Victor Jacquemont
As this blood-stained year 1832 drew to a close, in which cholera alone
had deducted from the population of France a tithe of ninety-five
thousand deaths, the authorities of Bombay were mourning the death of
Victor Jacquemont, a young savant of the highest distinction. Being a
scholar, Victor Jacquemont detested men of imagination; he particularly
hated us dramatists. He had left France in 1828 before the great
literary movement which ensued, and he only judged of it by the leading
articles in the newspapers.
"It is all in bad taste!" he said, in one of his letters, which a
_friend_ of mine showed me with the usual eagerness one's friends have
for thrusting such kinds of stuff under one's nose. "In laying aside
the Greeks and Romans, and the nobility of our old theatres, we have
not been happy in their successors."
He called us _messieurs de l'horrible._ Poor Jacquemont! I hardly knew
him; I saw him once at General La Fayette's, who treated him like a
son. The famous old man had a sure instinct for friendship: all who
became great later were honoured by his friendship or protection.
The death of Jacquemont hardly made any impression in France; he was
totally unknown by his compatriots; his reputation dated from the
posthumous publication of his works, and especially of his private
correspondence, which every cultured man "has read. I say cultured
man, for there are no more inveterate hunters-out of talent than your
man of culture. Now there is real wit at the bottom of Jacquemont's
correspondence, although it is of a dry and sceptical type. As for
belief, that is another matter altogether; he evidently doubted
everything, even God. In his last letters to his family, he does not
express a word of hope for another life; the immortality of the soul,
with Jacquemont, is not even as much as a dream. The letter in which he
bids farewell to his brother, and, through his brother, to the whole
family, is full of despair. I will not say that there is no resignation
in it, but it reads like the work of an unconcerned person. Jacquemont
talks of himself in it as he would speak of a casual acquaintance. Put
the letter into the third person; let the dying man substitute _he_ for
_I,_ and you have the official announcement of the death of a stranger,
made by an indifferent person. See if the letter is that of a man dying
four thousand leagues from his country:
"BOMBAY, INVALID OFFICERS' QUARTERS,
"1 _December_ 1832
"DEAR PORPHYRE,--I came here ill thirty-two days ago,
and for thirty-one I have been in bed. In the poisonous
forests of the isle of Salsette, exposed to the burning sun
during the most unhealthy season, I caught the germs of the
disease, attacks of which I have often felt since my journey
to Adjmir, but I had disguised from myself their true
nature. It is inflammation of the liver. The pestilential
exhalations have done for me. As soon as my illness began,
I made my will and put my affairs in order. My interests
are entrusted to the honourable and friendly care of Mr.
James Nicol, an English merchant here, and to M. Cordier at
Calcutta. Mr. Nicol was my host on my arrival in Bombay. No
old friend could have lavished more affectionate care upon
me. Nevertheless, at the end of a few days, while I was
still able to be transported, I left his house, which is in
the fort, in order to occupy a convenient and spacious set
of rooms in the quarter of the invalided officers, in a most
airy and healthy situation by the seacoast, a hundred yards
from my doctor, Dr. MacLennan, the cleverest in Bombay,
whose admirable care long since made him my very dear friend.
"The cruellest thought, dear Porphyre, when we are dying in
a far country, for those who love us, is the idea of the
loneliness and desertion in which we may be passing the last
hours of our existence. Well, my dear fellow, you can find
comfort in the assurance I give you that, since my arrival
here, I have not ceased to be overwhelmed with the most
affectionate and touching attentions of a number of good
and kindly men. They come and see me constantly, humour my
sick whims and forestall my every fancy. Mr. Nicol more
than any one; Mr. John Box, a member of the Government; an
old engineering colonel, Mr. Goodfellow; a very kind young
officer, Major Mountain, and others still, whom I have not
mentioned. The excellent MacLennan nearly risked his own
health for my sake; for several days during a crisis which
seemed likely to end fatally, he came twice each night. I
have absolute confidence in his skill. At first, I suffered
greatly; but for a long time I have been reduced to a state
of weakness which is almost exempt from pain. The worst is
that for thirty-one days I have not slept more than one hour
in all. But these sleepless nights are very quiet ones, and
do not seem desperately long.
"Happily, the disease is drawing to its close; it may not
be fatal, although most probably it will. The abscess
or abscesses formed since the first inside the liver,
which, until a recent period, promised to disperse by
absorption, seem to have increased, and bid fair shortly
to open externally. All I desire is to escape quickly out
of the wretched state in which I have been lingering for
a month past, no matter by what means it he. My mind is
perfectly clear, as you can see; it has only been rarely
and temporarily clouded during several violent paroxysms
of pain at the beginning of my illness. I have generally
calculated upon the worst, so have never been unusually
depressed. My end, should it come, looks sweet and peaceful.
