1850 AND AFTER
Balzac's ill-health--Theophile Gautier and Victor Hugo--Balzac's
grief about the unfinished "Comedie Humaine"--His interview with
the doctor--Victor Hugo's account of his death-bed--Balzac's death
and funeral--Life afterwards in the Rue Fortunee--Reckless
extravagance--House rifled at Madame de Balzac's death--Fate of
Balzac's MSS.--His merits as a writer.
When Balzac's friends came to visit him in the Rue Fortunee, they were
much shocked by the change in his appearance. His breathing was short,
his speech jerky, and his sight so bad that he was unable to
distinguish objects clearly. Nevertheless, as Gautier says,[*] every
one felt such intense confidence in his wonderful constitution that it
seemed impossible to think of a probably fatal result to his malady.
Balzac himself, optimistic as ever, clung persistently to his hope of
speedy recovery. His fame was now at its zenith, the series entitled
"Les Parents Pauvres" had awakened the utmost enthusiasm; and the
_elite_ of the Parisian world were eager to flock to the Rue Fortunee
to stare at the curiosities collected there, and to make the
acquaintance of Balzac's rich and distinguished Russian wife.
[*] "Portraits Contemporains: Honore de Balzac," by Theophile Gautier.
However, in his native country, Balzac was destined never to receive a
full guerdon of adulation and admiration; for though he was visited by
a few friends, the doctors insisted on keeping him otherwise in the
strictest retirement.
Theophile Gautier relates that he went to the Rue Fortunee to say
good-bye to his friend before starting for Italy, and, though
disappointed not to see him, was relieved about his health when told
that he was out driving. However, a little later, a letter was brought
to Gautier which had been dictated by Balzac to his wife, in which he
explained that he had only gone to the Customhouse to get out some
luggage, and had done this against the express orders of his doctors.
However, he spoke cheerfully of his health, saying that he was feeling
better, and that the next day the doctors intended to attack the
chronic malady from which he was suffering. For two months at least he
expected to be kept like a mummy, and not to be allowed to speak or to
move; but there were great hopes of his ultimate recovery. If Gautier
came again, he hoped for a letter beforehand naming the day and hour,
that he might certainly be at home; as in the solitude to which he was
doomed by the doctors, his friend's affection seemed to him more
precious than ever. All this was written in Madame de Balzac's
handwriting, and under it Balzac had scrawled: "I can neither read nor
write!"[*] Gautier left for Italy soon after this, and he never saw
his friend again. He read the news of Balzac's death in a newspaper
when he was at Venice, taking an ice at the Cafe Florian, in the
Piazza of St. Mark; and so terrible was the shock, that he nearly fell
from his seat. He tells us that he felt for the moment unchristian
indignation and revolt, when he thought of the octogenarian idiots he
had seen that morning at the asylum on the island of San Servolo, and
then of Balzac cut off in his prime; but he checked himself, for he
remembered that all souls are equal in the sight of God.
[*] "Portraits Contemporains: Honore de Balzac," by Theophile Gautier.
Victor Hugo also visited the invalid, and says that even a month
before his death he was perfectly confident about his recovery, and
was gay and full of laughter, discussing politics, stating his own
legitimist views with decision, and accusing his visitor of being a
demagogue. He said: "I have M. de Beaujon's house without the garden,
but I am owner of the gallery leading to the little church at the
corner of the street. A door on my staircase leads into the church.
One turn of the key, and I am at Mass. I care more for the gallery
than for the garden."[*]
[*] "Choses Vues," by Victor Hugo.
When Victor Hugo got up to go, Balzac accompanied him with difficulty
to this staircase, to point out the precious door; and called to his
wife, "Mind you show Hugo all my pictures." Though Balzac does not
appear to have been very intimate with the great romantic poet in
former years, he seems to have found special pleasure in his society
at this time. Hugo was at the seaside when Balzac next sent for him.
He hurried back,[*] however, at the urgent summons, and found the
dying man stretched on a sofa covered with red and gold brocade.
