THE NATURE AND THE FLOWER OF THEM--THE GALLANT D'ARTAGNAN OR THE
GLORIOUS BUSSY.
Let us agree at the start that no perfect hero can be entirely mortal.
The nearer the element of mortality in him corresponds to the heel
measure of Achilles, the better his chance as hero. The Egyptian and
Greek heroes were invariably demi-gods on the paternal or maternal side.
Few actual historic heroes have escaped popular scandal concerning their
origin, because the savage logic in us demands lions from a lion; that
Theseus shall trace to Mars; that courage shall spring from courage.
Another most excellent thing about the ideal hero is that the immortal
quality enables him to go about the business of his heroism without
bothering his head with the rights or wrongs of it, except as the
prevailing sentiment of social honor (as distinguished from the inborn
sentiment of honesty) requires at the time. Of course, there is a lower
grade of measly, “moral heroes,” who (thank heaven and the innate sense
of human justice!) are usually well peppered with sorrow and punishment.
The hero of romance is a different stripe; Hyperion to a Satyr. He
doesn't go around groaning page after page of top-heavy debates as to
the inherent justice of his cause or his moral right to thrust a tallow
candle between the particular ribs behind which the heart of his enemy
is to be found--balancing his pros and cons, seeking a quo for each
quid, and conscientiously prowling for final authorities. When you
invade the chiropodical secret of the real hero's fine boot, or brush
him in passing--if you have looked once too often at a certain lady, or
have stood between him and the sun, or even twiddled your thumbs at him
in an indecorous or careless manner--look to it that you be prepared
to draw and mayhap to be spitted upon his sword's point, with honor.
Sdeath! A gentlemen of courage carries his life lightly at the needle
end of his rapier, as that wonderful Japanese, Samsori, used to make the
flimsiest feather preside in miraculous equilibration upon the tip of
his handsome nose.
No hero who does more or less than is demanded by the best practical
opinion of the society of his time is worth more than thirty cents as
a hero. Boys are literary and dramatic critics so far above the critics
formed by strained formulas of the schools that you can trust them.
They have an unerring distrust of the fellow who moves around with his
confounded conscientious scruples, as if the well-settled opinion of the
breathing world were not good enough for him! Who the deuce has got any
business setting everybody else right?
Some of these days I believe it is going to be discovered that the
atmosphere and the encompassing radiance and sweetness of Heaven are
composed of the dear sighs and loving aspirations of earthly motherhood.
If it turns out otherwise, rest assured Heaven will not have reached
its perfect point of evolution. Why is it, then, that mothers
will--will--will--try, so mistakenly, to extirpate the jewel of honest,
manly savagery from the breasts of their boys? I wonder if they know
that when grown men see one of these “pretty-mannered boys,” cocksure
as a Swiss toy new painted and directed by watch spring, they feel an
unholy impulse to empty an ink-bottle over the young calf? Fauntleroy
kids are a reproach to our civilization. Men, women and children, all of
us, crowd around the grimy Deignan of the Merrimac crew, and shout and
cheer for Bill Smith, the Rough Rider, who carried his mate out of the
ruck at San Juan and twirls his hat awkwardly and explains: “Ef I hadn't
a saw him fall he would 'a' laid thar yit!”--and go straight home and
pretend to be proud of a snug little poodle of a man who doesn't play
for fear of soiling his picture-clothes, and who says: “Yes, sir, thank
you,” and “No, thank you, ma'am,” like a French doll before it has had
the sawdust kicked out of it!
