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
In the midst of these first literary labours, into which we had flung
ourselves with all the ardour of youth, terrible news for the cause of
art spread throughout Paris. Talma was attacked with a fatal disease.
He had just reached the zenith of his talent, perhaps, in his last
creation of the _Démence de Charles VI._ The reader will recollect the
call Adolphe and I paid him, and how, as he was feeling better, he was
hoping to return to the theatre to play _Tibère_, and his pointing to
his lean cheeks which would serve him admirably in taking upon himself
the rôle of the aged emperor. But Talma was struck with a mortal
disease. Charles VI. was to be his last appearance--an appearance finer
than any of the creations of his youth or of his mature years--and
Michelot was destined to take the part of Tiberius. We were not the
only people, for that matter, to have similar recollections. Towards
the close of Talma's life he made a short stay at Enghien, where Firmin
went to see him. Firmin was just going to act _Tasso_, which had been
allotted to Talma, but which he had been obliged to renounce. Talma was
very fond of Firmin; his enthusiasm enchanted him, and he had often
given him advice.
"Well, my dear friend," he said to him, "so you are going to play
_Tasso?_"
"To my infinite regret," was Firmin's reply. "I would much rather have
seen you play it; it would have been a study for me and I should have
learnt a lesson from it."
"It is but a poor play," said Talma, "although there is a fine scene
in the fifth act, where, in the hope of restoring reason to the poor
madman, people tell him of the honours that are being prepared for him
and of the crown awaiting him. And, as you are aware, Firmin, at the
word _couronne_ he seems to realise what is being said to him. 'A crown
for me!' he exclaims. 'If that be so, Alphonse will no longer refuse me
his sister!... Where is this crown? Where is it?' Then, when they show
it him, he looks at it and says sorrowfully, 'It is not a golden crown,
only a laurel wreath ... the brother will never give his consent!'
Listen, Firmin," said Talma; "this is how I should play it...."
And, sitting half up in his bed, he went through the scene in such
telling accents, and with such pathetic and dejected expression, filled
throughout with both despair and insanity, that Firmin, who knew
nothing but what he had just seen, felt inclined to throw up the part.
Towards the beginning of October, the improvement which had somewhat
restored hope disappeared, and the disease made such rapid progress
that Talma himself expressed a desire to see those whom he loved best,
whose occupations placed them at a distance from him. Among these was
his nephew, Amédée Talma, a surgeon-dentist at Brussels. He arrived on
9 October, and never left his uncle till the end. After the sick man
had been prepared for this visitor, Amédée Talma entered the room and
went up to his uncle's bedside. Talma held out his hand, drew him close
and kissed him. It was dark, but the young man saw by the dampness of
his uncle's cheek that he was weeping. The sick man, however, soon
recovered himself, and, after a moment's pause, he said--
"You must not stay here more than two or three days. Your business will
not admit of longer absence. I sent for you because you have known for
a long time the disease I am suffering from, and my doctors wish to
learn what you can tell them about it before they were called in."
A fresh consultation was therefore held on the 12th, at which the young
doctor was present. Only two or three out of the eleven medical men
present thought there was any hope. Still, the new remedies suggested
allayed the attacks of vomiting, and these ceased altogether towards
the end. When the doctors came to his bedside, Talma said to them--
"Well, is it all up? I will do anything you desire ... but I doubt
if you can pull me through, and I have reconciled myself to the
inevitable. But the thing that troubles me most and what I want you to
care for most is my eyesight: I am afraid I am going to lose my sight."
Another of Talma's nephews, named Charles Jeannin, arrived from
Brussels on the 16th. The greatest precautions were necessary in
breaking the news of this fresh visitor to Talma. Nothing that went
on round him escaped his notice. MM. Dupuytren, Biett and Begin were
standing by the fireplace talking in low voices, when Talma caught a
word or two of their conversation.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
M. Dupuytren did not answer him, but went up to Amédée Talma. "I was
asking these gentlemen," he said to the young man, "whether Talma had
been told of the archbishop's visits."
As a matter of fact, the archbishop called almost daily, but they had
not allowed him to see the patient.
"The archbishop?" repeated Talma. "What are you saying about the
archbishop?"