Balzac tried to rise, but could not; his face was purple, and his eyes
alone had life in them. Now that happiness in his married life had
failed him, his mind had reverted to the yet unfinished "Comedie
Humaine"; and he talked long and sadly of projected herculean labours,
and of the fate of his still unpublished works. "Although my wife has
more brains than I, who will support her in her solitude, she whom I
have accustomed to so much love?" "Certainly," Victor Hugo remarks
drily, "she was crying a great deal."
[*] See letter written by Madame Hamelin to the Countess Kisselef
quoted in "Histoire des Oeuvres de Balzac," by the Vicomte de
Spoelberch de Lovenjoul, p. 406.
Nevertheless, though Balzac did at last realise his dangerous state,
he had no idea that his end was approaching so near, and he still
hoped to be able to add a few more stones to the edifice of the
"Comedie Humaine," that great work, which was now again the principal
object of his life, the one bright vision in a world of
disappointment. In August, however, an agonising suspicion began for
the first time to visit him momentarily, a terrible fear to assail
him. What if there were not time after all? What if the creations
which floated through his mind while he lay suffering and helpless,
were never destined to be put into shape? What if his opportunity for
work on earth were really over? It was a horrible idea; a fancy, he
told himself, born only of weakness. Destiny _must_ intend him to
finish his appointed task. Robbed of everything else he had longed
for, that one consolation surely remained. He would ask the doctor,
would be content with no vague and soothing generalities, but would
insist on knowing the exact truth. It could not--ah, it could not be
as black as the nightmares of his imagination!
He approached the subject cautiously on the doctor's next visit.[*]
Perhaps, he said, he had after all never realised sufficiently the
acuteness of his malady. He certainly felt terribly ill, and knew that
he was losing ground; while, in spite of all his efforts, he was
unable to eat anything. His duty required that he should bequeath a
certain legacy to the public, and he had calculated carefully, and had
discovered that he would be able in six months to accomplish his task.
Could the doctor promise him that length of time? There was no answer
to this searching question, but a shake of the head from the pitying
doctor. "Ah," cried Balzac sorrowfully, "I see quite well that you
will not allow me six months. . . . Well, at any rate, you will at
least give me six weeks? . . . Six weeks with fever is an eternity.
Hours are like days . . . and then the nights are not lost." Again the
doctor shook his head, and Balzac once more lowered his claims for a
vestige of life. "I have courage to submit," he said proudly; "but six
days . . . you will certainly give me that? I shall then be able to
write down hasty plans that my friends may be able to finish, shall
tear up bad pages and improve good ones, and shall glance rapidly
through the fifty volumes I have already written. Human will can do
miracles." Balzac pleaded pathetically, almost as though he thought
his interlocutor could grant the boon of longer life if he willed to
do so. He had aged ten years since the beginning of the interview, and
he had now no voice left to speak, and the doctor hardly any voice for
answering. The latter managed, however, to tell his patient that
everything must be done to-day, because in all probability to-morrow
would not exist for him; and Balzac cried with horror, "I have then
only six hours!" fell back on his pillows, and spoke no more.
[*] The following account of Balzac's interview with his doctor is
taken from an article written by Arsene Houssaye in the _Figaro_
of August 20th, 1883. It is right to add that the Vicomte de
Spoelberch de Lovenjoul, the great authority on Balzac, throws
grave doubts on the accuracy of the story.
He died the next day, and Victor Hugo gives us one more glimpse of
him.[*] The poet was told by his wife, who had visited Madame de
Balzac during the day, that Balzac's last hour had come; and directly
after dinner he took a cab and drove rapidly to the Rue Fortunee. "I
rang. It was moonlight, occasionally veiled by clouds. The street was
deserted. No one came. I rang a second time. The door was opened. A
servant appeared with a candle. 'What does Monsieur want?' she said.
She was crying.
[*] "Choses Vues, 1850: Mort de Balzac," by Victor Hugo.
"I gave my name. I was shown into the room on the ground floor. On a
pedestal opposite the fireplace was the colossal bust of Balzac by
David. In the middle of the salon, on a handsome oval table, which had
for legs six gilded statuettes of great beauty, a wax candle was
burning. Another woman came in crying, and said: 'He is dying. Madame
has gone to her own rooms. The doctors gave him up yesterday.' After
going into medical details, the woman continued: 'The night was bad.
