The success of my first play--My three stories--M. Marie 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_
_La Chasse et l'Amour_ was played at a special performance on 22
September 1825. It was an immense success. Dubourjal took the
principal part; I entirely forget who were the other actors. I should
certainly have forgotten the title of the play as well as the names
of the actors, if I had not wished to indicate the starting-point of
the hundred dramas I shall probably compose, as I shall presently
indicate the starting-point of the six hundred volumes I have written.
This success inspired Porcher with sufficient confidence to lend me
a hundred crowns in addition to what I had already had, and on the
strength of my future tickets. Now you shall hear what became of
the hundred crowns. Whilst _la Chasse et l'Amour_ was in rehearsal,
and whilst I was looking about me for a subject to start work upon
with Lassagne, I had written a little book of tales that I wished
to publish. It was the period of great successes in small matters;
I have previously made the same remark with reference to Soumet's
_Pauvre Fille_ and M. Guirand's _Savoyards_, and I repeat it. It was
the same with regard to two or three stories just published by Madame
de Duras and Madame de Salm, though not with regard to mine. I did
not thoroughly understand the nature of these successes, or, more
correctly, of the sensation they produced. I did not realise the part
played by the social position of illustrious authors, and I did not see
why I should not have the same reputation and the same success with
respect to my stories that Mesdames de Duras and de Salm (_Ourika_,
etc.) had had with theirs. I had written three tales, which formed a
small volume, and I offered this little volume to six publishers who
refused it at the first glance, and, to give them their due, without
the least hesitation. These three tales were called _Laurette_,
_Blanche de Beaulieu_ and--but I have totally forgotten the title of
the third. But of _Blanche de Beaulieu_ I have since made the _Rose
rouge_; and from the third, the title of which I have forgotten, I
constructed the _Cocher de Cabriolet._ After encountering refusal after
refusal at the publishers, and being convinced that the appearance of
my book would produce quite as great a sensation in the literary world
as _Ourika_, I made up my mind to print the volume at my own expense.
There lived somewhere, at that time, a man who put forth a most
peculiar claim. He claimed to upset all the rules of orthography, and
to substitute for them an orthography without any rule. According to
his notion, each word ought to be written as it was pronounced, and he
did not trouble his head whether it were derived from Greek or Celtic,
Latin, Arabic or Spanish. Thus he would write the adverb _aucunement_,
of which we have just made use, _oqunemen._
It was difficult enough to read, but he considered it much easier to
write. His name was M. Marle. M. Marle hunted far and wide for recruits
for his orthography; he realised that he could not bring about any
revolution unless, Attila-like, he could muster a force of a million or
so of followers.
Now, having doubtless made up his mind that men of letters, and
vaudevillists in particular, would be the most likely of all to
disregard correct orthography, he made special efforts to raise
recruits among us, and, worthy man, he published a journal written
in the strange tongue we have above referred to. He published the
journal at a printing-office owned by Setier, who lived in the cour des
Fontaines. When I made M. Marie's acquaintance, I also made that of
M. and Madame Setier. Madame Setier was a remarkable woman. She was
English, or, at any rate, she knew the language perfectly. She offered
to translate some English plays for me, which she made out I could
easily get taken up on the French stage. As the cour des Fontaines was
close to my office, to which, as I have said, I was obliged to go back
every evening, and also close to the passage Véro-Dodat where my friend
Thibaut lived, to whom I went every day, I frequently called in at the
establishment in the cour des Fontaines.
When my three stories were finished, I gave them to Madame Setier
to read. Madame Setier, being a woman, had an indulgent nature; she
thought my stories charming, and got her husband to print them at half
his usual prices. A thousand copies of the tales--I thought we couldn't
print too many--would cost 600 francs, and M. Setier agreed to print
them for 300. He would stand the remaining 300 francs. After he had
repaid himself the 300 francs, we were to divide the profits in equal
shares between us. That was why I asked Porcher to lend me 300 francs
upon my next tickets as author. I took my 300 francs to M. Setier,
handed him my MS. and, two days later, I experienced the delight of
correcting my first proofs. Who would have thought that what at that
time gave me great joy would, in after life, become a weariness to the
flesh?
