A parenthesis_--Hariadan Barberousse_ at Villers-Cotterets--I play the
rôle of Don Ramire as an amateur--My costume--The third act of the
_Vampire_--My friend the bibliomaniac whistles at the most critical
moment--He is expelled from the theatre--Madame Allan-Dorval--Her
family and her childhood--Philippe--His death and his funeral
The only definite feeling I was conscious of, when my neighbour had
gone, was one of utter loneliness in that vast building. So I gave
my whole attention to the play. Could I judge clearly? No, certainly
not as yet: the _Vampire_ was one of the first melodramas I had come
across. The first was _Hariadan Barberousse._ I have forgotten to tell
at the proper time and place how I became acquainted with the work of
MM. Saint-Victor and Corse.
A troop of poverty-stricken actors came to Villers-Cotterets
(you will understand they must have been poor indeed to come to
Villers-Cotterets), and there they pretty nearly died of starvation.
They consisted of but one family named Robba. These poor devils were
possessed with the idea of giving a benefit for themselves, and they
thought of begging two or three young ladies and young gentlemen of the
town to play with them and for them. Naturally I was applied to. Nature
had already implanted in my heart that fountain of goodwill through
which everything that I had, that I have, that I shall have, passed,
passes, and always will pass. I agreed to undertake the rôle of Don
Ramire. All the other mothers refused to allow their boys and girls
to act. Were their children going to mount the boards and play with
ordinary actors? No indeed! My mother alone kept her promised word, and
I was the only artiste on this special occasion whose name, printed in
big letters on the bills, was utilised in the philanthropic mission of
obtaining a good audience for them.
I had to concoct a costume. It was a lengthy business to bring such an
operation to a conclusion. Happily, no one was very exacting at that
period, above all at Villers-Cotterets. Even Talma, who was a great
renovator, played _Hamlet_ in white satin breeches, _bottes à cœur_
and a polonaise. But of this wardrobe I only had the _bottes à cœur:_
I could not play Don Ramire with the aid only of the boots. We made
a tunic,--everybody played in tunics at that epoch,--and a splendid
tunic it was, indeed, for it was made out of two red cashmere shawls,
ornamented with a great gold-flowered pattern; my father had brought
the shawls from Egypt, and I believe I have already referred to them.
We contented ourselves with sewing them together, leaving an opening
on each side for my arms, a sword-belt at the waist serving as a
girdle; out of each arm-hole appeared a satin sleeve, and Don Ramire
was, if not exactly sufficiently, at least sumptuously and modestly,
clad from the shoulders to half-way down his thighs. A turned-down
collar and a satin toque to match the tunic in colour completed the
upper part of the costume. But the question of the lower half was more
serious. Tights were rare in Villers-Cotterets; I might even say that
they were unknown; so it was of no use wishing to procure tights: it
would have been time wasted, a vision, a dream. The longest pair of
silk stockings that could be found, sewed into a pair of drawers, did
the business. Then came the laced boots. Ah! these laced boots, they
were an invention of my own. A second pair of silk stockings were dyed
red; soles were sewed to them; they were put over the first pair,
then turned back, rolled up to within three inches of the ankle; the
roll was tied fast to make a pad; we imitated the lacing of a laced
boot with green ribbon; and then this footgear formed the base of a
presentable-looking Don Ramire, who, atop, indulged in the luxury
of a satin toque with an ostrich plume. Finally came the sword. My
father's sword, the sword of a Republican, with its cap of Liberty,
looked somewhat odd when compared with the rest of Don Ramire's attire.
The mayor, M. Mussart, lent me a silver-mounted Louis XV. sword: the
chain which had fastened it was detached; but, though the guard had
disappeared, the hilt and the sheath were left, and this was sufficient
to satisfy the most exacting.
The announcement of this important entertainment made a great
sensation: people came from all the towns and all the villages round,
even from Soissons. I looked perfectly absurd, having never seen any
play but _Paul et Virginie_ at the age of three, and the _Jeunesse de
Henri V._ when I was eleven. But the Robbas took eight hundred francs
at the doors--a fortune to them; and a mother, a father, children and
grandchildren had wherewithal to keep themselves in food for two-thirds
of a year.
Poor Robbas! I recollect that the whole of their _répertoire_ only
consisted of _Adolphe et Clara_ and the _Déserteur._ God alone knows
what became of the poor things! That was how I came to know _Hariadan
Barberousse_, which, with the _Vampire_, whose last act I was about to
see, completed the sum total of my melodramatic equipment.
The third act was but a repetition of what had passed in the first.
Ruthven, whom his friend Aubrey believed dead at
Marsden's farm, comes to life again, a sepulchral Endymion, under the
kisses of the moon. He returns to the castle before Malvina's brother
and urges forward his marriage; then Aubrey comes back and finds the
bride adorned and the chapel prepared. He approaches his sister to tell
her the terrible news of the death of her betrothed, and, seeing him
pale and distressed, Malvina exclaims--
"Dear brother, you are in trouble!... For heaven's sake, tell me all!"
"Rally your courage, then," says Aubrey.
"You terrify me!" exclaims Malvina.
Then, turning towards the door--
"Milord is long a-coming," she says.
"Since I must rend your heart, know that all my plans are broken. A
fearful, an unlooked-for event has deprived us, me of a friend, you of
a husband!... The unfortunate Ruthven."
At this juncture Ruthven comes forward, seizes Aubrey by the arm and
says to him in a grim voice--
"Think of thy oath!"
At these words, and just as the whole audience burst into applause,
a loud whistle sounded from one of the boxes. I turned round, and
everybody in the orchestra and the pit did likewise. The hired
applauders rose in a body and, climbing on the forms, shouted, "Put
him out!" This formidable mountain could be seen rising up in the
centre of the theatre, like the enormous counterfeit Parnassus of M.
Titon-Dutillet at the Bibliothèque. But the whistler continued to
whistle, hidden in his box, sheltered behind the railing as behind an
impregnable rampart. I do not know why, but I came to the conclusion
that it was my neighbour who was at last gratifying to his heart's
content his desire to deride the piece which had disgusted him
throughout the night. The play was totally stopped: Philippe, Madame
Dorval and Thérigny stood on the stage without being able to utter
a syllable; shouts of "Put him out!" increased and a police officer
was sent for. By dint of gazing hard into the box I could see through
the bars, and there I discerned, in the dusky interior, the untoward
whistler. It was indeed my neighbour the bibliomaniac. The police
officer arrived. In spite of all his protestations, the whistler was
expelled from the theatre, and the piece went on in the midst of
stampings and bravoes.
The play was drawing to its close. Aubrey, seized by Lord Ruthven's
attendants, is carried away from Malvina's side, and she remains
unprotected. Ruthven bears her off; a door opens--it is that of the
chapel, illuminated for the nocturnal marriage. Malvina hesitates
to contract the marriage without the presence of her brother; but
Ruthven becomes more and more urgent; for unless the blood of a young
damsel gives him renewed life within a very few minutes, he _will
be annihilated,_ as the angel of marriage had predicted! Suddenly,
Aubrey, who has escaped from his guardians, appears in the chapel; he
stops his sister; he implores her not to go on any farther with the
proceedings. Ruthven again recalls Aubrey to his oath.
"Yes," says Aubrey, "but the hour is just about to strike when I may
reveal everything."
"Wretch!" cries Ruthven, drawing a dagger, "if you utter one word...."
"You shall only take her bathed in my blood!" cries Aubrey, redoubling
his resistance.
"Well, then, you shall both perish!" says Ruthven.
He is about to strike Aubrey. One o'clock sounds; Malvina falls
fainting in the arms of Bridget; thunder rumbles.
"Annihilation! annihilation!" shrieks Ruthven.
He lets his dagger fall and tries to flee. Shades come up out of the
ground and carry him off; the destroying angel appears in a cloud;
lightning flashes, and Ruthven is engulfed amidst the shades.
"_PLUIE DE FEU_"
It will be gathered that we are copying from the manuscript itself.
Philippe was recalled. But Madame Dorval's part was so execrable
that no one dreamt of recalling her; she was only engaged at the
Porte-Saint-Martin to play the worst parts; the favourite artiste,
Mademoiselle Lévesque, took the good ones.
Allow me a few words concerning that poor dear creature, whom I then
saw for the first time, and who died in my arms twenty-six years
later.[1]
A large portion of these Memoirs will be devoted to remarks concerning
the influence of eminent artistes, great comedians or famous poets; for
my pages are intended to deal with the development of art in France
during one half of the nineteenth century.
Political events will also no doubt have their share of attention,
but only their due share. It is time things were relegated to their
proper positions, and, as our century is first and foremost one of
appreciation, it is desirable that men and things should be appreciated
at their proper value.
Mademoiselle Mars and Talma, those two great artistic glories of the
Empire and the Restoration, will still survive in the thoughts of the
twentieth and the twenty-first centuries, when the very names of those
political actors whom men call ministers will long have been forgotten,
the men who disdainfully flung to these glorious mendicants the grant
annually allowed by the Chamber as though it were an alms.