This morning at nine o'clock Monsieur spoke no more. Madame sent for a
priest. The priest came, and administered extreme unction. Monsieur
made a sign to show that he understood. An hour afterwards he pressed
the hand of his sister, Madame Surville. Since eleven o'clock the
death rattle has been in his throat, and he can see nothing. He will
not last out the night. If you wish it, Monsieur, I will call M.
Surville, who has not yet gone to bed.'
"The woman left me. I waited several minutes. The candle hardly
lighted up the splendid furniture of the salon, and the magnificent
paintings by Porbus and Holbein which were hanging on the walls. The
marble bust showed faintly in the obscurity, like the spectre of a
dying man. A corpse-like odour filled the house.
"M. Surville came in, and confirmed all that the servant had told me.
I asked to see M. de Balzac.
"We crossed a corridor, went up a staircase covered with a red carpet
and crowded with artistic objects--vases, statues, pictures, and
stands with enamels on them. Then we came to another passage, and I
saw an open door. I heard the sound of difficult, rattling breathing.
I entered Balzac's room.
"The bedstead was in the centre of the room. It was of mahogany, and
across the foot and at the head were beams provided with straps for
moving the sick man. M. de Balzac was in this bed, his head resting on
a heap of pillows, to which the red damask sofa cushions had been
added. His face was purple, almost black, and was inclined to the
right. He was unshaved, his grey hair was cut short, and his eyes open
and fixed. I saw his profile, and it was like that of the Emperor
Napoleon.
"An old woman, the nurse, and a servant, stood beside the bed. A
candle was burning on a table behind the head of the bed, another on a
chest of drawers near the door. A silver vase was on the stand near
the bed. The women and man were silent with a kind of terror, as they
listened to the rattling breathing of the dying man.
"The candle at the head of the bed lit up brilliantly the portrait of
a young man, fresh-coloured and smiling, which was hanging near the
fireplace. . . .
"I lifted the coverlet and took Balzac's hand. It was covered with
perspiration. I pressed it. He did not respond to the pressure. . . .
"I went downstairs again, carrying in my mind the memory of that livid
face, and, crossing the drawing-room, I looked again at the bust
--immovable, impassive, proud, and smiling faintly, and I compared
death with immortality."
Balzac died that night, Sunday, August 17th, 1850, at half-past
eleven, at the age of fifty-one.
The dying man's almost complete isolation is strange, and the
servant's news that M. Surville had not _yet_ gone to bed has a
callous ring about it. Perhaps, however, the doctors had told Madame
de Balzac and Madame Surville that Balzac was unconscious, and they
had therefore withdrawn, utterly exhausted by the fatigues of the
night before. In any case, it seems sad, though possibly of no moment
to the dying man, that several of his nearest relations should have
deserted him before the breath had left his body. Our respect for the
elder Madame de Balzac is decidedly raised, because, though there had
occasionally been disagreements between her and her son, the true
mother feeling asserted itself at the last, and she alone watched with
the paid attendants till the end came.
However, some one was busy about the arrangements, as Balzac's
portrait was taken by Giraud directly after his death, and a cast was
made of his beautifully-shaped hand. His body was taken into the
Beaujon Chapel before burial, so that he passed for the last time, as
Victor Hugo remarks, through that door, the key of which was more
precious to him than all the beautiful gardens which had belonged to
the old Farmer-General.
The funeral service was held on Wednesday, August 20th, at the Church
of Sainte Philippe du Roule. The rain was descending in torrents, but
the procession, followed by a large crowd, walked the whole way across
Paris to the Cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise, where the interment took
place. The pall-bearers were Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, Monsieur
Baroche, and Sainte-Beuve. At the grave Victor Hugo spoke, finishing
with the words: "No, it is not the Unknown to him. I have said this
before, and I shall never tire of repeating it: it is not darkness to
him, it is Light! It is not the end, but the beginning; not
nothingness, but eternity! Is not this the truth, I ask you who listen
to me? Such coffins proclaim immortality. In the presence of certain
illustrious dead, we understand the divine destiny of that intellect
which has traversed earth to suffer and to be purified. Do we not say
to ourselves here, to-day, that it is impossible for a great genius in
this life to be other than a great spirit after death?"[*]
[*] "Funerailles de Balzac," in "Actes et Paroles," by Victor Hugo.
The Cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise had been one of Balzac's favourite
haunts in the old half-starved days of the Rue Lesdiguieres. "Here I
am back from Pere-la-Chaise," he wrote to his sister in 1820,[*] "and
I have brought with me some good big inspiring reflections. Decidedly,
the only fine epitaphs are these: La Fontaine, Messena, Moliere, a
single name, which tells all and makes one dream." Probably Madame
Surville remembered these words and repeated them to Madame Honore de
Balzac, for the monument erected to Balzac is a broken column with his
name inscribed on it.
[*] "Correspondance," vol. i. p. 24.
The fortunes of the inhabitants of the Rue Fortunee were not happy
after Balzac's death. Madame Honore de Balzac's contemporaries
considered that she as not really as overwhelmed with sorrow at her
husband's death as she appeared to be, and that when she wrote
heartbroken letters, she slightly exaggerated the real state of her
feelings; but she assumed gallantly the burdens laid upon her by the
state of pecuniary embarrassment in which her husband died. If Balzac
had lived longer and had been able to work steadily, there is little
doubt that he would in a few years have become a free man, as the
Vicomte de Spoelberch de Lovenjoul tells us[*] that in the years
between 1841 and 1847, after which date his productions became very
rare, he had enormously diminished the sum he owed.
[*] "La Genese d'un Roman de Balzac," by the Vicomte de Spoelberch de
Lovenjoul.
Under Balzac's will his widow might have refused to acknowledge any
liability for his debts, but she set to work bravely, with the aid of
MM. Dutacq and Fessart, to make as much money as she could out of
Balzac's published works, and to bring before the public those that
were still unpublished. In this way, "Mercadet le Faiseur" was acted a
year after Balzac's death, and "Les Petits Bourgeois" and "Le Depute
d'Arcis" were published, the latter being finished, according to
Balzac's wish, by Charles Rabou. "Les Paysans," which was to have
filled eight volumes, and of which, as we have already seen, only a
few chapters were written, presented great difficulty; but at last
Madame de Balzac, aided by Champfleury and by Charles Rabou, managed
to give some consistency to the fragment, and it appeared in the
_Revue de Paris_ in April, May and June, 1855. Unfortunately, however,
no information was given as to the unfinished state in which it had
been left by Balzac, and therefore no explanation was offered of the
insufficiency of the _denouement_, and the inadequacy of the last
chapters. Madame de Balzac worked hard, and long before her death in
April, 1882, the whole of Balzac's debts were paid off.
This was most creditable to her; but side by side with her admirable
conduct in this respect, she seems to have either actively abetted, or
at any rate acquiesced in mad extravagance on the part of Madame
Georges Mniszech, who with her husband, had come to live in the Rue
Fortunee after Balzac's death. Perhaps Madame de Balzac was too busy
with her literary and business arrangements, to pay attention to what
was happening, or possibly maternal devotion prevented her from
denying her beloved daughter anything she craved for. At all events
the results of her supineness were lamentable, especially as M.
Georges Mniszech was not capable of exercising any restraint on his
wife; he being for some years before his death in 1881, in the most
delicate state of health, both mental and physical.
Madame Georges Mniszech--after years of the wild Russian steppes,
suddenly plunged into the fascinations of shopping in Paris, and left
to her own devices--seems to have shown senseless folly in her
expenditure. Additions were made to the house in the Rue Fortunee,
though Balzac's rooms were left untouched; and the Chateau de
Beauregard, at Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, was bought as a country
residence. Madame de Balzac and her daughter were, however, rich, and
could quite afford to live comfortably, and even luxuriously. Their
ruin seems to have been brought about by reckless expenditure on
things which were of absolutely no use, and were only bought for the
amusement of buying. Several sales of pictures took place, and on
February 9th, 1882,[*] the Chateau de Beauregard and its contents were
sold by order of the President of the Civil Tribunal of Corbeil.
[*] "Life of Balzac," by Frederick Wedmore.