At the end of a month, during which _la Chasse et l'Amour_ had a
triumphant run, bringing me in 180 francs in author's royalties and in
the sale of my tickets, my volume of stories appeared under my name,
with the title _Nouvelles contemporaines._
Four copies of it were sold, and an article on it was written in
the _Figaro._ The article was by Étienne Arago. When this chapter
appears, I hope he will have returned to France. In any case, should
it come under his notice, in his exile, great will be his surprise,
no doubt, to find that I recollect, after a lapse of twenty-five
years, an article which he will have forgotten. The four copies sold
brought in ten francs to M. Setier's till. Thus, M. Setier was out of
pocket to the tune of 290 francs for having printed the _Nouvelles
contemporaines_, and I 300 francs for having written them. It was an
unlucky speculation for both of us. I then remembered the advice given
me by a very shrewd publisher, M. Bossange--
"Make a name for yourself, and then I will publish your works."
That was just the very difficulty! _To make a name for oneself!_ It is
the condition laid down for every man who sets forth to carve his own
career. When it is first put to him, he asks himself, in despair, how
the condition is ever to be fulfilled; and, nevertheless, he fulfils it.
I do not believe in the existence of ignored talent, or in genius that
remains unknown. There must have been reasons why Gilbert and Hégésippe
Moreau died in the hospitals. There must have been reasons why Escousse
and Lebras committed suicide. It is a hard thing to say, but neither of
these two poor foolish fellows, if they had lived, would have earned by
the end of twenty years' work the reputation that Béranger's epitaph
gave them.
So I set to work very earnestly to make a name sufficient to sell my
books, in order that I should no longer have to pay half the cost of
printing them. And, moreover, that name, short and humble though it
was, had already begun to be known in the land. Vatout had read my
_Ode au général Foy_ and my _Nouvelles contemporaines_ (for it will
be realised that the sale of only four copies had given a wide field
to my generosity in the matter of presentation copies), and one day
he sent me three or four lithographs, asking me to take one, and
compose some lines to go under it. This requires explanation. Vatout
published the _Galerie du Palais-Royal._ It was a sumptuously printed
work and appeared under the patronage of the Duc d'Orléans. It was a
lithographic reproduction of all the pictures in the gallery of the
Palais-Royal, with notices, information or lines composed in their
honour by all the literary men of the day. It would therefore seem that
I was included among these literary personages, since Vatout asked me
for some lines. My reasoning thus was more in the nature of sophistry
than a dilemma; but, as I had no one with whom to discuss the matter,
it presented itself to me as a dilemma and became an encouragement to
me. Oh! there was nothing I needed then more than encouragement from
all sides. I selected a print depicting a Roman shepherd lad, after a
picture by Montvoisin. The boy was lying down asleep in the shade of a
clump of vines. I do not reproduce the verses I made on this subject
for their merit, but rather as an interesting study of my progress in
poetical diction:--
"Il est une heure plus brûlante
Où le char du soleil, au zénith arrêté,
Suspend sa course dévorante,
Et verse des torrents de flamme et de clarté.
Alors, un ciel d'airain pèse au loin sur la terre,
Les monts sont désertés, la plaine est solitaire,
L'oiseau n'a plus de voix pour chanter ses amours,
Et, sur la rive desséchée,
La fleur implore en vain, immobile et penchée,
Le ruisseau tari dans son cours.
Il est une place au bocage
Où, s'arrondissant en berceaux,
Le lierre et la vigne sauvage
Se prolongent en verts arceaux.
C'est là qu'étendu sous l'ombrage,
Un berger du prochain village
Trouve un sommeil réparateur;
Et près de lui son chien fidèle
Veille, attentive sentinelle,
Sur les troupeaux et le pasteur.
Tu dors! jeune fils des montagnes,
Et mon œil, aux débris épars autour de toi,
Reconnaît ces vastes campagnes,
Où florissait le peuple roi!
Tu dors! et, des mortels ignorant le délire,
Nul souvenir de gloire à ton cœur ne vient dire
Que tes membres lasses ont trouvé le repos
Sur la poussière d'un empire
Et sur la cendre des héros.
Ces grands noms, qu'aux siècles qui naissent
Lèguent les siècles expirants,
Et qui toujours nous apparaissent
Debout sur les débris des ans,
De nos cœurs sublimes idoles,
Sont pour toi de vaines paroles,
Dont les sons ne t'ont rien appris;
Et, si ta bouche les répète,
C'est comme l'écho qui rejette
Des accents qu'il n'a pas compris.