Who was minister in England the year Shakespeare wrote _Othello_? Who
was gonfalonier in Florence when Dante wrote his _Inferno_? Who was
minister to King Hiero when the author of _Prometheus_ came to beg
protection from him? Who was archon of Athens when the divine Homer
died on one of the Sporades, towards the middle of the tenth century
B.C.?
To answer such queries one must needs be my neighbour,--my neighbour
who knew so many things, who could recognise Elzevirs, who knew where
vampires were to be found, who knew the origin of hired applauders
and who had been put out of the theatre for whistling at the prose
of MM.... for no name was ever printed on the _Vampire_ pamphlet,
published by Barba, who ostentatiously put below his name: _Publisher
of the Works of Pigault-Lebrun._
Let us return to Madame Allan-Dorval, as she was called at that period.
As I advance with these Memoirs there are many men and women, literary
or political comedians whom we shall meet with, who made a name for
themselves in their day, and I shall do for these personages what I am
just about to do for poor Marie Dorval. When she died I undertook to
raise a monument over her grave--a literary monument in my writings,
a sepulchral monument in stone. The stones were to be paid for by my
literary labours, and it pleased me to think of being the architect of
both monuments.
Unluckily, I began the erection of my literary monument in the
_Constitutionnel._ At the second article, I referred to _Antony_ and
the old _Constitutionnel._ M. Véron's susceptibility took fright:
the literary monument was arrested at its first attempt. And as the
sepulchral monument depended on the literary monument, the sepulchral
monument was never begun.
Some day we will take up this matter again, among many others we have
been compelled to drop, and with God's help, and in spite of the
ill-will of men, we will finish them.
The age of artistes is ever a problem that is never solved until after
their death. I never learned Dorval's age until she died. She was born
on Twelfth Night in the year 1798; so in 1823, when I was twenty, she
was twenty-five. She did not call herself Marie Dorval then: those two
names, so easy to pronounce that they seem always to have belonged to
her, were not then linked to each other by the golden chain of genius.
Her real name was Thomase-Amélie Delaunay: she was born close to the
théâtre de Lorient and her earliest steps were patters across its
boards. Her mother was an actress who took the part of leading singer.
_Camille ou le Souterrain_ was then the comic opera in vogue. The
little maiden was rocked on the stage to these lines, which her mother
could hardly sing save with tears in her eyes:--
"Oh! non, non, il n'est pas possible
D'avoir un plus aimable enfant!"
Directly she could talk, her lips stammered out the prose of Panard and
Collé, Sedaine and Favart; at seven, she passed into what was called
the _emploi des Betsy._ Her most popular air was in _Sylvani_--
"Je ne sais pas si mon cœur aime."
An artist at Lorient painted her portrait at that time--that is to
say, in 1808. In 1839, Madame Dorval returned to Lorient, her native
town. The day following a striking success, an old white-haired man
came to call upon her to pay her his tribute. His offering was this
painting of her as a child: a third of a century had passed by and the
woman could not be recognised in it. To-day both painter and Madame
Dorval are dead, but the portrait still continues to smile. It hung in
Madame Dorval's bedroom. I saw it, for the first time, when I helped
to close her eyes. It was a melancholy contrast, I need hardly say, to
see the face of the rosy child in the picture confronting the livid
face on the death-bed opposite. How many joys, hopes, disappointments
and sorrows had passed between that childish smile and the death-agony!
At twelve years of age little Delaunay left Lorient with the whole
company. That was in 1810, when diligences did not traverse France in
every direction: in those days railways had not yet carved their way
through the valleys or tunnelled the mountains; if you wanted to go to
Strassbourg--that is to say, to cross France from west to east--you had
to club together and buy a large wicker carriage, and it took six weeks
to go from the Ocean, to the Rhine.
The comedy company passed through Paris and stopped four days in the
capital. It was the zenith of Talma's reputation: how could anyone pass
through Paris without seeing Talma? For three days, the mother and
daughter economised in their breakfasts and in their dinners, and on
the fourth day they took two tickets for the second gallery. Talma was
playing _Hamlet_.
Those of you who knew Madame Dorval will understand what it meant to a
nature such as hers to see the famous actor play; what it meant to that
heart which was so loyally filial in its early days and so motherly
in later years, to listen to the gloomy ravings of the Danish prince,
as he speaks of his father in a voice full of tears, in the way Talma
represented him. And at these three lines--
"On remplace un ami, son épouse, une amante;
Mais un vertueux père est un bien précieux
Qu'on ne tient qu'une fois de la bonté des cieux!"--
the young actress, who, with the intuition of genius in her,
comprehended the greatness of art displayed, as well as realised, the
depth of the pathos, leant backwards, sobbed and fainted away. They
carried her into an adjoining room; but the play continued in vain, so
far as she was concerned: she would not see any more of it. She did not
see Talma again until ten years later.
The company continued its journey and reached Strassbourg. And then
Mademoiselle Delaunay gradually became famous. She changed her line
of character and played _les Dugazon._ She made a fascinating young
girl, overflowing with mischievousness and good humour, declaiming M.
Étienne's prose excellently, but singing M. Nicholo's music out of
tune. Now it is a great defect for a _Dugazon_ to sing falsely, while
speaking correctly. Happily, Perrier, who was acting at Strassbourg,
advised Madame Delaunay to let her daughter give up comic opera, and
turn her attention to comedy. In deference to this advice, _la Dugazon_
became a young lover. Panard was given up for Molière and the actress
and the public profited by the change.
From that time dated Madame Dorval's first successes. Alas! from that
time dated also her first sorrows. Her mother fell ill of a long and
painful disease. The engagements which Madame Delaunay found as first
singer became fewer as her voice grew weaker. Then the young girl
redoubled her labours; she knew that talent was not only a question
of art, but still more one of necessity. Thanks to her efforts, her
engagements brought in eighty francs to a hundred francs; and those of
her' mother diminished, at the same time, from three hundred francs to
one hundred and fifty francs, and from one hundred and fifty francs
they fell to nothing. From that time began the young girl's life of
devotion which continued on into womanhood.
For a year Amélie Delaunay did everything for her mother: she was
servant, nurse, comforter; then, at the end of a year, the mother died,
and all those nights of watching and weeping, all her careful tendings,
were lost, except in the sight of God.
When her mother died the young girl was left alone in the world. She
could never afterwards remember what she did during the two years after
her mother's death: memory was drowned in grief! The company moved
on from Lorient to Strassbourg, from Strassbourg to Bayonne, always
travelling in the same wicker carriage with the same horses, which
belonged to the company. However, one great event came about:
Amélie Delaunay married a poor boy of fifteen, out of loneliness.
She had no love for him: he was one of her fellow-actors, who played
the rôle of _les Martins;_ his name was Allan-Dorval. He died at St.
Petersburg. Where he lived nobody ever knew. This marriage had no other
influence on the actress's life beyond giving her the name by which
she became known; her other name, that of Marie, was given her by us.
Antony was her godfather and Adèle d'Hervey her godmother.
Their journeyings were continued and, as they were _en route_ for
Bayonne, they came close to Paris. I do not know in what village,
upon what road, at what inn, Potier, the great actor whom Talma
admired, met Madame Allan-Dorval, in what theatre he saw her play or
what part she was taking, when she uttered one of those heartfelt
phrases, one of those outbursts of fraternal affection by which great
artistes recognise each other's talents. I know nothing of all this,
for poor Marie forgot it herself; but, in a trice he described to her
Paris--that is to say, splendour, fame, suffering!
The young wife came to Paris with a letter of introduction from Potier
to M. de Saint-Romain, manager of the Porte-Saint-Martin. M. de
Saint-Romain engaged Madame Allan-Dorval on this recommendation, and
from that day her name became part of the recollections of Parisians,
her life became interwoven with the literary life of Paris. This was in
1818.
What had this poor talented young woman played ere Potier's
encouragement had made a path for her genius? She had acted in the
_Cabane du Montagnard,_ the _Catacombes_, the _Pandoursy_ and, finally,
in the _Vampire_, at which my neighbour had hooted so shamelessly. Poor
Marie! only she herself could relate the sufferings of those early
days. There was, I remember, one special costume on which she had to
sew some lace trimming every evening before the performance, and it had
to be unsewn every evening after the play.--O Frétillon! Frétillon! thy
cotillion never saw half what that dress did!
She whom I now saw for the first time was the Eve from whose womb a
new dramatic world was to spring. As for Philippe, who eclipsed her at
that time, with the dignity and majesty of his steps and gestures, his
was the acting of the pure old-fashioned melodrama of Pixérécourt and
Caignez. No one could wear yellow top boots, a buff tunic embroidered
in black, a plumed toque and a cross-handled sword like Philippe. This
attire, at that period, went by the name of the costume of a cavalier.