Madame de Balzac died in April of the same year; and the very day of
her funeral, Madame Georges Mniszech's creditors pushed her and her
maid into the street, and rifled the house in the Rue Fortunee. The
booty was transported to the auction-room known as l'Hotel Drouot, and
there a sale was held by order of justice of Balzac's library, his
Buhl cabinets, and some of his MSS., including that of "Eugenie
Grandet," which had been given to Madame Hanska on December 24th,
1833. During the shameless pillage of the house, the vultures who
ransacked it found evidence of the most reckless, the most imbecile
extravagance, proof positive that the wisdom, prudence, even the
principles of poor Balzac's paragon the Countess Anna, had been routed
by the glitter and glamour of the holiday city. One room was filled
with boxes containing hats, and in another, piles of costly silks were
heaped, untouched since their arrival from the fashionable haberdasher
or silk mercer.[*] Balzac's treasures, the curiosities he had amassed
with so much trouble, the pictures of which he had been so proud, were
ruthlessly seized; while precious manuscripts and letters, which would
perhaps have brought in a hundred thousand francs if they had been put
up for sale, were thrown out of the window by the exasperated throng.
[*] "Journal des Goncourts," vol. viii. P. 48.
The Vicomte de Spoelberch de Lovenjoul rescued a page of the first of
Balzac's letters to Madame Hanska which has been found up to this
time, from a cobbler whose stall was opposite the house. The cobbler,
when once started on the quest by the Vicomte, discovered many other
letters, sketches, and unfinished novels, which had been picked up by
the neighbouring shopkeepers, and were only saved in the nick of time
from being used to wrap up pounds of butter, or to make bags for other
household commodities. It was an exciting chase, requiring patience
and ingenuity; and Balzac's former cook held out for years, before she
would consent to sell a packet of letters which the Vicomte coveted
specially. Sometimes incidentally there were delightful surprises, and
occasionally real joys; as on the occasion when the searcher found at
a distant grocer's shop, the middle of the letter, of which the first
page had been saved from destruction at the hands of the cobbler.
The bitter dislike Balzac had evoked in the literary world, and his
occasional obscurity and clumsy style, have militated very strongly
against his popularity in his native land, where perfection in the
manipulation of words is of supreme importance in a writer. While in
France, however, Balzac's undoubted faults have partially blinded his
countrymen to his consummate merits as a writer, and they have been
strangely slow in acknowledging the debt of gratitude they owe to him,
the rest or the world has already begun to realise his power of
creating type, his wonderful imagination, his versatility, and his
extraordinary impartiality; and to accord him his rightful place among
the Immortals. Nevertheless we are still too near to him, to be able
to focus him clearly, and to estimate aright his peculiar place in
literature, or the full scope of his genius.
Some very great authorities claim him as a member of the Romantic
School; while, on the other hand, he is often looked on--apparently
with more reason--as the first of the Realists. His object in writing
was, he tells us, to represent mankind as he saw it, to be the
historian of the nineteenth century, and to classify human beings as
Buffon had classified animals. No doubt this scheme was very
imperfectly carried out: certainly the powerful mind of Balzac with
its wealth of imagination, often projected itself into his puppets, so
that many of his characters are not the ordinary men and women he
wished to portray, but are inspired by the fire of genius. This fact
does not, however, alter the aim of their creator. He intended to be
merely a chronicler, a scientific observer of things around him; and
though his works are tinged to a large extent with the Romanticism of
the powerful school in vogue in his day, this object marks him plainly
as the forerunner of the Realists, the founder of a totally new
conception of the scope and range of the novel.
Theophile Gautier's words should prove to the modern reader, the debt
of gratitude he owes to the inaugurator of a completely original
system of fiction. Speaking of Balzac's impecunious and ambitious
heroes, Gautier cries:[*] "O Corinne, who on the Cape of Messina
allowest thy snowy arm to hang over the ivory lyre, while the son of
Albion, clothed in a superb new cloak, and with elegant boots
perfectly polished, gazes at thee, and listens in an elegant pose:
Corinne, what wouldst thou have said to such heroes? They have
nevertheless one little quality which Oswald lacked--they live, and
with so strong a life that we have met them a thousand times."