Conserve donc cette ignorance,
Gage d'un paisible avenir,
Et qu'une molle indifférence
T'épargne même un souvenir.
Que de tes jours le flot limpide
Coule comme un ruisseau timide
Qui murmure parmi des fleurs,
Et, loin des palais de la terre,
Voit dans son onde solitaire
Le ciel réfléchir ses couleurs.
Si du fleuve orageux des âges
Tu voulais remonter les bords,
Que verrais-tu, sur ces rivages?
Du sang, des débris et des morts;
Les lâches clameurs de l'envie
La vertu toujours poursuivie,
Aux yeux des rois indifférents;
Et, profanant les jours antiques,
Sur la cendre des républiques,
Des autels dressés aux tyrans.
Que dirais-tu, lorsque l'histoire
Viendrait dérouler à tes yeux
Ses fastes sanglants, où la gloire
Recueille les erreurs des cieux?
Ici, les fils de Cornélie,
Que tour à tour la tyrannie
Écrase, en passant, sous son char;
Là, trahi du dieu des batailles,
Caton déchirant ses entrailles
Pour fuir le pardon de César!
Près de ces illustres victimes,
Que pleure encor la liberté,
Tu verrais, puissants de leurs crimes,
Les grands fonder l'impunité:
Lorsque sa rage est assouvie,
Un Sylla terminant sa vie,
Tranquille au toit de ses aïeux;
Un Tibère que l'on encense,
Et qu'à sa mort un peuple immens
Ose placer au rang des dieux.
Alors, à cette heure voilée,
Où l'ombre remplace le jour,
Quand les échos de la vallée
Redisent de doux chants d'amour,
Seul peut-être, au pied des collines,
D'où Rome sort de ses ruines,
Viendrais-tu sans chiens, sans troupeaux,
Et, regrettant ton ignorance,
Fuirais-tu les jeux et la danse,
Pour soupirer sur des tombeaux!"
Meanwhile, M. Marle had been obliged to give up his journal, and
Adolphe and I proposed to turn his two or three hundred subscribers
to account by making of these good folk a nucleus for a monthly
publication. After a great deal of discussion as to whether the
publication had better be in prose or verse, we decided it should be
both in verse and prose and should be styled _Psyché._ This was an
admirable way for me to publish all I had previously written both in
prose and verse without having to pay half the expense. Neither prose
nor poetry inserted in _Psyché_ would bring us in anything, but at the
same time it would not cost us anything. We published, at this period,
some delightful verses by Madame Desbordes-Valmore and by Madame Amable
Tastu. Here are those by Madame Desbordes-Valmore:--
"Cher petit oreiller, doux et chaud sous ma tête,
Plein de plume choisie, et blanc, et fait pour moi,
Quand on a peur du vent, des loups, de la tempête,
Cher petit oreiller, que l'on dort bien sur toi!
Beaucoup, beaucoup d'enfants pauvres et nus, sans mère,
Sans maison, n'ont jamais d'oreiller pour dormir;
Ils ont toujours sommeil.... O destinée amère!
Cela, douce maman, cela me fait gémir....
Et, quand j'ai prié Dieu pour tous ces petits anges
Qui n'ont point d'oreiller, moi, j'embrasse le mien,
Et, seul en mon doux nid, qu'à tes pieds tu m'arranges,
Je te bénis, ma mère, et je touche le tien!
Je ne m'éveillerai qu'à la lueur première
De l'aube au rideau bleu; c'est si beau de la voir!
Je vais faire, tout has, ma plus tendre prière;
Donne encore un baiser, douce maman; bonsoir!
PRIÈRE
"Dieu des enfants! le cœur d'une petite fille,
Plein de prière, écoute, est ici dans tes mains.
Hélas! on m'a parlé d'orphelins sans famille;
Dans l'avenir, mon Dieu, ne fais plus d'orphelins!
Laisse descendre, au soir, un ange qui pardonne,
Pour répondre à des voix que l'on entend gémir;
Mets, sous l'enfant perdu que sa mère abandonne,
Un petit oreiller qui le fera dormir!"
Madame Desbordes-Valmore was born at Douai.
"I was my mother's last born, and her only fair child," she wrote to
me once, "and I was christened with special honours on account of
the colour of my hair, which was much admired in my mother's case.