Lafont carried it off perfectly in _Tancrède_ and in _Adélaïde
Duguesclin._
Philippe died the first. His death made almost as much stir as his
life. As I shall not have occasion to speak of him again, and as, had
he lived, he would not have had anything to do with contemporary art,
we will finish his story here. Philippe died on 16 October 1824--that
is to say, one month, to the day, after the death of Louis XVIII. On
the 18th, they brought his body to the church of Saint-Laurent, his own
parish church; but the clergy refused to take it in. The same thing
happened with regard to Mademoiselle Raucourt. But Philippe's comrades
and all his public admirers decided to go forward with stout hearts, to
proceed without uproar, or violent acts, or rebellious deeds. They drew
the shell from the hearse: six actors from the different Paris theatres
bore it on their shoulders, and, followed by over three thousand
people, they took it to the Tuileries. They meant to deposit the coffin
in the Castle courtyard, to demand justice, and not to withdraw until
they had received it. The resolution was all the more impressive as it
was accomplished with composure and solemnity. The cortège was moving
along the boulevards, and had reached the top of the rue Montmartre,
when a squadron of police rushed out at full gallop, swords in hand,
and barred the entire width of the boulevard. Then a council of
deliberation was held over the bier, and, still with the same calmness
and the same composure, a deputation of five was elected to go to the
Tuileries and to ask for the prayers of the Church and a Christian
burial for the body of poor Philippe. These five deputies were: MM.
Étienne, Jourdan, Colombeau, Ménessier and Crosnier. Charles X. refused
to receive them, and sent them back to M. de Corbières, the Minister
for the Interior. M. de Corbières, very brutal by nature, replied
roughly that the clergy had their laws, that it was not his business
to transgress them, although he was in charge of the police of the
realm. The five deputies brought back this reply to the three thousand
Parisians camped in the boulevard, round the coffin that was craving
burial. The bearers then took the body up again on their shoulders and
pursued their course with it along the road to Père-Lachaise. Victory
remained on the side of authority, as the saying is; only, it is by
such kinds of victories that authority cuts its own throat. "Another
victory like that," said Pyrrhus, after the battle of Heracles, "and we
shall be lost!"
From that moment the generous promises made by Charles x. on his
accession to the throne were valued at their true worth: and who shall
say that one of the clouds that caused the storm of 27 July 1830, was
not whirled into being on 18 October 1824?
[1] See _les Morts vont vite_, vol. ii. pp. 241 ff.
BOOK IV
CHAPTER I
My beginning at the office--Ernest Basset--Lassagne--M. Oudard--I see
M. Deviolaine--M. le Chevalier de Broval--His portrait--Folded letters
and oblong letters--How I acquire a splendid reputation for sealing
letters--I learn who was my neighbour the bibliomaniac and whistler
The next day I waited from eight o'clock in the morning until ten
o'clock; but, as my neighbour in the orchestra had predicted, nobody
came to demand satisfaction for the blow I had dealt on the previous
evening. However, I had now arrived at two convictions--namely, that
there must be something extravagant about my appearance and about
some portion of my clothing. For fear of falling out egregiously with
everybody I met abroad, I ought to cut my locks and to shorten the
length of my coat. My hair was fully two inches too long; my coat
certainly a foot beyond regulation length. I called in a barber and a
tailor. The barber asked me for ten minutes; the tailor for a day. I
gave up my coat to the tailor and my head to the barber. I intended to
go to the office in a morning coat: it should be understood that my
first visit to the office was almost in the nature of a call upon my
chiefs. A morning coat would not be out of place.
My face was completely changed by the cropping of my hair: when it
was too long, I looked like one of the sellers of "Lion Pomade," who
make their own heads their principal prospectuses; when my hair was
too short, I looked like a seal. Of course the barber cut my hair
too short; unfortunately, there was then no remedy left me but to
wait until it grew again. When I had breakfasted fairly well at my
hotel, and given notice that I should settle my account and leave the
establishment that evening, I made my way towards the office.
As a quarter-past ten struck, I made inquiries of the porter in the
hall and he told me which staircase led to M. Oudard's offices,
otherwise the Secretariat. They were situated at the right angle of
the second court of the Palais-Royal, looking upon the square from
the side of the garden. I went towards this staircase and I furnished
myself with fresh instructions from a second porter: the offices were
on the third floor, so I climbed up. My heart was beating violently: I
was entering upon another life--one which I had desired and chosen for
myself this time. This staircase was leading me to my future office.
Where would my future office lead me?... No one had arrived. I waited
with the office-boys. The first employé who appeared was a fine big
fair youth; he came singing up the stairs, and took down the office
door key from a nail. I rose.
"Monsieur Ernest," said one of the office-boys, the eldest of them, a
lad called Raulot, "this young man wants to speak to M. Oudard."
The person addressed as Ernest looked at me for a moment with his keen,
clear blue eyes.
"Monsieur," I said to him, "I am one of the supernumeraries, of whom
you may perhaps have heard."
"Ah yes! M. Alexandre Dumas," he exclaimed; "the son of General
Alexandre Dumas, recommended by General Foy?"
I saw he knew all about me.
"I am the same," I said.
"Come in," he said, going in before me and opening the door of a small
room, with one window in it and three desks. "See," he continued, "you
are expected; here is your seat. Everything is ready--paper, pens, ink;
you have but to sit down and to draw up your chair to your desk."
"Have I the pleasure of talking to one of those with whom I am destined
to spend my days?" I asked.
"Yes.... I have just been promoted as ordinary clerk at eighteen
hundred francs; I am giving up my place as copying-clerk, and that
place will be yours, after a longer or shorter probationary period."
"And who is our third companion?"
"He is our deputy head clerk, Lassagne."
The door opened.
"Hullo! who is talking about Lassagne?" asked a young man of
twenty-eight to thirty, as he came in.
Ernest turned round.
"Ah! it is you," he replied. "I was just saying to M. Dumas,"--he
pointed to me, I bowed,--"I was just telling M. Dumas that this was
your place, that his, and the other mine."
"Are you our new colleague?" Lassagne asked me.
"Yes, monsieur."
"You are welcome." And he held out his hand to me.
I took it. It was one of those warm and trembling hands that it is a
pleasure to shake from the first touch--a loyal hand, revealing the
nature of him to whom it belonged.
"Good!" I said to myself: "this man will be friendly to me, I am sure."
"Listen," he said: "a word of advice. It is rumoured that you have come
here with the idea of entering upon a literary career: do not talk too
loudly of such a project; it will only do you harm.... Hush! that is
Oudard entering his room."
And I heard in the neighbouring room the self-possessed, measured tread
of a man accustomed to rule an office. A moment later, the door of our
office opened and Raulot appeared.
"M. Oudard wants M. Alexandre Dumas," he said.
I rose and cast a glance at Lassagne: he understood what I felt like.
"Go along," he said; "he is a capital fellow, but you have to become
acquainted with him: however, you will soon do that."
This was not altogether reassuring; so it was with my heart beating
very rapidly that I proceeded along the corridor and entered M.
Oudard's office.
I found him standing before the fireplace. He was a man of five feet
six inches high, with a brown complexion, black hair and an impassive
face, gentle although firm. His black eyes had that direct look to be
found in men who have risen from a lower class to a high position; its
expression was almost stonily hard when it was fixed on you; you would
have said he had ridden rough-shod over everything and everybody that
had come in his way, as so many obstacles on the road towards that
goal, known only to himself, which he had made up his mind to reach.
He had fine teeth; but, contrary to the habit of those who possess
this advantage, he rarely smiled: one could see that nothing--not even
the most insignificant event--was indifferent to him; a pebble under
the foot of an ambitious man will raise him higher by the size of that
pebble. Oudard was very ambitious; but as he was also essentially
honest, I doubt whether his ambition had ever, I will not say inspired
him with an evil thought--what man is master of his thoughts?--but
caused him to commit a mean action. Later, it will be seen that he was
hard on me, almost pitiless. He was, I am sure, well intentioned in
being so; he did not think of the future I wanted to carve for myself,
and he feared I should only lose the position I had made--the position
which he had helped me to make. Oudard, unlike other upstarts (and let
us admit, he was really more a man who had achieved success than a mere
parvenu), talked a great deal of the village where he was born, of the
home in which he had been brought up, of his old mother, who came to
see him, dressed in her peasant's costume, with whom he would walk out
in the Palais-Royal or whom he would take to the play, just as she was:
perhaps all this talk was only another form of pride, but it is a pride
I like. He was devoted to his mother--a sentiment sufficiently rare
in ambitious men to be noted here as out of the common. Oudard must
have been thirty-two at that period; he was head of the Secretarial
Department, and private secretary to the Duchesse d'Orléans. These two
posts combined must have been worth about twelve thousand francs a year
to him, perquisites included. He was clad in black trousers, a white
piqué waistcoat and a black coat and cravat. He wore very fine cotton
stockings and slippers. Such was the get-up of a man who was not merely
chief clerk of an office, but one who might be called into the presence
of a prince or princess at any moment.
"Come in, Monsieur Dumas," he said.
I went up to him and bowed.