Amédée hastened to reply--
"M. Dupuytren was telling these gentlemen, uncle, that the Archbishop
of Paris has called every day to ask after you."
"Oh! what good a fellow the archbishop is!" Talma exclaimed. "I am much
touched by his remembering me.... I used to meet him at the house of
the Princesse de Wagram: he is a very excellent man."
"Yes," Amédée reiterated,--"yes, he has called nearly every day."
"Here?" Talma asked.
"Here; I have spoken to him myself twice; I have even promised him
that, when you are better, you will see him."
"Oh! no, no," said Talma quickly; "but when I am better he shall be the
first on whom I will call. I remember once he was good enough to send
an ecclesiastic to me to tell me that he had nothing to do with the
insult put on my children in the matter of the distribution of prizes
and that the whole blame should fall on the headmaster of the school."
I will give the story of what had happened: the event wounded Talma to
the quick, for he adored his two children.
The Archbishop of Paris was asked to preside at a prize distribution
at the College Morin. Now it seems that the authorities did not dare
to ask the ecclesiastic to reward the two sons of the great actor, so
the names of the two lads were omitted, and it was not until after M.
de Quélen's departure that the prizes they had earned were handed to
them privately. Talma instantly caused his two children to renounce
the Catholic faith, and from that time they belonged to the Reformed
religion.
The doctors withdrew, and, as they were leaving, M. Dupuytren said to
Amédée--
"I am going to the château: if I meet the archbishop what shall I say
to him?"
"Why, monsieur," the young man replied, "I do not think you can do
better than tell him what we have just heard and my uncle's answer
to what I said; if, later, my uncle asks for him, I shall have much
pleasure in sending for him at once."
But, instead of following out these instructions, M. Dupuytren, who did
not meet the archbishop, took upon himself to write to him and tell
him he could go and see Talma. The archbishop made haste to attend to
the request, which he had no idea came only from M. Dupuytren; but, as
on previous occasions, he was received by Amédée Talma. On 18 October
M. Charles Jeannin was obliged to leave his uncle and return to keep
an engagement in Brussels for the 20th. On 19 October, at six in the
morning, seeing Amédée by his bedside, Talma said--
"What, my dear boy, have you not gone yet?"
"There was only one vacant seat in the diligence, uncle, and I gave it
up to Charles, who was urgently wanted in Brussels."
"When do you go?"
"To-morrow morning."
"At what time?"
"Six o'clock ... if I can get a seat."
Talma gently shook his head.
"You are deceiving me," he said; "you have not been able to save me,
and you wish to stay with me to the end.... If I had been a peasant
from Brunoy, I could have been cured; but they have bungled over me....
However, my death will enable them to learn how they ought to treat
someone else. So much for doctoring! Now go and fetch MM. Nicod and
Jacquet."
These were his lawyers. The gardener was called and sent on this
errand. Talma recognised him.
"Ah! is that you, Louette?" he said.
Then, turning to his nephew, he added--
"I have not paid him for the last two months; you must tell Madame it
is most essential.... But, by the bye, where is Caroline?"
"She is asleep."
"Which means she is crying."
Madame Talma heard, and she came up to the bedside.
"What time is it?" Talma continued, not seeing her.
"Six o'clock, uncle."
"It is always six o'clock with you."
He tried to set going the repeater of his watch.
"I cannot any longer hear my watch," he said.
"Would you like a timepiece?"
"Yes; go and fetch me the one out of my bedroom."
His nephew went, and Madame Talma was exposed to view.
"Ah! there you are, Caroline," he said; "we must now put matters right
for you."
His nephew brought the clock and put it on the night table.
"I am very unsightly, am I not, my good Amédée?" Talma remarked. "My
beard is so long...."
"You shall have it trimmed to-day."
"Give me a looking-glass."
He took it and looked at himself.
"I tell you, Amédée, I am losing my sight; for pity's sake, have
something done for my eyes. Oh! I shall lose them--I cannot see at all
to-day."
The lawyers arrived and, with them, M. Davilliers. But Talma tried in
vain to discuss business matters--he was past all that; he could only
speak in whispers, although he believed he was speaking very loudly,
and his speech grew more and more indistinct. MM. Arnault and de Jouy
were announced. Talma signed for them to be brought to him. M. Arnault
embraced Talma, to whom he was tenderly attached, and, as he did so,
the word "Adieu" escaped from his lips.