* * * * *
Now, when a hero tries to stamp his acts with the precise quality of
exact justice--why, he performs no acts. He is no better than that poor
tongue-loose Hamlet, who argues you the right of everything, and then,
by the great Jingo! piles in and messes it all by doing the wrong thing
at the wrong time and in the wrong manner. It is permitted of course to
be a great moral light and correct the errors of all the dust of earth
that has been blown into life these ages; but human justice has been
measured out unerringly with poetry and irony to such folk. They are
admitted to be saints, but about the time they have got too good for
their earthly setting, they have been tied to stakes and lighted up
with oil and faggots; or a soda phosphate with a pinch of cyanide of
potassium inserted has been handed to them, as in the case of our old
friend, Socrates. And it's right. When a man gets too wise and good
for his fellows and is embarrassed by the healthful scent of good human
nature, send him to heaven for relief, where he can have the goodly
fellowship of the prophets, the company of the noble army of martyrs,
and amuse himself suggesting improvements upon the vocal selections
of cherubim and seraphim! Impress the idea upon these gentry with
warmth--and--with--oil!
* * * * *
The ideal hero of fiction, you say, is Capt. D'Artagnan, first name
unknown, one time cadet in the Reserves of M. de Troisville's company
of the King's Guards, intrusted with the care of the honor and safety of
His Majesty, Louis XIV. Very well; he is a noble gentleman; the
choice does honor to your heart, mind and soul; take him and hold the
remembrance of his courage, loyalty, adroitness and splendid endurance
with hooks of steel. For myself, while yielding to none who honor
the great D'Artagnan, yet I march under the flag of the Sieur Bussy
d'Amboise, a proud Clermont, of blood royal in the reign of Henry
III., who shed luster upon a court that was edified by the wisdom of M.
Chicot, the “King's Brother,” the incomparable jester and philosopher,
who would have himself exceeded all heroes except that he despised the
actors and the audience of the world's theater and performed valiant
feats only that he might hang his cap and bells upon the achievements in
ridicule.
Can it be improper to compare D'Artagnan and Bussy--when the intention
is wholly respectful and the motive pure? If a single protest is
heard, there will be an end to this paper now--at once. There are some
comparisons that strengthen both candidates. For, we must consider the
extent of the theater and the stage, the space of time covering the
achievements, the varying conditions, lights and complexities. As,
for instance, the very atmosphere in which these two heroes moved, the
accompaniment of manner which we call the “air” of the histories, and
which are markedly different. The contrast of breeding, quality and
refinement between Bussy and D'Artagnan is as great as that which
distinguishes Mercutio from the keen M. Chicot. Yet each was his own
ideal type. Birth and the superior privileges of the haute noblesse
conferred upon the Sieur Bussy the splendid air of its own sufficient
prestige; the lack of these require of D'Artagnan that his intelligence,
courage and loyal devotion should yet seem to yield something of their
greatness in the submission that the man was compelled to pay to
the master. True, this attitude was atoned for on occasion by blunt
boldness, but the abased position and the lack of subtle distinction of
air and mind of the noble, forbade to the Fourth Mousquetaire the last
gracious touch of a Bayard of heroism. But the vulgarity was itself
heroic.
* * * * *
Compare the first appearance of the great Gascon at the Hotel de
Troisville, or even his manner and attitude toward the King when he
sought to warn that monarch against forgetfulness of loyalty proved,
with the haughty insolence of indomitable spirit in which Bussy threw
back to Henry the shuttle of disfavor on the night of that remarkable
wedding of St. Luc with the piquant little page soubrette, Jeanne de
Brissac.
D'Artagnan's air to his King has its pathos. It seems to say: “I speak
bluntly, sire, knowing that my life is yours and yet feeling that it is
too obscure to provoke your vengeance.” A very hard draught for a man
of fire and fearlessness to take without a gulp. But into Bussy's manner
toward his King there was this flash of lightning from Olympus: “My
life, sire, is yours, as my King, to take or leave; but not even you
may dare to think of taking the life of Bussy with the dust of least
reproach upon it. My life you may blow out; my honor you do not dare
approach to question!”
There are advantages in being a gentleman, which can not be denied.
One is that it commands credit in the King's presence as well as at the
tailor's.
