope that had begun to fade! And ask Madame
Porcher, who has known all the finest minds in France, to let you see
some of the charming letters she has received. She certainly ought
to publish a selection from them. They would not yield in interest
to those of Madame de Sévigné, although they would be of a somewhat
different nature. We will select one at haphazard, sent her by an
author of our acquaintance; it is not one of mine, though the signature
is extraordinarily like mine. He had asked for the modest loan of a
hundred francs, and had received the reply that he must wait for a few
days, after which the transaction could in all probability be carried
out. This is the letter:--
"'Wait a few days,'madame! Why, that is the same as telling
a man whose head is to be cut off to dance a jig--or make
a pun; why, in a few days I shall be a millionaire! I
shall have got five hundred francs! If I apply to you, if
I bother you, it is because I am reduced to such a state
of wretchedness that I could even give points to Job--the
most unfortunate hero of times past. If you do not send
the hundred francs by my slave, I shall squander my last
remaining sous in procuring a clarionette and a poodle-dog,
and I shall come and perform with them in front of your
door, with the inscription writ large on my stomach: 'Have
pity on a literary man whom Madame Porcher has deserted.'
Would you have me come and ask you for the hundred francs on
my head, or cry, 'Vive la république,' or marry Mademoiselle
Moralès?--Would you rather I went to l'Odéon, or unearthed
talent _à Cachardy_, or wore _chapeaux gibus_? I will do
exactly what you command me, if only you will send me the
hundred francs. Send it me ten times over rather than not at
all! With deepest and reiterated devotion, X---
_"P. S._--It does not matter to me whether the hundred
francs are in silver, in gold or in notes--send whichever is
convenient to you."
[Footnote 1: "A couplet written for effect and especially notable for
the wealth of its rhymes."--LITTRÉ.]