Balzac's own words, speaking of his play "La Maratre,"[+] might also
serve for a motto for his novels: "I dream of a drawing-room comedy,
where everything is calm, quiet, and amiable. The men play whist
placidly by the light of candles with little green shades. The women
talk and laugh while they work at their embroidery. They all take tea
together. To sum up, everything announces good order and harmony.
Well, underneath are agitating passions; the drama stirs, it prepares
itself secretly, till it blazes forth like the flame of a
conflagration."
[*] "Portraits Contemporains: Honore de Balzac," by Theophile Gautier.
[+] "Historiettes et Souvenirs d'un Homme de Theatre," by H. Hostein.
Balzac is essentially a Realist, in his use of the novel as a vehicle
for the description of real struggling life; with money and position,
the principal desiderata of modern civilisation, powerful as
determining factors in the moulding of men's actions. Life, as
portrayed in the old-fashioned novel, where the hero and heroine and
their love affairs were the sole focus of attraction, and the other
characters were grouped round in subordinate positions, while every
one declined in interest as he advanced in years, was not life as
Balzac saw it; and he pictures his hero's agony at not having a penny
with which to pay his cab fare, with as much graphic intensity, as he
tells of the same young gentleman's despair when his inamorata is
indifferent to him.
Nevertheless, if we compare Balzac with the depressing writers of the
so-called Realist School, we shall find that his conception of life
differed greatly from theirs. In Flaubert's melancholy books, even
perfection of style and painstaking truth of detail do not dissipate
the deadly dulness of an unreal world, where no one rises above the
low level of self-gratification; while Zola considers man so
completely in his physical aspect, that he ends by degrading him below
the animal world. Balzac, on the other hand, believed in purity, in
devotion, and unselfishness; though he did not think that these
qualities are triumphant on earth. In his pessimistic view of life,
virtue generally suffered, and had no power against vice; but he knew
that it existed, and he believed in a future where wrongs would be
righted.
He is a poet and idealist, and thus akin to the Romanticists--though
he lacks their perfection of diction--in his feeling for the beauty of
atmospheric effects, and also in his enthusiasm for music, which he
loved passionately. The description of Montriveau's emotions when the
cloistered Duchesse de Langeais plays in the church of Spain--and
Balzac tells us that the sound of the organ bears the mind through a
thousand scenes of life to the infinite which parts earth from heaven,
and that through its tones the luminous attributes of God Himself
pierce and radiate--is totally unrealistic both in moral tone, and in
its accentuation of the power of the higher emotions. His intense
admiration for Sir Walter Scott--an admiration which he expresses time
after time in his letters--is a further proof of his sympathy for the
school of thought, which glorified the picturesque Middle Ages above
every other period of history.
Whichever school, however, may claim Balzac, it is an undisputed fact
that he possessed in a high degree that greatest of all attributes
--the power of creation of type. Le Pere Goriot, Balthazar Claes, Old
Grandet, La Cousine Bette, Le Cousin Pons, and many other people in
Balzac's pages, are creations; they live and are immortal. He has
endowed them with more splendid and superabundant vitality than is
accorded to ordinary humanity.
To do this, something is required beyond keenness of vision. The gift
of seeing vividly--as under a dazzling light--to the very kernel of
the object stripped of supernumerary circumstance, is indeed necessary
for the portrayal of character; but although Dickens, as well as
Balzac, possessed this faculty to a high degree, his people are often
qualities personified, or impossible monsters. For the successful
creation of type, that power in which Balzac is akin to Shakespeare,
it is necessary that a coherent whole shall be formed, and that the
full scope of a character shall be realised, with its infinite
possibilities on its own plane, and its impotence to move a
hairsbreadth on to another. The mysterious law which governs the
conduct of life must be fathomed; so that, though there may be
unexpected and surprising developments, the artistic sense and
intuition which we possess shall not be outraged, and we shall still
recognise the abiding personality under everything. Balzac excels in
this; and because of this power, and also because--at a time when
Byronic literature was in the ascendant, and it was the fashion to
think that the quintessence of beauty could be found by diving into
the depths of one's own being--he came forward without pose or
self-consciousness, as a simple observer of the human race, the world
will never cease to owe him a debt of gratitude, and to rank him among
her greatest novelists.