She was as beautiful as a Madonna, and everybody hoped I should be
like her in everything; but I only resembled her slightly, and if I
have ever been loved, it has certainly been for other attractions
than great beauty. My father was a heraldic painter; he also painted
arms on carriages and church decorations. His house was close to the
cemetery of the lowly parish of Notre-Dame de Douai. I thought the
dear old house very big when I quitted it at the age of seven; but I
have since seen it, and it is one of the smallest and meanest in the
town. All the same, I love it better than any other place in the whole
world, for I have never really had such peace and happiness as there.
Then, suddenly, came great and overwhelming misery, when my father
could get no more carriages to paint or coats of arms to design....
I was four when France was going through the period of its greatest
troubles. My father's great-uncles, who had been previously exiled
to Holland, at the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, offered their
immense inheritance to us if we would renounce the Catholic faith
for Protestantism. These two uncles were centenarians and lived in
Amsterdam, unmarried, where they had established a publishing-house. I
possess some books printed by them in my poor little library. A family
council was called. My mother wept sorely; my father was in a state of
vacillation and kissed us. Finally, the inheritance was declined from
fear of selling our souls, and we remained in our miserable state of
poverty, which grew worse and worse as the months passed by, leaving an
impression of unhappiness on me which has never been obliterated. My
mother was brave and daring, and she made up her mind to go to America
to look for a wealthy relative there, in the hope of re-establishing
the fortunes of her family. Her four children shuddered at the prospect
of the voyage, so she only took me with her. I was willing enough to
go with her, but the sacrifice cost me all my lightness of heart, for
I worshipped my father as one worships God Himself. That long journey,
the seaports, the great ocean filled me with terror, and I sheltered
against my mother's garments as my only harbour of refuge. When we
reached America, my mother found her cousin a widow, driven from her
estate by the negroes. The colony had risen in revolt, and the yellow
fever was raging in all its horror. Awakened thus rudely from her
cherished dream, she could not bear up under the fresh blow that had
overtaken us. It killed her, and she died at the age of forty-one. I
nearly died by her side when they took me in my mourning dress from the
rapidly depopulating isle and shipped me from vessel to vessel, until
I was restored again to my relatives, who were now poorer than ever.
Then it was that the theatre offered us a harbour of refuge. I was
taught to sing; I tried hard to recover my cheerfulness of disposition
but it was of no use; I managed better in melancholy or passion-fraught
parts. That is practically the whole of my life-story. I was taken on
at the Théâtre Feydeau, and everybody predicted a brilliant future
before me. I was made a member before I was sixteen, without either
hoping or asking for it; but at that time my insignificant part only
brought me in eighty francs per month, and the poverty with which I
struggled passes description. I was obliged to sacrifice the future for
the sake of the present, and for my father's sake I returned to the
provinces. At twenty, a great sorrow compelled me to give up singing.
The very sound of my voice would set me weeping; but the music still
rang in my unhappy head, and the measured rhythms unwittingly forced my
thoughts to keep pace with them. I felt compelled to commit my fevered
ideas to paper, and when it was done I was told I had written an
elegy. M. Alibert, who looked after my very frail health, recommended
me to write as a curative, for he knew nought else that would be of
any avail. I followed his advice without any knowledge or study of my
subject. And this gave me much extra trouble, because I could never
find the right words to express my thoughts. My first volume was
published in 1822. You asked, dear friend, how I came to be a poet. I
can only answer you by telling you how I came to write."
Madame Tastu had had a less troublous and unhappy life, and one
discerns it in the calm pulsations of her lines. She had quite simply
accepted, her position as a woman, and given her life to her mother, to
her husband, to her children.
She had lived her life in the light of these three loves, desiring
nothing beyond them, regretting nothing, pouring forth poetry from her
heart when it became too full to contain itself, as water overflows
from a too full vessel. The following example will give some idea of
her gentle, melancholy style:--
"Déjà la rapide journée
Fait place aux heures du sommeil,
Et du dernier fils de l'année
S'est enfui le dernier soleil.
Près du foyer, seule, inactive,
Livrée aux souvenirs puissants,
Ma pensée erre, fugitive,
Des jours passés aux jours présents.
Ma vue, au hasard arrêtée,
Longtemps de la flamme agitée
Suit les caprices éclatants,
Ou s'attache à l'acier mobile
Qui compte sur l'émail fragile
Les pas silencieux du Temps.