"Are you going away, then?" asked Talma.
"Yes," Amédée answered hastily, "these gentlemen are going to Brussels."
Both men embraced him and, to hide their sobs, rushed quickly from the
room; as Talma saw them go out he said--
"Quite right, be quick and go, then I shall hope to see you again soon;
the sooner you go, the sooner you will come back."
When MM. de Jouy and Arnault had gone away, his two children were
brought him, and Talma held out his hands to them, to be kissed. A few
minutes later, he uttered three words--
"Voltaire!... like Voltaire!..."
Then, immediately afterwards, he murmured--
"The cruellest thing of all is to lose one's sight."
The next moment, some piece of furniture cracked very loudly, and Talma
turned his head in the direction of the sound. A lady who had just
arrived took advantage of this movement to say--
"Talma, it is I, Mademoiselle Menocq."
The dying man made a slight token of acknowledgment and pressed her
hand. It struck half-past eleven. Talma took his handkerchief in both
hands, lifted it up slowly to his mouth, wiped his lips and then put
it behind his head, still holding it in both hands. After the lapse
of a few seconds, his hands released their hold and fell down by his
sides. His nephew took hold of the hand nearest him, and felt that
his pressure was returned feebly. At eleven thirty-five, without any
convulsion or muscular contraction of the face, one sigh escaped his
lips--it was his last breath.
When Garrick died, four peers of England claimed it as an honour to
bear the four corners of his pall, and to follow their English Roscius
to his resting-place among the tombs of kings.
One hundred thousand persons followed Talma's funeral procession, but
not a single representative from those in high places in the State were
among the number.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Lassagne had told me to think of a subject for a vaudeville. I had
done so, and believed I had found one. It was in the _Arabian Nights_,
one of the episodes in the travels of Sinbad the sailor, I believe.
I say "I believe," for I am not quite sure, and the matter is not
really worth the trouble of ransacking my desk to find out. Sinbad, the
indefatigable traveller, reaches a country where they bury wives with
their husbands, and husbands with their wives. He imprudently marries;
his wife dies, and he has a narrow escape of being buried with her. A
mere trifle. But the episode suggested a vague plan, which I took to
Lassagne.
Lassagne read it, and, if that were possible he was more kindly
disposed towards me even than at the first, when he saw how determined
I was to succeed. With the exception of a few corrections, which he
undertook to make, he decided that the scheme would serve. He therefore
communicated with a clever young fellow named Vulpian, a friend of his,
who was also later to become one of mine. Vulpian is one more name
to be marked with a cross in these recollections; for he is dead. We
met together two or three times and shared the task. This time I had
to do with collaborators who were more punctilious in keeping their
promises than poor Rousseau had been. At the first meeting, each of us
had his part ready. We joined the three pieces together and made them
into something like a harmonious whole. Lassagne undertook to put the
polishing touches to the work, which took him three or four days. When
this was done, the three authors, pronouncing it to be perfect, decided
it should be read under the title of _la Noce et l'Enterrement_ at the
Vaudeville, where Lassagne and Vulpian knew Désaugiers. Unluckily,
Désaugiers, who was already affected with the disease that eventually
killed him, was at home undergoing a second or third operation, and
could not be present at the reading. The upshot of his absence was
that _la Noce et l'Enterrement_ received almost as abrupt a refusal
at the Vaudeville as _la Chasse et l'Amour_ had at the Gymnase. It
seemed I was not to be favoured with good luck while I shared my work
with others. I felt terribly discouraged. But I felt worse still the
day after the reading, when Lassagne put in an appearance with an
expression of gloom on his face. It was so rarely he was depressed that
I rose from my seat feeling sure something was wrong.
"What is the matter now?" I asked.
"Matter enough, my poor friend; for somehow or other it has leaked out,
although your name was not breathed at the reading, that I have written
a play with you; and, in consequence, Oudard has just sent for me."
"Well?"
"Well, he made out I had given you a taste for literature; he says
this taste will ruin your future career and he has made me pass my word
of honour not only to cease helping you in any other play, but also to
cast aside the one already finished."