"You have been very especially commended to me by two persons, one of
whom I greatly respect and the other of whom I love dearly."
"Is not General Foy one of these, monsieur?"
"Yes, he is the man I respect. But how is it you do not guess the name
of the other?"
"I confess, monsieur, I should be puzzled to name anyone else in whom I
can have inspired sufficient interest to cause him to take the trouble
to recommend me to you."
"It was M. Deviolaine."
"M. Deviolaine?" I repeated, in considerable surprise.
"Yes, M. Deviolaine.... Is he not related to you?"
"Certainly, monsieur; but when my mother begged M. Deviolaine to have
the goodness to recommend me to Monseigneur le Duc d'Orléans, M.
Deviolaine met the request so coldly...."
"Oh, you know, brusqueness is almost the leading trait in the character
of our worthy Conservator.... You must not pay any heed to that."
"I fear, monsieur, that if my good cousin spoke much of me to you, in
recommending me to you, he has not flattered me."
"That would not be bad for you, since it would but give you a chance to
surprise me agreeably."
"He has probably told you I was idle?"
"He told me you had never done much work; but you are young, and you
can make up for lost time."
"He told you I cared for nothing but shooting?"
"He confessed you were something of a poacher."
"He told you I was wayward and changeable in my ideas and fancies?"
"He said you had been under all the solicitors in Villers-Cotterets
and Crespy and had not been able to stop with any of them."
"He exaggerated somewhat.... But if I did not remain with either
of the two solicitors under whom I worked, it was on account of my
unalterable, intense desire to come to Paris."
"Very well, here you are, and your desire is fulfilled."
"Was that all M. Deviolaine told you about me?"
"Well, no; ... he said, too, that you were a good son, and that,
although you constantly made your mother miserable, you adored her;
that you had never really wished to learn anything, but more from
over-quickness, than from want of intelligence; he told me, besides,
that you had certainly a poor head, but that he also believed you were
good-hearted.... Go and thank him, go and thank him."
"Where shall I find him?"
"One of the office-boys will take you to him."
He rang.
"Take M. Dumas to M. Deviolaine's rooms," he said.
Then, addressing me--
"You have already met Lassagne?" he said.
"Yes, I have just had five minutes' talk with him."
"He is a very good fellow with but one failing: he will be too weak
with you; luckily I shall be at hand. Lassagne and Ernest Basset will
tell you what your work will be."
"And M. de Broval?" I asked.
M. de Broval was the general manager.
"M. de Broval will be told you have come, and will probably ask for
you. You know that your whole future depends on him?"
"And on you, monsieur, yes."
"I hope, so far as I am concerned, that that will not cause you much
uneasiness.... But go and thank M. Deviolaine; go! You have already
delayed too long."
I bowed to M. Oudard and I went out. Five minutes afterwards, I was at
M. Deviolaine's. He worked in a large room by himself, and at a desk
which stood alone in the middle of the room. As I was preceded by an
office-boy, and as it was presumed that I had been sent by M. Oudard,
they let me enter unannounced. M. Deviolaine heard the door open and he
waited an instant for someone to speak; then, as I also was waiting, he
looked up and asked--
"Who is there?"
"It is I, M. Deviolaine."
"Who, you? (_toi_)"
"I see you recognise me, by the way you speak."
"Yes, I recognise you.... So there you are! Well, you are a fine lad!"
"Why, if you please?"
"Well! you have been to Paris three times without paying me a single
call."
"I did not know you would care to see me."
"It was not for you to question whether it would please me or not; it
was your duty to come."
"Well, here I am; better late than never."
"What have you come for now?"
"I have come to thank you."
"What for?"
"For what you said about me to M. Oudard."
"You are not difficult to please, then."
"Why?"
"Do you know what I did say?"
"Certainly: you told him I was an idle lad; that I was no good except
for copying deeds; that I had tired out the patience of every solicitor
in Villers-Cotterets and in Crespy."
"Well, is there much thanks due to me for all that?"
"No, it was not for that I came to thank you; it was for what you
added."
"I did not add anything."
"But you did!... you went on to say...."
"I tell you I added nothing; but I will add something now you are here:
that is, that if you are so ill-advised as to write filthy plays and
trashy verses here, as you did in Villers-Cotterets, I will report you,
I will carry you off with me, I will confine you in one of my offices
and I will lead you a dog's life ... see if I don't!"
"Let me say, cousin...."
"What?"
"While I am here...."
"Well?"
"Even if you do not let me go back."
"Well?"
"Because that,--_A cause que_, a grammatical error, I know quite well;
but Corneille and Bossuet made use of it,--because that I have only
come to Paris to write filthy plays and trashy verses, whether I am
in the Secretarial Department or here, I must still continue to write
them."
"Ah, is that so? Do you seriously imagine you can become a Corneille, a
Racine or a Voltaire after an education of three francs a month?"
"If I were to become such a man as any one of those three, I should be
only what another man has been, and that would not be worth while."
"You mean, then, that you would do better than they?"
"I would do something different."
"Come a little nearer me, so that I can give you a good kick, you
conceited lad."
I went nearer to him.
"Here I am!"
"I believe the impudent boy has actually come closer!"
"Yes.... My mother told me to give you her love."
"Is your poor mother quite well?"
"I hope she is."
"She is a good creature! How the devil did you happen to come into the
world by such a mother? Come, shake hands and be off with you!"
"Good-bye, cousin."
He kept hold of my hand.
"Do you want any money, you rogue?"
"Thanks.... I have some."
"Where did you get it?"
"I will tell you that some other time; it would take too long now."
"You are right; I have no time to lose. Be off with you!"
"Good-bye, cousin."
"Come and dine with me when you like."
"Oh! thanks, yes, for your people to look down on me." "To look down on
you! I would like to see them do that. My wife dined often enough with
your grandfather and your grandmother to justify you in coming to dine
with me as often as you like.... But now be off, cub! you are making me
waste all my time."
M. Deviolaine's office-boy came in. His name was Féresse. We shall see
more of him later.
"M. Deviolaine," he said, "M. de Broval wishes to know if the report on
the management of the forest of Villers-Cotterets is finished?"
"No, not yet ... in a quarter of an hour."
Then, turning to me--
"You see?... you see?"
"I will make myself scarce, M. Deviolaine."
And off I went, while M. Deviolaine buried his nose in the report,
growling as usual.
I returned to our common office, and I sat down at my desk. My desk
was next to Lassagne's, so we were only separated from one another by
the width of our tables and by the little black set of pigeon-holes in
which the current work was usually put. Ernest had gone out, I know not
why. I asked Lassagne to tell me what to do. Lassagne got up, leant
over my desk and told me. I always took a great interest in studying
people around me, and especially the man whose position in the office
was that of my immediate superior; for, although Ernest was now a
full-fledged clerk and I only destined to be a simple copying-clerk, he
was more my comrade than my superior.
Lassagne, as I think I have already said, was at that time a man
of twenty-eight or thirty, with an attractive face, enshrined in
beautiful black hair, animated by black eyes full of intelligence and
cleverness, and lighted up (if the phrase may be permitted) by teeth so
white and so regular that the vainest of women might have envied them.
The only defect in his face was his aquiline nose, which was a little
more inclined to one side than the other; but this very irregularity
gave an original touch to his face that it would not have had without
it. Add to these things a sympathetic voice which seemed gently to
vibrate in one's ear, and at the sound of which it was impossible not
to turn round and smile. In short, a delightful person whose like I
have rarely met; well informed; a brilliant song-writer; the intimate
friend of Désaugiers, Théaulon, Armand Gouffé, Brazier, Rougemont and
all the opera-writers of the time; so that he refreshed himself after
his official work, which he loathed, by entering into the literary
world, which he adored, and his daily labour alternated with desultory
work, consisting partly of articles for the _Drapeau blanc_ and the
_Foudre_ and partly of contributions to some of the most delightful
plays of the operatic theatres. It will be admitted that here was the
very superior I needed, and I could not have asked Providence for
anything that would have seemed to me better for me.
Well, during the five years that we spent in the same office there was
never a cloud, or a quarrel, or a feeling of cross purposes between
Lassagne and me. He made me like the hour at which I began my daily
work, because I knew he would come in immediately after me; he made me
love the time I spent at my desk, because he was always ready there to
help me with an explanation, to teach me something fresh about life,
which had as yet, for me, scarcely opened, about the world of which I
was totally ignorant, and finally about foreign or national literature,
of which in 1823 I knew practically nothing, either of the one or of
the other.
Lassagne arranged my daily work; it was entirely mechanical, and
consisted in copying out, in the finest handwriting possible, the
largest possible number of letters: these, according to their
importance, had to be signed by M. Oudard, M. de Broval, or even by the
Duc d'Orléans. In the midst of this correspondence, which concerned
the whole range of administration and which often, when addressed
to princes or foreign kings, passed from matters of administration
to politics, there occurred reports connected with the contentious
affairs of M. le Duc d'Orléans; for the Duc d'Orléans himself prepared
his litigious business for his counsel, doing himself the work that
solicitors do for barristers--that is to say, preparing the briefs.