It is interesting to compare both these attitudes with that of
“Athos,” the Count de la Fere, toward the King. He was lacking in
the irresistibly fierce insolence of Bussy and in the abasement of
D'Artagnan; it was melancholy, patient, persistent and terrible in its
restrained calmness. How narrowly he just escaped true greatness. I
would no more cast reproaches upon that noble gentleman than I would
upon my grandmother; but he--was--a--trifle--serous, wasn't he? He was
brave, prompt, resourceful, splendid, and, at need, gingerish as the
best colt in the paddock. It is the deuce's own pity for a man to be
born to too much seriousness. Do you know--and as I love my country, I
mean it in honest respect--that I sometimes think that the gentleness
and melancholy of Athos somehow suggests a bit of distrust. One is
almost terrified at times lest he may begin the Hamlet controversies.
You feel that if he committed a murder by mistake you are not absolutely
sure he wouldn't take a turn with Remorse. Not so Bussy; he would throw
the mistake in with good will and not create worry about it. Hang it
all, if the necessary business of murder is to halt upon the shuffling
accident of mistake, we may as well sell out the hero business and rent
the shop. It would be down to the level of Hamlet in no time. Unless, of
course, the hero took the view of it that Nero adopted. It is improbable
that Nero inherited the gift of natural remorse; but he cultivated one
and seemed to do well with it. He used to reflect upon his mother and
his wife, both of whom he had affectionately murdered, and justified
himself by declaring that a great artist, who was also the Roman
Emperor, would be lacking in breadth of emotional experience and
retrospective wisdom, unless he knew the melancholy of a two-pronged
family remorse. And from Nero's standpoint it was one of the best
thoughts that he ever formulated into language.
To return to Bussy and D'Artagnan. In courage they were Hector and
Achilles. You remember the champagne picnic before the bastion St.
Gervais at the siege of St. Rochelle? What light-hearted gayety amid the
flying missiles of the arquebusiers! Yet, do not forget that--ignoring
the lacquey--there were four of them, and that his Eminence, the
Cardinal Duke, had said the four of them were equal to a thousand men!
If you have enough knowledge of human nature to understand the fine
game of baseball, and have at any time scraped acquaintance with the
interesting mathematical doctrine of progressive permutations, you will
see, when four men equal to a thousand are under the eyes of each other,
and of the garrison in the fort, that the whole arsenal of logarithms
would give out before you could compute the permutative possibilities
of the courage that would be refracted, reflected, compounded and
concentrated by all there, each giving courage to and receiving courage
from each and all the others. It makes my head ache to think of it. I
feel as if I could be brave myself.
Certainly they were that day. To the bitter end of finishing the meal;
and they confessed the added courage by gamboling like boys amid awful
thunders of the arquebuses, which made a rumble in their time like their
successors, the omnibuses, still make to this day on the granite streets
of cities populated by deaf folks.
There never was more of a gay, lilting, impudent courage than those four
mousquetaires displayed with such splendid coolness and spirit.
But compare it with the fight which Bussy made, single-handed, against
the assassins hired by Monsereau and authorized by that effeminate
fop, the Due D'Anjou. Of course you remember it. Let me pay you the
affectionate compliment of presuming that you have read “La Dame de
Monsereau,” often translated under the English title, “Chicot, the
Jester,” that almost incomparable novel of historical romance, by M.
Dumas. If, through some accident or even through lack of culture, you
have failed to do so, pray do not admit it. Conceal your blemish
and remedy the matter at once. At least, seem to deserve respect and
confidence, and appear to be a worthy novel-reader if actually you are
not. There is a novel that, I assure you on my honor, is as good as
the “Three Guardsmen;” but--oh!--so--much--shorter; the pity of it,
too!--oh, the pity of it! On the second reading--now, let us speak with
frank conservatism--on the second reading of it, I give you my word, man
to man, I dreaded to turn every page, because it brought the end nearer.