"And did you promise?" I asked.
"I felt obliged to do so for your sake, Dumas. You haven't General Foy
any longer to uphold your interests here. I don't know who has done you
a bad turn by speaking to M. de Broval, but they do not at all look
upon your literary propensities with friendly eyes."
I do not think my heart ever felt heavier. The two or three hundred
francs which _la Chasse et l'Amour_ had brought in had so sensibly
lightened our circumstances, that I had been looking forward to the
time when I should be drawing not merely twenty to twenty-five francs
more per month, but earning four times that amount by literary work.
Moreover, a portion of what _la Noce et l'Enterrement_ was to bring
me in was hypothecated to Porcher, who had lent me 300 francs. What
Lassagne had just told me pretty well overthrew all my castles in
Spain. It seemed to me most cruel to forbid me working for the drama
out of office hours, and to insist that my mother, my son and I
should be compelled to live on 125 francs per month. This feeling was
so strong that it fired me with courage to go straight to Oudard. I
entered his office with tears in my eyes but my voice under control.
"Is it true, monsieur," I asked, "that you have forbidden Lassagne to
work with me?"
"Yes," was his reply. "Why do you ask me that?"
"Because I should not have thought you would have had the courage to do
so."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, it seems to me a man needs courage to condemn three persons to
live on a hundred and twenty-five francs a month."
"And it seems to me you ought to think yourself very fortunate to have
the hundred and twenty-five francs per month, instead of despising
them."
"I do not despise them, monsieur; on the contrary, I am very grateful
to those who give them to me; only, I repeat that the sum is not
sufficient and that I think I ought to be allowed the right to add to
it so long as it does not interfere with attention to my office work."
"It may not interfere with your office work now, but it very soon will."
"That will be the time, then, for you to be anxious."
"It is really no affair of mine," said M. Oudard. "I simply and solely
convey the views of the chief director."
"Of M. de Broval?"
"Yes, of M. de Broval."
"I thought M. de Broval pretended to foster literature."
"Literature? Perhaps he does ... but do you call _la Chasse et l'Amour_
and _la Noce et l'Enterrement_ literature?"
"Most surely not, monsieur. But my name was not put on the bills at the
Ambigu, where _la Chasse et l'Amour_ was played, and it will not be put
on the bills of the theatre, whatever it may be, which may accept _la
Noce et l'Enterrement."_
"Still, if you are ashamed to own those productions, why make them?"
"First, monsieur, because at present I do not feel myself able to
do better, and because, such as they are, they bring comfort to our
poverty ... yes, monsieur, to our poverty--I do not shrink from the
truth. One day, you somehow learnt that I had sat up several nights to
copy some stage plays which brought in four francs an act, and that,
under the same conditions, I copied out M. Théaulon's comedy, the
_Indiscret_,--well, you complimented me then on my pluck."
"Quite true."
"How then, may I ask, am I more guilty in making my own plays than in
copying out those of others? You must, of course, be aware that Adolphe
also writes plays?"
"Which Adolphe?"
"Adolphe de Leuven."
"What then?"
"Why, I heard you speak to M. de Broval the other day in support of
Adolphe's request for a post in the offices of the Duc d'Orléans."
"M. Adolphe de Leuven was highly recommended to me."
"And I, monsieur, was not I also highly recommended to you? True, de
Leuven was highly recommended to you by Benjamin Constant, General
Gérard and Madame de Valence, whilst I was only recommended to you by
General Foy."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means that Adolphe de Leuven's patrons are alive while my supporter
is dead."
"M. Dumas!..."
"Oh! do not be put out. I see I have hit the right nail on the head."
"Then you absolutely insist on continuing your writing?"
"Yes, monsieur; I desire to do so both from inclination, and from
necessity."
"Very well, produce literature like Casimir Delavigne's and instead of
blaming you, we will give you encouragement."
"Monsieur," I replied, "I am not M. Casimir Delavigne's age, who has
been poet laureate since 1811; neither have I received the education
M. Casimir Delavigne had at one of the best colleges in Paris. No, I
am only twenty-two; I am busy educating myself every day, probably at
the cost of my health, for all I learn--and I assure you I am studying
many subjects--I learn when other people are fast asleep or amusing
themselves. So I cannot, just at this moment, produce work like M.