These were nearly always entirely in the handwriting of the Duc
d'Orléans, or at all events corrected and annotated in his large thick
writing, in which every letter was fastened to its neighbouring letter
by a solid stroke, after the fashion of the arguments of a logical
dialectician, bound together, entwined, succeeding each other.
I was attacking my first letter, and, by the advice of Lassagne, who
had laid great stress on this point, I was despatching it in my very
best handwriting, when I heard the door of communication between
Oudard's office and ours open. I pretended, with the hypocrisy of an
old hand, to be so deeply absorbed in my work that no noise could
distract my attention, when I heard the creak of steps advancing
towards my desk and then they stopped by me.
"Dumas!" called out Lassagne to me.
I raised my head and I saw, standing close to me on my left, a person
who was totally unknown to me.
"M. le Chevalier de Broval," added Lassagne, adding information to his
exclamation.
I rose from my seat.
"Do not disturb yourself," he said. And he took the letter I was
copying, which was nearly finished, and read it.
I took advantage of this respite to examine him.
M. le Chevalier de Broval, as everyone knows, had been one of the
faithful followers of M. le Duc d'Orléans. He had never left him during
the last portion of his exile, serving him sometimes as secretary,
at other times as diplomatist; in this latter capacity he had been
mixed up in all the lengthy discussions over the marriage of the
Duc d'Orléans with Princess Marie-Amélie, daughter of Ferdinand and
Caroline, King and Queen of Naples; and in connection with this
marriage he had gained the Order of Saint-Janvier, which he wore on
a braided coat on high festivals, next to the cross of the Legion of
Honour. He was a little old man of about sixty years of age, with short
stubbly hair; he was slightly lame, walked crookedly on his left side,
had a big red nose, which told its own tale, and small grey eyes, that
expressed nothing; he looked a typical courtier, polite, obsequious,
fawning to his master, kind by fits and starts, but generally
capricious with his subordinates; he thought a great deal of trifles,
attaching supreme importance to the manner in which a letter was folded
or a seal was fastened; he really imbibed these notions from the Duc
d'Orléans himself, who was even more particular over little details
than perhaps was M. de Broval.
M. de Broval read the letter, took my pen, added an apostrophe or a
comma here and there; then, replacing it in front of me: "Finish it,"
he said.
I finished it.
He waited behind me, literally pressing on my shoulders.
Every fresh face I saw in turn had its effect on me. I finished with a
very shaky hand.
"There it is, M. le chevalier," I said.
"Good!" he exclaimed.
He took a pen, signed, threw sand over my writing and over his; then,
giving me back the epistle, which was for a simple inspector,--as, at
first, they did not risk confiding more than that to my inexperienced
hand,--he said--
"Do you know how to fold a letter?"
I looked at him with astonishment.
"I ask you if you know how to fold a letter. Answer me!"
"Yes, yes ... at least, I believe so," I replied, astonished at the
fixed stare his little grey eyes had assumed.
"You believe? Is that all? You are not sure?"
"Monsieur, I am not yet sure about anything, as you see, not even about
the folding of a letter."
"And there you are right, for there are ten ways of folding a letter,
according to the rank of the person to whom it is addressed. Fold this
one."
I began to fold the letter in four.
"Oh! what are you about?" he said.
I stopped short. "Pardon, monsieur," I said, "but you _ordered_ me to
fold the letter, and I am folding it."
M. de Broval bit his lip. I had laid emphasis on the word "ordered" in
the spoken phrase as I have just underlined it in the written phrase.
"Yes," he said; "but you are folding it square--that is all right for
high functionaries. If you give square-folded letters to inspectors and
sub-inspectors, what will you do for ministers, princes and kings?"
"Quite so, M. le chevalier," I replied; "will you tell me what is the
correct way for inspectors and sub-inspectors?"
"Oblong, monsieur, oblong."
"You will pardon my ignorance, monsieur; I know what an oblong is in
theory, but I do not yet know what it is in practice."
"See...."
And M. de Broval condescended willingly to give me the lesson in things
oblong I had asked of him.
"There!" he said, when the letter was folded.
"Thank you, monsieur," I replied.
"Now, monsieur, the envelope?" he said.
I had never made envelopes, except for the rare petitions I had written
for my mother, and once on my own account in General Foy's office, so
I was still more ignorant about the making of envelopes than about
the folding. I took a half-sheet of paper in my left hand, a pair of
scissors in my right hand, and I began to cut the sheet.
M. le Chevalier de Broval uttered a mingled cry of surprise and terror.
"Oh! good Lord!" he said, "what are you going to do?"
"Why, M. le chevalier, I am going to make the envelope you asked me to
make."
"With scissors?"
"Yes."
"First learn this, monsieur: paper should not be cut, it should be
torn."
I listened with all attention.
"Oh!" I exclaimed.
"It should be torn," repeated M. de Broval; "and then in this case
there is no need even to tear the paper, which perhaps you do not
realise either?"
"No, monsieur, I do not."
"You will learn.... It only wants an English envelope."
"Ah! an English envelope?"
"You do not know how to make an English envelope?"
"I do not even know what it is, M. le chevalier."
"I will show you. As a general rule, monsieur, square letters and
square envelopes are for ministers, for princes and for kings."
"Right, M. le chevalier; I will remember."
"You are sure?"
"Yes."
"Good.... And for heads of departments, chief assistants, inspectors
and sub-inspectors, oblong letters and English envelopes."
I repeated, "Oblong letters and English envelopes."
"Yes, yes, of course.... There, that is what we call an English
envelope."
"Thank you, monsieur."
"Now the seal.... Ernest, will you light me a taper?" Ernest hastened
to bring us the lighted taper; and now, I confess to my shame, my
confusion increased: I had never hitherto sealed my letters except with
wafers--that is to say, when I had sealed them.
I took the wax in so awkward a fashion, I heated it in such a queer
way, I blew it out so quickly, for fear of burning the paper, that
this time I excited pity rather than impatience in the breast of M. de
Broval.
"Oh! my friend," he said, "have you really never even sealed a letter?"
"Never, monsieur," I replied. "Who was there for me to write to, buried
away as I have been in a little country town?"
This humble confession touched M. de Broval.
"See," he said, heating the wax, "this is how one seals a letter."
And, believe me, he sealed the letter at arm's length, with as steady
a hand as though he had been twenty-five years of age. Then, taking
a large silver seal, he pressed it on the lake of burning wax, and
did not withdraw it until the impress was clearly defined and I could
see the escutcheon with the three heraldic fleurs-de-lis of Orléans,
surmounted by the ducal coronet.
I was disheartened, I must confess.
"Write the address," M. le Chevalier de Broval said imperiously.
I wrote the address with a trembling hand.
"Good, good!" said M. le Chevalier de Broval; "don't be discouraged, my
boy.... It is all right; now countersign it."
I stopped, completely ignorant of what a countersign was.
M. de Broval began to realise, as General Foy had done, how ignorant I
was. He pointed with a finger to the corner of the letter.
"There," he said, "write there _Duc d'Orléans._ That is to frank the
letter. You hear?"
I heard well enough; but I was so profoundly upset that I hardly
understood what was said.
"There!" said M. de Broval, taking up the letter and looking at it
with a satisfied air, "that is all right; but you must learn all
these things.... Ernest,"--Ernest was M. de Broval's favourite, and
in his genial moments the old courtier called him by his Christian
name,--"Ernest, teach M. Dumas to fold letters, to make envelopes and
to seal packets." And at these words he took himself off.
The door had scarcely shut before I was begging my comrade Ernest to
begin his lessons, and he gave himself up to the task at once with
hearty goodwill. Ernest was a first-rate hand at folding, making
envelopes and sealing; but I put my whole will into it, and it was not
long before I equalled and surpassed my master's skill.
When I gave in my resignation, in 1831, to the Duc d'Orléans, who had
become Louis-Philippe I., I had attained to such perfection in the
third accomplishment, especially, that the only regret he expressed was
this--
"The devil! that is a pity! You are the best sealer of letters I have
ever seen."
While I was taking my lesson in folding and sealing under Ernest,
Lassagne was reading the papers.
"Oh!" he suddenly exclaimed, "I well recollect that!"
"What is it?" I asked.
Instead of answering me, Lassagne read aloud:--"A scene which recalls
that of la Fontaine at the first representation of _Florentin_ took
place, yesterday evening, at the third performance of the revival of
the _Vampire._ Our learned bibliophile, Charles Nodier, was expelled
from Porte-Saint-Martin theatre for disturbing the play by whistling.
Charles Nodier is one of the anonymous authors of the _Vampire_."
"So!" I cried, "my neighbour of the orchestra was Charles Nodier!"
"Did you have any talk with him?" asked Lassagne.
"I did nothing else during the intervals."
"You were fortunate," continued Lassagne: "had I been in your place, I
should have greatly preferred the intervals to the play."