If you were here seated on my bed, with our father and
Frédéric, I should be brokenhearted, and should not regard
death with such serenity and resignation. Be comforted, and
console our father; console one another, my dear ones. But
I am exhausted with this effort to write. I must bid you
farewell! Farewell ... Oh! how your poor Victor loves you!
Farewell for the last time! I can only write in pencil as
I lie on my back. For fear the letters get rubbed out, the
excellent Mr. Nicol will copy this letter in ink, so that I
may be certain you will read my last thoughts.
"VICTOR JACQUEMONT
"I have been able to sign what the admirable Mr. Nicol has
been so good as to copy. Farewell once more, my dear ones!"
Only one single sentence from the man's heart: "Farewell! Oh! how
your poor Victor loves you!" It explains entirely why a literature
full of sentiment must have been antipathetic to that cold, learned
intellectual temperament.
Happily, two men undertook to send to the family, heart-broken by the
unexpected loss far away from them, the melancholy consolations which
the dying man had not thought of giving them. A dying man who knows he
is beloved ought to console those whom he is going to leave as much as
he can; he ought to have pity on those whom he causes to weep: hearts
are cured by being softened, not by being turned to stone. The man who
has wept much alone can appreciate the truth of what I say here.
This is Mr. James Nicol's letter to Jacquemont's brother. Mr. James
Nicol is an Englishman, remember, and yet the letter is written in
French, a tongue other than his own. But there is one universal
language for the heart.
"BOMBAY, 17 _December_ 1832
"MY DEAR SIR,--Although a stranger to you, fate has allotted
it to me to communicate to you an event which you did not
expect. It is with the deepest regret I am obliged to
transmit to you your brother Victor's last letter, and to
communicate to you the sole consolation which is left to
you, that of telling you of the peaceful and painless end he
made on 17 December.
"Your brother came to my house on 29 October from Tanna,
being in a very weak state of health, in consequence of an
illness he had recently had, which he thought would speedily
be cured by the sea breezes of this island, and his strength
quickly restored. The evening of his arrival he took a walk
of half a league with me, and, next day, paid various calls;
but he came back early, thoroughly exhausted. I advised him
to see a doctor at once; Dr. MacLennan saw him the same
evening. I enclose in this letter for your satisfaction the
account the doctor wrote of his illness. As your brother
has himself told you, he suffered terribly at the beginning
of his illness, and, from the first, he was informed of the
dangerous nature of the disease. On 4 November he made his
will, a copy of which I enclose herewith. About 8 November
the disease appeared to take a favourable turn; and he
still entertained the hope of recovering his health, when
the formation of an abscess appeared. He then became daily
weaker, but preserved throughout his illness a calm and
contentedness I have never seen equalled. I left him on 6
December nearly in the same condition as on the preceding
days, but without any symptoms of near dissolution. However,
on the 7th, about three in the morning, he was seized with
violent pains, which lasted for two hours. Dr. MacLennan was
with him at the time. At five A.M. your brother sent for
me: he was not suffering when I arrived; but a great change
had taken place in his looks since the previous night, and
I could hardly restrain my tears. Then, taking my hand, he
said to me: 'Do not grieve; the time draws close, and my
wishes are about to be fulfilled. I have been praying to
heaven for it for the last fortnight. It is a happy release.
Were I to live now the disease would probably make the rest
of my life miserable.... Write to my brother, and tell how
peacefully and happily my last days passed....'
"He repeated to me that he wished me to send his manuscripts
and collections to France, and went into the most elaborate
details concerning his funeral arrangements, which he
wished to be celebrated with Protestant rites. He asked me
to put up a simple gravestone with this inscription upon it--
'VICTOR JACQUEMONT
NÉ À PARIS LE 8 AOUT 1801
MORT À BOMBAY
APRÈS AVOIR VOYAGÉ PENDANT TROIS
ANS ET DEMI
DANS L'INDE'
During the course of the day he had several attacks
of vomiting, and his breathing was considerably affected;
but he kept the use of his faculties as perfectly as when
in good health. He was only disquieted about his death,
adding: 'I am very comfortable here, but I should be
much better in my grave!' About five P.M. he said to
me: 'I am now going to take my last drink from your
hand, and then die.' A violent fit of vomiting ensued,
and he was laid back in his bed completely exhausted.