If it had been granted to me to have one wish fulfilled that fine winter
night, I should have said with humility: “Beneficent Power, string it
out by nine more volumes, presto me here a fresh box of cigars, and the
account of your kindness, and my gratitude is closed.”
* * * * *
If the publisher of this series did not have such absurd sensitiveness
about the value of space and such pitifully small ideas about the
nobility of novels, I should like to write at least twenty pages about
“Chicot.” There are books that none of us ever put down in our lists of
great books, and yet which we think more of and delight more in than all
the great guns. Not one of the friends I've loved so long and well has
been President of the United States, but I wouldn't give one of them for
all the Presidents. Just across the hall at this minute I can hear the
frightful din of war--shells whistling and moaning, bullets s-e-o-uing,
the shrieks of the dying and wounded--Merciful Heaven! the “Don Juan
of Asturia” has just blown up in Manila Bay with an awful roar--again!
Again, as I'm a living man, just as she has blown up every day, and
several times every day, since May 1, 1898. There are two warriors over
in the play-room, drenched with imaginary gore, immersed in the tender
grace of bestowing chastening death and destruction upon the Spanish
foe. Don't I know that they rank somewhat below Admiral Dewey as heroes?
But do you suppose that their father would swap them for Admiral Dewey
and all the rainbow glories that fine old Yankee sea-dog ever will
enjoy--long may he live to enjoy them all!--do you think so? Of course
not! You know perfectly well that his--wife--wouldn't--let--him!
I would not wound the susceptibilities of any reader; but speaking for
myself--“Chicot” being beloved of my heart--if there was a mean
man, living in a mean street, who had the last volume of “Chicot” in
existence, I would pour out my library's last heart's blood to get
it. He could have all of Scott but “Ivanhoe,” all of Dickens but
“Copperfield,” all of Hugo but “Les Miserables,” cords of Fielding,
Marryat, Richardson, Reynolds, Eliot, Smollet, a whole ton of German
translations--by George! he could leave me a poor old despoiled,
destitute and ruined book-owner in things that folks buy in costly
bindings for the sake of vanity and the deception of those who also
deceive them in turn.
Brother, “Chicot” is a book you lend only to your dearest friend, and
then remind him next day that he hasn't sent it back.
* * * * *
Now, as to Bussy's great fight. He had gone to the house of Madame Diana
de Monsereau. I am not au fait upon French social customs, but let us
presume his being there was entirely proper, because that excellent lady
was glad to see him. He was set upon by her husband, M. de Monsereau,
with fifteen hired assassins. Outside, the Due D'Anjou and some others
of assassins were in hiding to make sure that Monsereau killed Bussy,
and that somebody killed Monsereau! There's a “situation” for you,
double-edged treachery against--love and innocence, let us say. Bussy
is in the house with Madame. His friend, St. Luc, is with him; also
his lacquey and body-physician, the faithful Rely. Bang! the doors are
broken in, and the assassins penetrate up the stairway. The brave Bussy
confides Diana to St. Luc and Rely, and, hastily throwing up a barricade
of tables and chairs near the door of the apartment, draws his sword.
Then, ye friends of sudden death and valorous exercise, began a surfeit
of joy. Monsereau and his assassins numbered sixteen. In less than three
moderate paragraphs Bessy's sword, playing like avenging lightning,
had struck fatality to seven. Even then, with every wrist going, he
reflected, with sublime calculation: “I can kill five more, because I
can fight with all my vigor ten minutes longer!” After that? Bessy could
see no further--there spoke fate!--you feel he is to die. Once more the
leaping steel point, the shrill death cry, the miraculous parry. The
villain, Monsereau, draws his pistol. Bessy, who is fighting half
a dozen swordsmen, can even see the cowardly purpose; he watches;
he--dodges--the--bullets!--by watching the aim--
“Ye sons of France, behold the glory!”