I knew Charles Nodier by name, but I was in complete ignorance as to
what he had done.
As I left the office, I entered a bookshop and asked for a novel by
Nodier. They gave me _Jean Sbogar._
The reading of that book began to shake my faith in Pigault-Lebrun.
CHAPTER II
Illustrious contemporaries--The sentence written on my foundation
stone--My reply--I settle down in the place des Italiens--M. de
Leuven's table--M. Louis-Bonaparte's witty saying--Lassagne gives me my
first lesson in literature and history
When I came up to Paris, the men who held illustrious rank in
literature, among whom I sought a place, were--MM. de Chateaubriand,
Jouy, Lemercier, Arnault, Étienne, Baour-Lormian, de Béranger, Ch.
Nodier, Viennet, Scribe, Théaulon, Soumet, Casimir Delavigne, Lucien
Arnault, Ancelot, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Désaugiers and Alfred de
Vigny. It will, of course, be understood that I do not rank them in the
order I have written down their names. Then follow men whose interests
were half literary half political, such as--MM. Cousin, Salvandy,
Villemain, Thiers, Augustin Thierry, Michelet, Mignet, Vitet, Cavé,
Mérimée and Guizot. Then, finally, those who were not yet famous, but
were gradually coming forward, such as Balzac, Soulié, de Musset,
Sainte-Beuve, Auguste Barbier, Alphonse Karr, Théophile Gautier.
The three women of the day were all poets--Mesdames Desbordes-Valmore,
Amable Tastu, Delphine Gay. Madame Sand was still unknown, and did not
reveal her powers until the production of _Indiana_, in 1828 or 1829, I
believe.
I knew the whole of this _pléiade_, who entertained the world with
their wit and poetry for over half a century--some as friends and
supporters, others as enemies and adversaries. Neither the benefits
I have received from the former, nor the harm the latter sought to
do me, shall influence in the slightest degree the judgments I shall
pass on them. The first, in supporting me, have not caused me to climb
higher by one step; the second, in trying to hinder me, have not kept
me back one step. Through all the friendships, hatreds, jealousies of
a life that has been harassed in its minor details, but ever calm and
serene in its progress, I reached the position God had assigned me;
I attained it without the aid of intrigues or cliques, and advanced
only by my own endeavours. I have reached the summit which every man
mounts half-way through life, and I ask for nothing, I desire nothing,
I covet nothing. I have many friendships, I have not a single enmity.
If, at the starting-point of my life, God had said to me, "Young
man, what do you desire?" I should not have dared to demand from His
infinite greatness that which He has condescended to grant me out of
His fatherly goodness. So I will say all I have to say of the men I
have named, according as they have appeared to me on my path through
life: if I conceal anything, it will be the evil I know about them.
Why should I be unjust to them? Not one among them possessed a single
honour or good fortune in exchange for which I ever had any desire to
barter my reputation or my purse.
Yesterday I read the following words, written by an unknown hand on the
foundation stone of a house which I had caused to be built for me, and
which, until I or someone else can inhabit it, as yet shelters only
sparrows and swallows:--
"O Dumas! tu n'as pas su jouir, et pourtant tu regretteras! E. L."
I wrote underneath:--
"Niais!... si tu es un homme. Menteuse!... si tu es une femme. A. D."
But I took good care to obliterate the sentence.
Let us return to my contemporaries, and add to the list of famous names
that led me to these reflections.
Among musical composers, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Auber, Donizetti,
Bellini, Liszt, Thalberg. Among dramatic artists, Talma, Lafont, Mars,
Duchesnois, Georges, Leverd, Frédérick (Lemaître), Dorval, Potier,
Monrose père, Déjazet, Smithson, Lablache, Macready, Karatikin, Miss
Faucit, Schroeder-Devrient, la Malibran, la Hungher.
I have had the honour to know several kings and princes,--they will
have their place,--but my kings in the realms of art come before all,
my princes in imagination have first place. To each sovereign his due
honour.
When I came out of my office, or rather from the bookshop where I had
bought _Jean Sbogar_, I made haste to the place des Italiens. My waggon
load of furniture was waiting at the door; it took but an hour to
settle my household arrangements, and at the end of that time all was
finished.
Of a poet's usual equipment I now had the attic; of the possessions of
the happy man, I now had a loft under the tiles. Better than all these
things, I was only twenty! I cleared the distance between the place des
Italiens and the rue Pigale in no time. I was longing to tell Adolphe
that I was installed at the Duc d'Orléans'; that I possessed a desk,
paper, pens, ink, sealing-wax, in the Palais-Royal; four chairs, a
table, a bed and a room papered yellow in the place des Italiens.
Adolphe very sincerely shared my delight. M. de Leuven, chewing his
tooth-pick, gently ridiculed my enthusiasm. Madame de Leuven, the most
perfect of women, rejoiced in the joy my mother would feel.
I was invited to fix a regular day on which I should dine at M. de
Leuven's. On that day my place should always be laid: it should be an
institution in perpetuity. In perpetuity! What a great word!--one so
often uttered in life, but one which really exists only in death!
"You are condemned to perpetual imprisonment, monseigneur," said my
dear and good friend Nogent Saint-Laurent to Prince Louis-Bonaparte.
"How long does perpetuity last in France, Monsieur Saint-Laurent?"
asked the prince.
His perpetuity, as a matter of fact, lasted at Ham for five years--two
years less than the perpetuity of M. de Peyronnet and M. de Polignac.
My perpetuity at M. de Leuven's table lasted exactly as long as that
of Prince Louis at Ham. I will tell how it came to cease, and I might
as well admit at once that the fault was not M. de Leuven's, nor Madame
de Leuven's, nor Adolphe's. It was arranged that I should dine there on
the following day to make the acquaintance of the Arnault family: this
was to be an extra dinner.
It can be realised how preoccupied I was, throughout the twenty-two
hours that had to elapse before we sat down to the table, with the
thought of dining with the author of _Marius à Minturnes_, the man who
had written _Régulus._
I announced the great news to Ernest and to Lassagne. Ernest seemed
quite unmoved by it, and Lassagne was only indifferently interested. I
badgered Lassagne to know why he was so cold in matters concerning such
celebrities.
He answered simply, "I am not of the same political views as those
gentlemen, and I do not think much of their literary value either."
I stood astounded.
"But," I asked, "have you not read _Germanicus_?"
"Yes; but it is very bad!"
"Have you not read _Régulus_?"
"Yes; but it is very poor!"
I lowered my head, more astonished than ever.
Then, finally, I struggled to rise from under the weight of the
anathema.
"But why are these plays so successful?"
"Talma acts in them ..."
"The reputation of these men ..."
"They bring that about themselves through their newspapers!... When
M. de Jouy, M. Arnault or M. Lemercier produces a play in which Talma
takes no part, you will see it will only run ten nights."
Again I hung down my head.
"Listen, my dear boy," Lassagne went on, with that wonderful sweetness
of his in eyes and voice, and above all with that almost fatherly
kindliness that I still noticed in him, when I met him by chance
twenty-five years later and had the happiness to greet him,--"listen:
you want to become a literary man?"
"Oh yes!" I exclaimed.
"Not so loud!" he said, laughing; "you know I told you not to talk so
loud about that ... here, at any rate. Well, when you do write, do not
take the literature of the Empire as your model: that is my advice."
"But what shall I take?"
"Well, upon my word, I should be much puzzled to tell you. Our young
dramatic authors, Soumet, Guiraud, Casimir Delavigne, Ancelot,
certainly possess talent; Lamartine and Hugo are poets--I therefore
leave them out of the question; they have not done theatrical work, and
I do not know if they are likely to, though if they ever do, I doubt
whether they would succeed...."
"Why not?"
"Because the one is too much of a visionary, and the other too much of
a thinker. Neither the one nor the other lives in the actual world, and
the theatre, you see, my lad, is humanity. I say, then, that our young
dramatic authors--Soumet, Guiraud, Casimir Delavigne, Ancelot--have
talent; but take particular notice of what I am telling you: they
belong purely and solely to a period of transition; they are links
which connect the chain of the past to the chain of the future, bridges
which lead from what has been to what shall be."
"And what is that which shall be ...?"
"Ah! there, my young friend, you ask me more than I can tell you. The
public has not made up its mind; it knows already what it does not want
any longer, but it does not yet know what it wants."
"In poetry, in drama or in fiction?"
"In drama and in fiction ... there, nothing is settled; in poetry we
need not look farther than to Lamartine and Hugo, who represent the
spirit of the age quite sufficiently."
"But Casimir Delavigne ...?"
"Ah! he is different. Casimir Delavigne is the poet of the people: we
must leave him his circle; he does not enter into competition."
"Well, in comedy, tragedy, drama, whom ought one to follow?"
"In the first place, you should never imitate anybody; you should
study: the man who follows a guide is obliged to walk behind. Will you
be content to walk behind?"
"No."