Casimir Delavigne's. But, M. Oudard, I would ask you, in conclusion, to
listen carefully to what I am about to say, strange though it may sound
to your ears: if I did not believe I could do different work in days
to come than M. Casimir Delavigne's, well, monsieur, I should meet you
and M. de Broval more than half-way in your wishes, and at this very
instant I would give you my sacred promise, I would take a solemn oath,
never to touch literature again."
Oudard looked at me with expressionless eyes; for my pride took his
breath away. I bowed to him and went out. Five minutes later, he went
to M. Deviolaine to tell him of my insane carryings on. M. Deviolaine
inquired if it were really in his presence, if it were really to him,
that I had said such monstrous things.
"Yes, it was in my presence and to me," said Oudard.
"I will tell his mother about it," said M. Deviolaine; "and if he
continues possessed with this madness, send him to me. I will take him
into my office and see that he doesn't go altogether stark staring mad."
And, indeed, my mother was told that very same night. When I returned
from making up the portfolio, I found her in tears. M. Deviolaine had
sent for her, and told her of all that had passed between M. Oudard and
me that morning. Next day, the crime of which I had been guilty was
public property throughout the offices. The sixty-three clerks of His
Royal Highness never lost an opportunity of saying to each other as
they met, "Have you heard what Dumas said to M. Oudard yesterday?"
And the clerk to whom the question was addressed would reply with
either a Yes or a No. If he replied in the negative, the story was
related with corrections, embellishments and exaggerations, that did
the greatest credit to the imagination of my colleagues. During the
whole day and for several days to follow, homeric laughter could be
heard throughout the corridors of the Maison de la rue Saint-Honoré
No. 216. There was one solitary book-keeping clerk who had only been
engaged the previous day, and whom no one as yet knew, who did not
laugh.
"Why," said the others to him, "you aren't laughing."
"No."
"Why don't you laugh?"
"Because it doesn't seem to me a laughing matter."
"What! Don't you think it a huge joke that Dumas said he would do
better things than Casimir Delavigne?"
"In the first place, he did not say he would do better, he said he
would do something different."
"It is all the same."
"No, it is quite different."
"But do you know Dumas?"
"Yes, and because I know him I tell you he will do something; I don't
know what it will be, but I tell you that that something will astonish
everybody, save myself."
This employé, who had just joined the office, in the book-keeping
department, was my old German and Italian master, Amédeé de la Ponce.
So there were two people out of the seventy-two persons, heads and
employés, who composed His Royal Highness's official staff, who did not
despair of me! Lassagne and he.
From this time began the warfare of which Lassagne had warned me when I
first entered the office. But, no matter what the war was going to be
like, or how long it was going to last, I made up my mind to fight to
the end.
A week later, a ray of comfort came to me. Vulpian came to tell
Lassagne and me that our play had been accepted by the theatre of the
Porte-Saint-Martin for Serres' début.
So it will be seen I was gently drawing nearer to the Théâtre-Français,
but I had learnt Italian enough to understand the 1 proverb, "_Che va
piano va sano._"
The author's rights were also higher. The theatre of the
Porte-Saint-Martin paid eighteen francs for a vaudeville, and allowed
twelve francs' worth of tickets.
So this meant for me eight francs per night instead of six;--exactly
double, this time, what my office work brought me in.
_La Noce et l'Enterrement_ was played on 21 November 1826. My mother
and I saw my play from the orchestra. As my name did not transpire, and
as I was totally unknown, I experienced no inconvenience from allowing
myself the satisfaction of being present. The play succeeded admirably;
but, even as the Roman emperors, in their days of triumph, were
reminded by a slave that they were mortal, so, lest my success should
intoxicate me, Providence placed a neighbour on my left who remarked,
as he rose at the fall of the curtain--
"Come, come, it isn't such stuff as this that will uphold the theatre."
My neighbour was right, and he knew what he was talking about all the
more in that he was a fellow-writer.
The play was acted some forty times, and, as Porcher generously left me
half my rights, claiming only the remaining half to liquidate previous
advances, the four francs per night that I received from the tickets
helped us to get over the winter of 1826 to 1827.