He thrusts, parries and swings the sword as a falchion. Suddenly a
pistol ball snaps the blade off six inches from the hilt.
Bessy picks up the blade and in an instant
splices--it--to--the--hilt--with--his--handkerchief! Oh, good sword
of the good swordsman! it drinks the blood of three more before
it--bends--and--loosens--under--the--strain! Bessy is shot in the thigh;
Monsereau is upon him; the good Rely, lying almost lifeless from a
bullet wound received at the outset, thrusts a rapier to Bessy's grasp
with a last effort. Bessy springs upon Monsereau with the great bound
of a panther and
pins--the--son--of--a--gun--to--the--floor--with--the--rapier--and--watches--him--die!
You can feel faint for joy at that passage for a good dozen readings, if
you are appreciative. Poor Bessy, faint from wounds and blood-letting,
retreats valiantly to a closet window step by step and drops out,
leaving Monsereau spitted, like a black spider, dead on the floor.
Here hope and expectation are drawn out in your breast like chewing
gum stretched to the last shred of tenuation. At this point I firmly
believed that Bessy would escape. I feel sorry for the reader who does
not. You just naturally argue that the faithful Rely will surely reach
him and rub him with the balsam. That balsam of Dumas! The same that
D'Artagnan's mother gave him when he rode away on the yellow horse,
and which cured so many heroes hurt to the last gasp. That miraculous
balsam, which would make doctors and surgeons sing small today if they
had not suppressed it from the materia medica. May be they can silence
their consciences by the reflection that they suppressed it to enhance
the value and necessity of their own personal services. But let them
look at the death rate and shudder. I had confidence in Rely and the
balsam, but he could not get there in time. Then, it was forgone that
Bessy must die. Like Mercutio, he was too brilliant to live. Depend upon
it, these wizards of story tellers know when the knell of fate rings
much sooner than we halting readers do.
Bessy drops from the closet window upon an iron fence that surrounded
the park and was impaled upon the dreadful pickets! Even then for
another moment you can cherish a hope that he may escape after all.
Suspended there and growing weaker, he hears footsteps approaching. Is
it a rescuing friend? He calls out--and a dagger stroke from the hand of
D'Anjou, his Judas master, finds his heart. That's the way Bessy died.
No man is proof against the dagger stroke of treachery. Bessy was
powerful and the due jealous.
Diana has been carried off safely by the trustworthy St. Luc. She must
have died of grief if she had not been kept alive to be the instrument
of retributive justice. (In the sequel you will find that this Queen of
Hearts descended upon the ignoble due at the proper time like a thousand
of brick and took the last trick of justice.)
* * * * *
The extraordinary description of Bussy's fight is beyond everything. You
gallop along as if in a whirlwind, and it is only in cooler moments that
you discover he killed about twelve rascals with his own good arm. It
seems impossible; the scientific, careful readers have been known to
declare it impossible and sneer at it with laughter. I trust every
novel reader respects scientific folks as he should; but science is not
everything. Our scientific friends have contended that the whale did not
engulf Jonah; that the sun did not pause over the vale of Askelon; that
Baron Munchausen's horse did not hang to the steeple by his bridle;
that the beanstalk could not have supported a stout lad like Jack; that
General Monk was not sent to Holland in a cage; that Remus and Romulus
had not a devoted lady wolf for a step-mother; in fact, that loads of
things, of which the most undeniable proof exists in plain print all
over the world, never were done or never happened. Bessy was killed,
Rely was killed later, Diana died in performing her destiny, St. Luc was
killed. Nobody left to make affidavits, except M. Dumas; in his lifetime
nobody questioned it; he is now dead and unable to depose; whereupon the
scientists sniff scornfully and deny. I hope I shall always continue to
respect science in its true offices, but, brethren, are there not times
when--science--makes--you--just--a--little--tired?
Heroes! D'Artagnan or Bessy? Choose, good friends, freely; as freely let
me have my Bessy.