"Then you must study. Do not attempt to produce either comedy, or
tragedy, or drama; take passions, events, characters, smelt them
all down in the furnace of your imagination, and raise statues of
Corinthian bronze."
"What is Corinthian bronze?"
"Don't you know?"
"I know nothing."
"What a happy state to be in!"
"Why?"
"Because then you can find things out for yourself: you need only
measure things by the standard of your own intelligence: you need no
other rule than that of your own capacity. Corinthian bronze?... have
you heard that once upon a time Mummius burnt Corinth?"
"Yes; I think I translated that once somewhere, in the _De Viris._"
"Then you will remember that the heat of the fire melted the gold,
silver and brass, which ran down the streets in streams. Now, the
mingling of these three, the most valuable of all metals, made one
single metal; and they gave to this metal the name of Corinthian
bronze. Well, then, the man who will be endowed with the genius to do
for comedy, tragedy and the drama that which Mummius, in his ignorance,
in his vandalism, in his barbarity, did for gold, silver and brass, who
will smelt by aid of the fire of inspiration, and who will melt into
one single mould Æschylus, Shakespeare and Molière, he, my dear friend,
will have discovered a bronze as precious as the bronze of Corinth."
I pondered for a moment over what Lassagne had said to me. "What you
say sounds very beautiful, monsieur," I replied; "and, because it is
beautiful, it ought to be true."
"Are you acquainted with Æschylus?"
"No."
"Do you know Shakespeare?"
"No."
"Have you read Molière?"
"Hardly at all."
"Well, read all that those three men have written. When you have read
them, re-read them; when you have re-read them, learn them by heart."
"And next?"
"Oh! next?... You will pass from them to those who preceded them--from
Æschylus to Sophocles, from Sophocles to Euripides, from Euripides
to Seneca, from Seneca to Racine, from Racine to Voltaire, and from
Voltaire to Chénier, in the realms of tragedy. Thus you will understand
the transformation that altered a race of eagles into a race of
parroquets."
"And from Shakespeare to whom shall I turn?"
"From Shakespeare to Schiller."
"And from Schiller?"
"To no one."
"But Ducis?"
"Oh, don't confound Schiller with Ducis. Schiller is inspired, Ducis
imitates; Schiller remains original, Ducis became a copyist, and a poor
copyist."
"And what about Molière?"
"As to Molière, if you want to study something that is worth taking
trouble over, you must ascend, not descend."
"From Molière to whom?"
"From Molière to Terence, from Terence to Plautus, from Plautus to
Aristophanes."
"But it seems to me you are forgetting Corneille?"
"I am not forgetting him: I have put him on one side." "Why?"
"Because he is neither an ancient Greek nor an old Roman."
"What is Corneille, then?"
"He is a Cordouan, like Lucan; you will see, when you compare
them, that his verse has striking resemblance to the metre of the
_Pharsalia_."
"May I write down all you have told me?"
"What for?"
"To act as a guide to my studies."
"You need not trouble, seeing you have me at hand."
"But perhaps I shall not always have you."
"If you have not me, you will have someone else."
"But he might not perhaps know what you do?"
Lassagne shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear lad," he said, "I only know what all the world knows; I only
tell you what the first person you met might tell you."
"Then I must be ignorant indeed!" I murmured, letting my head fall into
my hands.
"The fact is, you have much to learn; but you are young, you will
learn."
"Tell me what needs to be done in fiction?"
"Everything, just as in the drama."
"But I thought we had some excellent novels."
"What have you read in the way of novels?"
"Those of Lesage, Madame Cottin and Pigault-Lebrun."
"What effect did they have on you?"
"Lesage's novels amused me; Madame Cottin's made me cry;
Pigault-Lebrun's made me laugh."
"Then you have not read either Goethe, or Walter Scott, or Cooper?"
"I have not read either Goethe, or Walter Scott, or Cooper."
"Well, read them."
"And when I have read them, what shall I do?"
"Make Corinthian bronze all the time; only, try to put in a slight
ingredient they all lack."
"What is that?"
"Passion.... Goethe gives us poetry; Walter Scott character studies;
Cooper the mysterious grandeur of prairies, forests and oceans; but you
will look in vain for passion among them."
"So, a man who could be a poet like Goethe, an observer like Walter
Scott, clever at description like Cooper, with the addition of a touch
of passion ...?"
"Ah! such a man would be almost perfect."
"Which are the first three works I ought to read of those three
masters?"
"Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_, Walter Scott's _Ivanhoe_ and Cooper's
_Spy."_
"I read _Jean Sbogar_ through last night."
"Oh, that is another story altogether."
"What kind is it?"
"It belongs to the _genre_ style of novel. But France is not waiting
for that."
"What is she waiting for?"
"She is waiting for the historical novel."
"But the history of France is so dull!"
Lassagne raised his head and looked at me.
"What!" he exclaimed.
"The history of France is so dull!" I repeated.
"How do you know that?"
I blushed.
"People have told me it is."
"Poor boy! People have told you!... Read for yourself and then you will
have an opinion."
"What must I read?"
"Why, there is a whole world of it: Joinville, Froissart, Monstrelet,
Châtelain, Juvénal des Ursins, Montluc, Saulx-Tavannes, l'Estoile,
Cardinal de Retz, Saint-Simon, Villars, Madame de la Fayette, Richelieu
... and so I could go on."
"How many volumes do those make?"
"Probably between two and three hundred."
"And you have read them?"
"Certainly."
"And I must read them?"
"If you wish to write novels, you must not only read them, you must get
them off by heart."
"Why, you frighten me! I should not be able to write a word for two or
three years!"
"Oh! longer than that, or you will write ignorantly."
"Oh, my God! what a lot of time I have lost!"
"You must retrieve it."
"You will aid me, will you not?"
"What about the office?"
"Oh! I will read and study at night; I will work at the office, and we
can have a chat from time to time...."
"Yes, like to-day's; but we have talked too much."
"One word more. You have told me what I ought to study in the drama?"
"Yes."
"In romance?"
"Yes."
"In history?"
"Yes."
"Well, now, in poetry, what ought I to study?"
"First, what have you read?"
"Voltaire, Parny, Bertin, Demoustier, Legouvé, Colardeau."
"Good! forget the lot."
"Really?"
"Read Homer as representative of antiquity; Virgil among the Latin
poets; Dante in the Middle Ages. I am giving you giants' marrow to feed
on."
"And among the moderns?"
"Ronsard, Mathurin, Régnier, Milton, Goethe, Uhland, Byron, Lamartine,
Victor Hugo, and especially a little volume which has just been
published by Latouche."
"What is the name of it?"
"_André Chénier_."
"I have read it...."
"You have read Marie-Joseph.... Do not confuse Marie-Joseph with André."
"But how am I to read foreign authors when I do not know either Greek
or English or German?"
"The deuce! Why, that is simple enough: you must learn those languages."
"How?"
"I do not know; but remember this: one can always learn what one wants
to learn. And now I think it is time we gave our attention to business.
One more piece of advice."
"What is it?"
"If you mean to follow the instructions I give you...."
"Indeed I do!"
"You must not say a word to M. Arnault of this little scheme of study."
"Why?"
"Because you would not be a friend of his for long."
"You think not?"
"I am certain of it."
"Thanks.... I will keep my mouth shut."
"You will do well. Now, a second word of advice."
"I am listening."
"You must not repeat a word of our conversation either to Oudard or to
M. de Broval."
"Why?"
"Because they would not leave us long in the same office."
"The devil! I want to stay in it dreadfully."
"Then it depends on yourself."
"Oh, if it depends on me, we shall be together for many years."
"So be it."
At this point M. Oudard entered, and I set to my task with an avidity
that won me many compliments from him at the end of the day.
I made a splendid discovery--which was that I could copy without
thinking of what I was copying, and consequently I was able to think of
other things whilst copying.
By the second day I had advanced as far as others who had been at work
for four or five years.
As will be seen, I was making rapid progress.
CHAPTER III
Adolphe reads a play at the Gymnase--M. Dormeuil--_Kenilworth
Castle_--M. Warez and Soulié--Mademoiselle Lévesque--The Arnault
family--The _Feuille--Marius à Minturnes_--Danton's epigram--The
reversed passport--Three fables--_Germanicus_--Inscriptions and
epigrams--Ramponneau--The young man and the tilbury-_Extra ecclesiam
nulla est salus_--Madame Arnault
It was well I could copy without taking in what I was doing; for
Lassagne's conversation, as may be imagined, gave me much to think
about. Every day showed me my deplorable ignorance more and more, and,
like a traveller lost in a marshy, unstable bog, I did not know whereon
to place my feet in order to find that solid ground which would lead me
to the end I was trying to reach.
How was it Adolphe had never spoken to me of all these matters? So far
reaching were the vistas that opened before me every moment, that I
was bewildered. Did Adolphe think all this of little use in connection
with the art and practice of literature? Or was it that the kind
of literature he wanted me to produce could dispense with all such
knowledge? I had often noticed his father shrug his shoulders at our
theatrical schemes; was it not perchance that his father, who knew so
many things, laughed in his sleeve at me for being so ignorant? And M.