He opened his eyes at times, and until within twenty
minutes before his death he seemed to recognise me. At
sixteen minutes past six, he rendered up his spirit into
the arms of death in his sleep.
"He was buried the following evening with military
honours, as a member of the Légion d'honneur, and was
followed by members of the Government, and by many
other people.
"I feel the sincerest sympathy with you and your
father in this irreparable loss. I only knew your
brother during his illness, and only had the melancholy
satisfaction of contributing to the best of my ability to
his needs during his illness. In conformity with your
brother's wishes, I have sent off by steamer with
all possible care the articles of natural history which
remained in my possession; they are packed in eleven
cases and barrels, for which I enclose the invoice and
bill of lading, signed by the captain of the French vessel,
_La Nymphe_ of Bordeaux. I wrote to the Commissaire
Général de la Marine at Bordeaux, asking him to smooth
over any difficulties that might arise in connection with
them. Be so good as to write to him about the things.
I have also dispatched a box addressed to your father,
containing all the writings your brother left with me.[1]
I have put his Order of the Légion d'honneur, which
your brother particularly instructed me to send you, in
the case containing his papers. I also send you his watch
and pistols. Be so good as to separate the catalogues
belonging to the collections from the other writings, and
send them to the Royal Museum. I have the honour
to be, dear Sir, yours, etc. JAMES NICOL."
The epitaph drawn up by the dying man himself is
terribly curt and dreary. The lost child called Antony
would have found something more filial for his unknown
mother than this philosopher for his. Besides the mother
who bore us, is there not also the mother who receives
us into her arms;--the everlasting grave as well as the
temporary cradle? Ought not the arid and devouring
climate of India to make the gentle land of his birth most
precious to the sufferer?
Oh, violets and daisies which shall one day spring up
on my grave, how I should regret you if I had to sleep my
last sleep beneath the burning sands of Bombay! The
soul may, perhaps, be but a dream; but the perfume of
flowers is a reality.
To the letter of Mr. James Nicol was joined the account
of Jacquemont's illness by Dr. MacLennan, the length of
which we greatly regret prevents us from reproducing
here;[2] it proves to what a point the excellent doctor had
risked his own health, as the dying man had said. Nor
were these the only tokens of sympathy which the family
of their famous dead received. MM. Cordier, Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire
and de Jussieu wrote the following letter to
M. Jacquemont, the father:--
"PARIS, 21 _May_ 1833
"SIR,--We have sympathised with the blow which has
just struck you down too much not to feel a desire to associate
ourselves with your grief, by bearing testimony to our
own share in it. The administration of the Museum, which
had entrusted your son with the mission he honourably
fulfilled, and to which he has sacrificed his life, feels the
cruel loss in a double capacity; it has lost in him a traveller
in whom it placed complete reliance, and science has lost
a naturalist of most brilliant promise.
"We are authorised to hope that, owing to the wise
precautions he took during his last days, the fruits of the
fatal journey will not be lost; that M. Victor Jacquemont's
work will bear fruit and their results develop, though,
doubtless, less brilliantly than as if under his own direction,
yet in a sufficient manner to cause his efforts to be appreciated,
both in actual accomplishment and as an example
of what further work he would have done had he lived.
"You may rely upon it that nothing will be neglected
on our part to attain to this end, and in order to give you
the only real consolation which is left you.--We are, sir,
etc.,
_"Les professeurs administrateurs du Muséum_
"CORDIER, Director
GEOFFROY-SAINT-HILAIRE
A. DE JUSSIEU"
As a matter of fact, all Victor Jacquemont's writings reached Paris
safe and sound. I saw them in M. Guizot's hand once when I had been to
ask his help in saving the life of a man under sentence of death, who
was to be shot the next day. I wanted a word from M. Guizot to this
end, and he wrote on a spare sheet from among Jacquemont's manuscripts.
The man was saved; but I will tell the story in its proper place. That
is how the name of Jacquemont perhaps occupies a more important place
in my memory and in my Memoirs than it should.
[Footnote 1: The whole of Victor Jacquemont's writings, and the
description of the principal objects of natural history which the
collections comprised, that he sent to the Natural History Museum of
Paris, have been published by MM. Firmin Didot frères, under the title
of _Voyage dans l'Inde,_ 6 vols, in 4to, four of printed matter and two
containing 290 plates and 4 maps (1841-44).]
[Footnote 2: The letter will be found in the Paris edition of the
_Souvenirs of Dumas,_ 1855, vol. vii.]