Encore un pas, encore une heure,
Et l'année aura, sans retour,
Atteint sa dernière demeure,
L'aiguille aura fini son tour!
Pourquoi de mon regard avide
La poursuivre ainsi tristement,
Quand je ne puis, d'un seul moment,
Retarder sa marche rapide?
Du temps qui vient de s'écouler
Si quelques jours pouvaient renaître,
Il n'en est pas un seul, peut-être,
Que ma voix daignât rappeler ...
Mais des ans la fuite m'étonne;
Leurs adieux oppressent mon cœur.
Je dis: 'C'est encore une fleur
Que l'âge enlève à ma couronne,
Et livre au torrent destructeur;
C'est une ombre ajoutée à l'ombre
Qui déjà s'étend sur mes jours,
Un printemps retranché du nombre
De ceux dont je verrai le cours!'
Écoutons ... le timbre sonore
Lentement frémit douze fois;
Il se tait ... je l'écoute encore,
Et l'année expire à sa voix.
C'en est fait! en vain je l'appelle!
Adieu!... Salut, sa sœur nouvelle!
Salut!... quels dons chargent ta main?
Quel bien nous apporte ton aile?
Quels beaux jours dorment dans ton sein?
Que dis-je! à mon âme tremblante
Ne révèle pas tes secrets!
D'espoir, de jeunesse et d'attraits,
Aujourd'hui tu parais brillante;
Et ta course, insensible et lente,
Peut-être amène les regrets.
Ainsi chaque soleil se lève
Témoin de nos vœux insensés,
Et, chaque jour, son cours s'achève
En emportant, comme un vain rêve,
Nos vœux déçus et dispersés ...
Mais l'espérance fantastique,
Répandant sa clarté magique
Dans la nuit du sombre avenir,
Nous guide, d'année en d'année,
Jusqu'à l'aurore fortunée
Du jour qui ne doit point finir!"
There was still another poet at this time, a most charming poet, whose
very name is now, perhaps, forgotten save by myself, and I registered a
vow never to forget him. He was called Denne-Baron. We published a poem
by him called _Zéphire_, that Prudhon's picture had inspired him to
write.
Here it is. Tell me if you have ever read smoother lines:--
"Il est un demi-dieu, charmant, léger, volage;
Il devance l'aurore, et, d'ombrage en ombrage,
Il fuit devant le char du jour;
Sur son dos éclatant, où frémissent deux ailes,
S'il portait un carquois et des flèches cruelles,
Vos yeux le prendraient pour l'Amour.
C'est lui qu'on voit, le soir, quand les heures voilées
Entr'ouvrent du couchant les portes étoilées,
Glisser dans l'air à petit bruit;
C'est lui qui donne encore une voix aux Naïades,
Des soupirs à Syrinx, des concerts aux Dryades
Et de doux parfums à la nuit.
Zéphire est son doux nom; sa légère origine,
Pure comme l'éther, trompa l'œil de Lucine,
Et n'eut pour témoins que les airs;
D'un souffle du printemps, d'un soupir de l'aurore,
Dans son liquide azur, le ciel le vit éclore
Comme un alcyon sur les mers.
Ce n'est point un enfant, mais il sort de l'enfance;
Entre deux myrtes verts, tantôt il se balance;
Tantôt il joue au bord des eaux,
Ou glisse sur un lac, ou promène sur l'onde
Les filets d'Arachné, la feuille vagabonde,
Et le nid léger des oiseaux.
Souvent sur les hauteurs du Cynthe ou d'Érymanthe,
Sous les abris voûtés d'une source écumante
Il lutine Diane au bain;
Ou, quand, aux bras de Mars, Vénus s'est endormie,
Sur leur couche effeuillant un rosier d'Idalie,
Il les cache aux yeux de Vulcain.
Parfois, aux antres creux,--palais bizarre et sombre
De la sauvage Écho, du sommeil et de l'ombre,--
Du Lion il fuit les ardeurs;
Parfois, dans un vieux chêne, aux forêts de Cybèle,
Dans le calme des nuits il berce Philomèle,
Son nid, ses chants et ses malheurs.
O puisses-tu, Zéphire, auprès de ton poëte,
Pour seul prix de mes vers, au fond de ma retraite
Caresser un jour mes vieux ans!
Et, si le sort le veut, puisse un jour ton haleine
Sur les bords fortunés de mon petit domaine
Bercer mes épis jaunissants!"