Deviolaine, who instinctively (for, except as a valuer and in questions
of forestry, he hardly knew more than I did) called my attempts filth
and my efforts at poetry mere rubbish, could he by chance be right?
Of course, one could read, work and study, but how was it possible to
keep all the things I had heard about since the previous evening in my
mind without revealing them? I resolved to have an open talk about it
all with Adolphe.
At half-past five I reached M. de Leuven's house, but Adolphe had not
yet returned: he was reading at the Gymnase a play he had written
in collaboration with Frédéric Soulié. He put in an appearance at
a quarter to six, looking more melancholy and more thoughtful than
Hippolytus on the road to Mycenæ.
"Well, my poor friend," said I, "refused again?"
"No," he replied; "but only accepted subject to correction."
"Then all hope is not lost?"
"True. Dormeuil made us go into his office, after the reading, and as
he thought there were tedious passages in the piece, he said to us,'My
dear fellows, my dear fellows, it must be cut down to the quick.'
At these words Soulié snatched the play out of his hands, crying,
'Monsieur Dormeuil, not a hand must be laid on it.' So, you will
understand, Dormeuil is furious."
"Who is Dormeuil?"
"One of the managers of the Gymnase."
"And that means...."
"And that means that Soulié has vowed the piece shall be played as it
is or not at all."
"The deuce! Then Soulié doesn't mind if his things get played or not?"
"You do not know that fellow's obstinacy; there is no way of turning
him. Did you hear what he said to Warez?"
"Who is Warez?"
"Warez is manager to Madame Oudinot, proprietor of the Ambigu."
"Well, what did he say to Warez?"
"We took him a melodrama to read, called _Kenilworth Castle;_ Warez
read it. He was not very much struck with the work. When we went,
yesterday, for his answer, 'Gentlemen,' he said to us, 'will you
allow me to read your play to M. Picard?' 'Ah!' replies Soulié, 'in
order that he can steal the idea from us. 'What! Monsieur Soulié,'
exclaims Warez, 'steal your play from you--an Academician!' 'Well,'
says Soulié, 'three-fourths of the Academicians certainly steal their
places, why should they stick at stealing other people's work?' I need
not tell you, my dear friend, that that meant another closed door! I
had some sort of an idea of going to Mademoiselle Lévesque, who is all
powerful at the theatre, to offer her the part of Marie Stuart, which
is magnificent...."
"Well?"
"You know what happened to Casimir Delavigne, at the reading of the
_Vêpres siciliennes_, at the Théâtre-Français?"
"Yes, the piece was refused."
"Not merely was the piece refused, but, as every voter is obliged to
give a reason for his refusal, one of the ladies refused 'because the
work was badly _written_.'"
"And Mademoiselle Lévesque refused yours for the same reason?"
"No; but she said that, at the _present_ moment, she had so many new
parts, she could not possibly undertake _ours."_
"The devil take it! It would seem that actresses do not need to study
so hard as authors.... Ah! my dear friend, why did you not tell me of
my ignorance and that I have everything to learn?"
"Don't put yourself out about that, dear fellow; you will soon learn
all you need.... Stay, my mother is beckoning to us to come. Let us go
in to dinner."
We went in, and I was introduced to Madame Arnault,--I was already
acquainted with Lucien, Telleville and Louis.
I had seen M. Arnault at the famous shooting expedition in Tillet
Wood, but I had not had the honour of speaking to him. He had asked
to be given a good position in the wood; and he had been put where,
as M. Deviolaine had said, the deer could not fail to pass by. M.
Arnault, who could not see two gun-lengths off, had wiped the glasses
of his spectacles, sat down, produced a memorandum-book and a pencil,
and began to write a fable that had been running in his head since
the previous day. In a quarter of an hour, he heard a noise in the
underwood: he laid down his pocket-book and pencil, took up his gun
and pointed it ready for action as soon as the animal should pass by.
"Oh, monsieur," a woman cried out, "don't shoot! You will kill my cow!"
"Are you quite sure it is your cow, and not a roebuck?" M. Arnault then
asked her.
"Oh, monsieur, you will see...."
And the woman, running up to the cow, hung on the animal's tail, which
she pulled so hard that the poor beast began to moo.
"You are right," said M. Arnault; "I think I am mistaken." And he
sat down again, laid his gun on the ground, took up his pencil and
note-book and resumed his fable, which he composedly finished.
M. Arnault's family consisted of Lucien and Telleville, his two sons by
a first marriage; of Louis and Gabrielle, his two children by a second
marriage. M. Arnault's second wife was a young lady from Bonneuil. Let
me say a few words about this excellent family. We will begin, like the
Gospels, with the meek and mild members.
Gabrielle was a pretty child of fourteen or fifteen, with a dazzlingly
white complexion; she was of no more account in the household as yet
than a bud in a bouquet. Louis was about my own age, namely, twenty
or twenty-one. He was a good-looking lad, fair, fresh-coloured,
rosy-cheeked, a trifle spruce, ever laughing, on the most friendly
terms with his sister, full of respect for his mother and admiration
for his father. Telleville was a handsome captain; very brave, very
loyal, very daring, a Bonapartist like the rest of the family, thrown
into the midst of the artistic world, without ever having written a
verse of poetry, but possessing a delightful wit, and being full of
spirit and originality. Lucien, the author of _Régulus_, and, later, of
_Pierre de Portugal_ and of _Tibère,_ had too cold and calculating a
mind to be really poetical; yet there was a certain boldness of style
in his lines and a certain melancholy about his ideas, that appealed
both to the imagination and to the heart. There is one of the truest
and most charming lines I know, in _Pierre de Portugal_, a line such
as Racine wrote in his best days, universally known because it belongs
to that school:--
"Les chagrins du départ sont pour celui qui reste."
The year before my arrival in Paris, _Régulus_ had achieved enormous
popularity. I will quote a few lines of it, to give some idea of the
author, who appears to have given up literary work.
Regulus is about to leave Rome, to which he was devotedly attached, and
he says to Licinius:--
"Je meurs pour la sauver, c'est mourir digne d'elle!
Mais, toi, Licinius, parjure à l'amitié,
Disciple de ma gloire, as-tu donc oublié
Ces jours où j'opposais, dans les champs du carnage,
Ma vieille expérience à ton jeune courage?
Aimant un vrai soldat dans un vrai citoyen,
Ne le souvient-il plus que, par un doux lien,
Ma tendresse voulait vous unir l'un à l'autre?
Le hasard a trahi mon espoir et le vôtre;
Mais, des bords du tombeau, je puis enfin bénir
Les nœuds qui pour jamais doivent vous réunir.
Si tu l'aimes, viens, jure au dieu de la victoire
De servir, aujourd'hui, la patrie et la gloire;
D'éclairer les Romains par toi seul égarés;
De rétablir la paix dans ces remparts sacrés;
Jure! dis-je. A l'instant, je te donne ma fille,
Je te lègue mon nom, mon honneur, ma famille;
Et les dieux ne m'auront opprimé qu'à demi,
Si, dans un vrai Romain, je retrouve un ami!"
Lucien was about thirty or thirty-two at this period. Until the
downfall of Napoleon his career had been administrative: he had been
made auditor to the State Council and a prefect at twenty-five. In
spite of much physical suffering which saddened his life, he was indeed
one of the best-hearted and most benevolent persons I ever knew. For
five years I saw Lucien two or three times a week; I do not think
that, during the long period of intimacy, I ever heard him jibe at
his _confrères_, or complain or whine; he was one of those gentle,
melancholy and tranquil spirits one sees in dreams. I do not know what
became of him; after 1829 I lost sight of him completely. Twenty-two
years of absence and of separation will certainly have driven me from
his remembrance; those twenty-two years have engraved him the more
deeply on mine.
M. Arnault was quite different. I never knew a more subtle, mordant,
satirical nature than this brilliant person owned. In military parlance
he would have been described as a damned good shot. Neither Bertrand
nor Lozes ever returned a straight thrust more rapidly and more surely
than did M. Arnault, on every occasion, by a word or an epigram or
a flash of wit. He was but an indifferent dramatic author, but he
excelled in fables and satire. Once, in a fit of despondency, he let
fall what was probably the only tear he shed, like that of Aramis upon
the death of Porthos: he dipped his pen in the salt drops, and wrote
the following lines--a gem that André Chénier, or Millevoye, Lamartine
or Victor Hugo might have wished to write:--
LA FEUILLE
"De ta tige détachée,
Pauvre feuille desséchée,
Où vas-tu?--Je n'en sais rien.
L'orage a brisé le chêne
Qui seul était mon soutien;
De son inconstante haleine
Le zéphir ou l'aquilon,
Depuis ce jour me promène
De la forêt à la plaine,
De la montagne au vallon.
Je vais où le vent me mène
Sans me plaindre ou m'effrayer;
Je vais où va toute chose,
Où vont la feuille de rose
Et la feuille de laurier!"